A bit of a depressing thought (which is why I didn’t publish it before Pesach). I should develop further, but this is not the time of year for cynicism...
The Talmud Yerushalmi (Pesachim 10:4) lists four types of children for whom we are instructed והגדת לבנך, “Tell your children” about the Exodus. One is חכם – wise. One is רשע – wicked. One is טיפש – foolish (in contemporary haggadot, the edition often says תם, simple, but the meaning is the same). And one is שאינו יודע לשאול – the one who does not know how to ask. These are the four children of our Seder.
Maharal, like many others, explains that the one who "does not know how to ask" is of weak intellect. This is difficult, though; is the אינו יודע לשאול like the תם-טיפש, just less bright?
Rav Nachman of Breslov (Likutei Moharan 30:6) explained this child differently – he “does not know how to repent and ask for forgiveness from G-d for sins of which he is unaware.”
Taking Rav Nachman’s idea further: The “one who does not know how to ask” is indeed bright. He can make deductions and declare assertions and debate brilliantly - but he does not know how to ask questions, with a genuine interest in learning that which he does not already know.
We are riding the wave of a communication revolution, in which all of us can publish. Blogs, Facebook, Twitter, and any number of photo-sharing apps offer platforms for us to proclaim our beliefs. But these media offer very little in the way of two-way communication. (And writing, “Let me know in the comments” when you really mean, “Compliment me, or tell me why you disagree so that I will be able to rebut your arguments,” doesn’t count.)
And we live in a world which interprets humility as uncertainty, and a gentle demeanour as timidity, encouraging us always to express ourselves, and to do so with force. Just look at our presidential candidates.
The result is a style which emphasizes zingers, supporting data, boasting, questions solely for the purpose of rhetorical device, and QED. There is very little inquiry for the sincere purpose of learning another point of view. We have become a generation that does not know how to ask.
Perhaps we need people to set our teeth on edge…
Showing posts with label Judaism: Humility/arrogance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Judaism: Humility/arrogance. Show all posts
Monday, April 25, 2016
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Challenging our predecessors
This is a new experience for me: An entire night of inability to sleep, with a full day of meetings and shiurim ahead. I am going to be an absolute joy today...
In any case: Here's a piece that caught me eye, in preparing for a Pirkei Avot shiur. It's from Rav Chaim of Volozhin's Ruach Chaim to Avot 1:4, on the counsel, "יהי ביתך בית וועד לחכמים הוי מתאבק בעפר רגליהם," "Make your home a meetingplace for the sages, and wrestle [הוי מתאבק] in the dust of their feet":
The word מתאבק is like "And the man wrestled [ויאבק] with him," a battle, for this is a mitzvah war.
And so are we opposite our rebbeim, the holy ones who lie in the ground but whose souls are in the heavens, the famous authors whose texts are with us. Via the texts in our homes, our homes become meetingplaces for these sages.
We are instructed, too, and given permission to battle verbally and answer their questions, and not to show favour to anyone but to love truth. However, one must be careful for his life, lest he speak arrogantly and with haughty heart when he finds room to argue, imagining he is as great as his rebbe or the author of the text he is challenging. He should know that many times he doesn't understand the words and intent of the author, and so he should only be very humble, saying, "If I am inadequate, still, it is Torah, etc." This is "Wrestle," as we have said, but on the condition that it is "in the dust of their feet," meaning in modesty and humility, arguing on the ground before them.
And the original Hebrew:
In any case: Here's a piece that caught me eye, in preparing for a Pirkei Avot shiur. It's from Rav Chaim of Volozhin's Ruach Chaim to Avot 1:4, on the counsel, "יהי ביתך בית וועד לחכמים הוי מתאבק בעפר רגליהם," "Make your home a meetingplace for the sages, and wrestle [הוי מתאבק] in the dust of their feet":
The word מתאבק is like "And the man wrestled [ויאבק] with him," a battle, for this is a mitzvah war.
And so are we opposite our rebbeim, the holy ones who lie in the ground but whose souls are in the heavens, the famous authors whose texts are with us. Via the texts in our homes, our homes become meetingplaces for these sages.
We are instructed, too, and given permission to battle verbally and answer their questions, and not to show favour to anyone but to love truth. However, one must be careful for his life, lest he speak arrogantly and with haughty heart when he finds room to argue, imagining he is as great as his rebbe or the author of the text he is challenging. He should know that many times he doesn't understand the words and intent of the author, and so he should only be very humble, saying, "If I am inadequate, still, it is Torah, etc." This is "Wrestle," as we have said, but on the condition that it is "in the dust of their feet," meaning in modesty and humility, arguing on the ground before them.
And the original Hebrew:
"והוי מתאבק" מלשון "ויאבק איש עמו", שהוא ענין התאבקות מלחמה כי מלחמת מצוה היא. וכן אנו נגד רבותינו, הקדושים אשר בארץ ונשמתם בשמי מרום המחברים המפורסמים וספריהם אתנו - הנה ע"י הספרים אשר בבתנו בתינו הוא בית ועד לחכמים אלה. הוזהרנו ג"כ וניתן לנו רשות להתאבק וללחום בדברים ולתרץ קושיתם ולא לישא פנים לאיש רק לאהוב האמת. אבל עכ"ז יזהר בנפשו מלדבר בגאוה וגודל לבב באשר מצא מקום לחלוק, וידמה כי גדול הוא כרבו או כמחבר הספר אשר הוא משיג עליו. וידע בלבבו כי כמה פעמים לא יבין דבריו וכוונתו, ולכן יהיה אך בענוה יתירה באמרו "אם איני כדאי אך תורה היא וכו'" וז"ש "הוי מתאבק" כנ"ל אך בתנאי "בעפר רגליהם", ר"ל בענוה והכנעה ולדון לפניהם בקרקע.
Interesting.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Learning humility in my Toronto exile
[This week's Haveil Havalim is here!]
This is one of those posts that will make some of my friends say, "Torczyner, why are you embarrassing yourself in front of millions?" To which I will reply, "Because someone else may need this lesson, too."
A midrash to Parshat Lech Lecha highlights one of the difficulties Avraham and Sarah faced when they left their homeland to enter a new place: They lost their identity as ideologues, as philanthropists, as leaders.
Similarly, a gemara (Rosh HaShanah 16b) enumerates ways to earn atonement, and one of them is שינוי מקום, to change one’s location, to experience exile, so that one enters a new place and fully sheds his old identity (per the Rambam's explanation in Hilchot Teshuvah 2:4 - שגורמת לו להיכנע ולהיות עניו ושפל רוח).
I never really understood what that meant; I never comprehended what it meant to enter a new location and be a complete unknown. I now have some understanding of the exile experience, and of the humbling that comes with it. [Of course, I'm not in exile; I chose this option, and I am grateful for the opportunity. I use the term "exile" here as the Rambam did, to connote re-location to a place where one has none of his old associations.]
During the 2+ weeks since our beit midrash began operation in Toronto, I’ve had several occasions on which someone came into the beit midrash and mistook me for an avrech (one of the younger rabbinical students who participate in our program). One Shabbos someone asked if I might be interested in an assistant rabbi position in a shul. One Sunday morning, someone in shul turned to me and asked, “And who is this boychik?”
I shouldn't be surprised. Because of the nature of my position in the beit midrash – my chief responsibilities are to mentor avrechim and to give shiurim in the broader community – most of my shiurim so far have taken place away from the eyes of the local community. Also, thank Gd, I still look a little young (very little, but I guess it's there).
I shouldn't take offense, either; I’ve never introduced myself by title, and I never particularly cared whether people knew about me.
And yet, to my considerable surprise, these underestimations did bother me in the beginning, the first few times these conversations happened. To my great surprise, I discovered that I was a little too proud of the things I’ve done. I guess I did start to take myself a little too seriously. To have someone assume I should be an assistant was jarring, and, yes, a little insulting.
Looks like I really did need some humbling, an ice-water reality check.
Well, mission accomplished; it took a few days, but I’m cured. I just had to go through the experience a couple of times before I could absorb the lesson. At this point, it’s just amusing to realize that I was once annoyed by it.
Now, whenever I start to take myself too seriously, I’ll have those conversations to remember, to put me back in my place.
This is one of those posts that will make some of my friends say, "Torczyner, why are you embarrassing yourself in front of millions?" To which I will reply, "Because someone else may need this lesson, too."
A midrash to Parshat Lech Lecha highlights one of the difficulties Avraham and Sarah faced when they left their homeland to enter a new place: They lost their identity as ideologues, as philanthropists, as leaders.
Similarly, a gemara (Rosh HaShanah 16b) enumerates ways to earn atonement, and one of them is שינוי מקום, to change one’s location, to experience exile, so that one enters a new place and fully sheds his old identity (per the Rambam's explanation in Hilchot Teshuvah 2:4 - שגורמת לו להיכנע ולהיות עניו ושפל רוח).
I never really understood what that meant; I never comprehended what it meant to enter a new location and be a complete unknown. I now have some understanding of the exile experience, and of the humbling that comes with it. [Of course, I'm not in exile; I chose this option, and I am grateful for the opportunity. I use the term "exile" here as the Rambam did, to connote re-location to a place where one has none of his old associations.]
During the 2+ weeks since our beit midrash began operation in Toronto, I’ve had several occasions on which someone came into the beit midrash and mistook me for an avrech (one of the younger rabbinical students who participate in our program). One Shabbos someone asked if I might be interested in an assistant rabbi position in a shul. One Sunday morning, someone in shul turned to me and asked, “And who is this boychik?”
I shouldn't be surprised. Because of the nature of my position in the beit midrash – my chief responsibilities are to mentor avrechim and to give shiurim in the broader community – most of my shiurim so far have taken place away from the eyes of the local community. Also, thank Gd, I still look a little young (very little, but I guess it's there).
I shouldn't take offense, either; I’ve never introduced myself by title, and I never particularly cared whether people knew about me.
And yet, to my considerable surprise, these underestimations did bother me in the beginning, the first few times these conversations happened. To my great surprise, I discovered that I was a little too proud of the things I’ve done. I guess I did start to take myself a little too seriously. To have someone assume I should be an assistant was jarring, and, yes, a little insulting.
Looks like I really did need some humbling, an ice-water reality check.
Well, mission accomplished; it took a few days, but I’m cured. I just had to go through the experience a couple of times before I could absorb the lesson. At this point, it’s just amusing to realize that I was once annoyed by it.
Now, whenever I start to take myself too seriously, I’ll have those conversations to remember, to put me back in my place.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Choose Midbar (Derashah Bimidbar 5769)
In books, on stage and in film, the setting of a story is, itself, a character, providing a sense of realism, giving the actors options and limits, and interacting with them.
The same is true in the Torah; every backdrop is part of the story, whether Canaanite territory or Egyptian empire or Har Sinai or Mishkan. And with the start of a new chumash this morning we are introduced to another player: Midbar, Wilderness.
Of course, we’ve met the midbar before; the Jews already hungered for food and thirsted for water back in Parshat Beshalach, right after they crossed through Yam Suf. But that was a cameo appearance; the midbar was quickly subdued by Mun and Miriam’s well and Aharon’s clouds, and then fully eclipsed by Har Sinai and the Mishkan. Only as the Jews move away from Sinai does the midbar, the wilderness, come to the fore.
Watching our ancestors interact with the midbar setting teaches us valuable lessons:
The midbar offers a lesson in humility; in a wilderness, all beauty is natural, all artifice is overtaken by nature, all property is communal.
As the gemara explains, HaShem gives the Jews the torah in a midbar to teach that we need to be humble in order to receive the Torah. Certainly, Moshe already taught the Jews this lesson with his own modesty, but there is a difference between observing humility in Moshe and being enveloped in humility in an environment that declares, “All property is nothing.”
And a midbar offers a lesson in isolation; the Jews receive the Torah in the desert in order to afford them the opportunity to focus on this Divine gift without need to plant their fields, maintain their homes or engage in commerce. Indeed, in the midbar a large group of women established their homes at the Ohel Moed and devoted their days to Torah study.
Third, a midbar is tabula rasa, a blank slate on which our story can be scripted, an open canvas on which we can paint as we choose. In a desert wilderness, a society with neither incumbent wealth nor predetermined heirarchy, Ahaliav from the tribe of Dan can become master craftsman of the mishkan and a nation of slaves can demonstrate spiritual greatness.
No other biblical environment would have suited all of these ends – the humility, the isolation, and the tabula rasa:
• Canaanite Israel lacked isolation; the same was true for Egyptian slavery.
• The Mishkan was the opposite of humility, a grand construction outfitted with beautiful silver and gold and embroidery.
And so, this week, we meet the Midbar environment in which the Jews will work through their growing pains, enduring rebellions and hunger and suspicion while studying the Torah and achieving personal, tribal and national greatness.
Some might compare the midbar to childhood - at what other time in our lives have we accomplished so little, at what other time in our lives are we as unentangled from others, at what other time in our lives does the future lie so pliable before us? We are tempted to believe that childhood is the ideal, midbar-like time for a Jew to embrace Torah.
But I believe the comparison to childhood is a mistake of great consequence; people who believe they missed their chance in childhood abandon hope of change, instead of taking the opportunities that yet lie before them.
It is never too late. Always, we can return to the midbar, if not in practice then in state of mind.
• Always, we can develop humility.
• Always, we can pare down our distractions.
• And, always, we can envision life as a canvas on which to paint afresh and build great things.
Perhaps the best proof of this point is in that Jewish nation which entered the midbar. True, they were newly formed as a nation, but their slate was actually no cleaner than ours; they had a great and complex history behind them:
• They had been Avos and Imahos, patriarchs and matriarchs, a family with wars and treaties both without and within;
• They had been slaves, and they had seen their captors punished;
• They had been heroically persevering families as well as rescued damsels in distress;
• They had been idolaters, and they had stood at Sinai witnessing Divine revelation.
This was not a child-nation, emerging blinking into the sunlight for this time – but it was capable of nonetheless viewing its future as a blank slate, and creating a brilliant and enduring legacy for its descendants.
On the first morning of Shavuot, we precede the Torah reading with the public recitation of Akdamus, an Aramaic poem describing Divine might and introducing the Torah reading itself. Toward the beginning of the poem, we describe Gd creating the universe with the letter ה, a letter which is just a breath, the simplest exhalation, demonstrating that for Gd, creation is simple and the possibilities are infinite.
For us as human beings, creation is anything but simple and easy – but when we, like the Jews in the midbar, look at the world as a blank slate and an opportunity for accomplishment, then for us, too, there will be few limits.
-
Notes:
1. We are honoring an outstanding volunteer couple this Shabbos, and right before the Akdamus closer I will speak about them as people who view life as a blank slate. They are great people. And they also read this blog. Hi, JP!
2. Eruvin 54a comments on the intentional presentation of the Torah in a wilderness.
3. On creation of the world with a ה to signify Divine power, see Midrash Tehillim 62:1 and Bereishit Rabbah 12:2, but also see a different explanation in Menachot 29b that it’s about the possibility of return and repentance.
4. I actually wanted to make the whole derashah about the two different explanations of the ה-based creation, but had to give up late Friday morning when I just couldn't make it work. I am not terribly pleased with this derashah - I don't think it adds much to people's knowledge or gives new perspective, except the idea of setting as character and the point about the Jews not entering the midbar as a blank slate - but perhaps some other year.
The same is true in the Torah; every backdrop is part of the story, whether Canaanite territory or Egyptian empire or Har Sinai or Mishkan. And with the start of a new chumash this morning we are introduced to another player: Midbar, Wilderness.
Of course, we’ve met the midbar before; the Jews already hungered for food and thirsted for water back in Parshat Beshalach, right after they crossed through Yam Suf. But that was a cameo appearance; the midbar was quickly subdued by Mun and Miriam’s well and Aharon’s clouds, and then fully eclipsed by Har Sinai and the Mishkan. Only as the Jews move away from Sinai does the midbar, the wilderness, come to the fore.
Watching our ancestors interact with the midbar setting teaches us valuable lessons:
The midbar offers a lesson in humility; in a wilderness, all beauty is natural, all artifice is overtaken by nature, all property is communal.
As the gemara explains, HaShem gives the Jews the torah in a midbar to teach that we need to be humble in order to receive the Torah. Certainly, Moshe already taught the Jews this lesson with his own modesty, but there is a difference between observing humility in Moshe and being enveloped in humility in an environment that declares, “All property is nothing.”
And a midbar offers a lesson in isolation; the Jews receive the Torah in the desert in order to afford them the opportunity to focus on this Divine gift without need to plant their fields, maintain their homes or engage in commerce. Indeed, in the midbar a large group of women established their homes at the Ohel Moed and devoted their days to Torah study.
Third, a midbar is tabula rasa, a blank slate on which our story can be scripted, an open canvas on which we can paint as we choose. In a desert wilderness, a society with neither incumbent wealth nor predetermined heirarchy, Ahaliav from the tribe of Dan can become master craftsman of the mishkan and a nation of slaves can demonstrate spiritual greatness.
No other biblical environment would have suited all of these ends – the humility, the isolation, and the tabula rasa:
• Canaanite Israel lacked isolation; the same was true for Egyptian slavery.
• The Mishkan was the opposite of humility, a grand construction outfitted with beautiful silver and gold and embroidery.
And so, this week, we meet the Midbar environment in which the Jews will work through their growing pains, enduring rebellions and hunger and suspicion while studying the Torah and achieving personal, tribal and national greatness.
Some might compare the midbar to childhood - at what other time in our lives have we accomplished so little, at what other time in our lives are we as unentangled from others, at what other time in our lives does the future lie so pliable before us? We are tempted to believe that childhood is the ideal, midbar-like time for a Jew to embrace Torah.
But I believe the comparison to childhood is a mistake of great consequence; people who believe they missed their chance in childhood abandon hope of change, instead of taking the opportunities that yet lie before them.
It is never too late. Always, we can return to the midbar, if not in practice then in state of mind.
• Always, we can develop humility.
• Always, we can pare down our distractions.
• And, always, we can envision life as a canvas on which to paint afresh and build great things.
Perhaps the best proof of this point is in that Jewish nation which entered the midbar. True, they were newly formed as a nation, but their slate was actually no cleaner than ours; they had a great and complex history behind them:
• They had been Avos and Imahos, patriarchs and matriarchs, a family with wars and treaties both without and within;
• They had been slaves, and they had seen their captors punished;
• They had been heroically persevering families as well as rescued damsels in distress;
• They had been idolaters, and they had stood at Sinai witnessing Divine revelation.
This was not a child-nation, emerging blinking into the sunlight for this time – but it was capable of nonetheless viewing its future as a blank slate, and creating a brilliant and enduring legacy for its descendants.
On the first morning of Shavuot, we precede the Torah reading with the public recitation of Akdamus, an Aramaic poem describing Divine might and introducing the Torah reading itself. Toward the beginning of the poem, we describe Gd creating the universe with the letter ה, a letter which is just a breath, the simplest exhalation, demonstrating that for Gd, creation is simple and the possibilities are infinite.
For us as human beings, creation is anything but simple and easy – but when we, like the Jews in the midbar, look at the world as a blank slate and an opportunity for accomplishment, then for us, too, there will be few limits.
-
Notes:
1. We are honoring an outstanding volunteer couple this Shabbos, and right before the Akdamus closer I will speak about them as people who view life as a blank slate. They are great people. And they also read this blog. Hi, JP!
2. Eruvin 54a comments on the intentional presentation of the Torah in a wilderness.
3. On creation of the world with a ה to signify Divine power, see Midrash Tehillim 62:1 and Bereishit Rabbah 12:2, but also see a different explanation in Menachot 29b that it’s about the possibility of return and repentance.
4. I actually wanted to make the whole derashah about the two different explanations of the ה-based creation, but had to give up late Friday morning when I just couldn't make it work. I am not terribly pleased with this derashah - I don't think it adds much to people's knowledge or gives new perspective, except the idea of setting as character and the point about the Jews not entering the midbar as a blank slate - but perhaps some other year.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I don’t need to have an opinion on the National Cathedral saga
[First: This week's Haveil Havalim and this month's Kosher Cooking Carnival are out!]
If I had a dime for every time someone has asked me, since Wednesday, what I think about Rabbi Haskel Lookstein’s participation in the worship service at the National Cathedral last week, and the Rabbinical Council of America’s semi-public disapproval…
First: I am נוגע בדבר (I have a conflict of interest), because I am a big fan of Rabbi Lookstein. In my smichah days he volunteered his valuable time every week – on an erev Shabbos, no less! – to teach much-needed Homiletics classes for the guys. I have used his CDs teaching proper chazanus for Yamim Noraim. I have seen him to be a sincere baal chesed, someone who will move שמים וארץ (heaven and earth) for Torah and for Am Yisrael. And that’s even before we get into his distinguished career in rabbanus and at Ramaz.
Second: I am נוגע בדבר (I have a conflict of interest) because renowed poskim, who are my halachic mentors, have already issued rulings on the matter. I am familiar with their read of both the facts on the ground and the relevant halachic sources and precedents, and I see nothing I can add to their expressed perspectives.
Third: My opinion doesn't change anything here; there is no practical purpose to voicing an opinion on this.
But beyond all of that, I think that onlookers like myself need a dose of humility here.
I taught an adult education class the other day (on the issue of Lying for Peace, משנים מפני השלום), and we came to the gemara in Bava Metzia (23b-24a) which says, “A Torah scholar may lie about three topics: (1) Whether he knows a tractate, (2) Intimate details of his marriage, and (3) His host’s hospitality.”
I explained the first case, in which a scholar is asked, “Do you know a certain volume of gemara,” and he denies knowing it well. The scholar does know the subject, but, as a matter of humility, he claims ignorance. (Presumably this is not where he is asked a question by someone wishing to learn Torah or needing a halachic decision, but that’s a topic for another discussion.)
A large segment of the class – an adult class! – could not fathom the logic here. I explained that this is a matter of humility, but they still didn’t get it. These are very good people, strong members of society, but the idea that one would humbly deny his strengths was entirely foreign to them.
I think this is a function of society itself. We are taught, encouraged, demanded to promote ourselves, lest we be overlooked, or lest we look down upon ourselves. Humility is just not valued; if anything, it’s considered a character flaw, some function of a lack of self-esteem.
Rabbis are especially expected to have opinions. If a rabbi answers a question on a proba interview - "Do you feel that the State of Israel embodies Mashiach" or "What do you think is the single greatest threat to Judaism today" - with anything less than 100% certainty, he is assumed to be waffling in order to hide offensive opinions. Certainly, it cannot be that he is simply... uncertain. And if he is uncertain, well, then, he would not be a good leader.
It seems that people believe "leadership" has less to do with leading and more to do with talking.
This is what I see in the constant insistence upon having a comment on any and every issue, National Cathedral services and otherwise. There really is nothing wrong with saying “I don’t know.”
And especially when that’s the truth.
If I had a dime for every time someone has asked me, since Wednesday, what I think about Rabbi Haskel Lookstein’s participation in the worship service at the National Cathedral last week, and the Rabbinical Council of America’s semi-public disapproval…
First: I am נוגע בדבר (I have a conflict of interest), because I am a big fan of Rabbi Lookstein. In my smichah days he volunteered his valuable time every week – on an erev Shabbos, no less! – to teach much-needed Homiletics classes for the guys. I have used his CDs teaching proper chazanus for Yamim Noraim. I have seen him to be a sincere baal chesed, someone who will move שמים וארץ (heaven and earth) for Torah and for Am Yisrael. And that’s even before we get into his distinguished career in rabbanus and at Ramaz.
Second: I am נוגע בדבר (I have a conflict of interest) because renowed poskim, who are my halachic mentors, have already issued rulings on the matter. I am familiar with their read of both the facts on the ground and the relevant halachic sources and precedents, and I see nothing I can add to their expressed perspectives.
Third: My opinion doesn't change anything here; there is no practical purpose to voicing an opinion on this.
But beyond all of that, I think that onlookers like myself need a dose of humility here.
I taught an adult education class the other day (on the issue of Lying for Peace, משנים מפני השלום), and we came to the gemara in Bava Metzia (23b-24a) which says, “A Torah scholar may lie about three topics: (1) Whether he knows a tractate, (2) Intimate details of his marriage, and (3) His host’s hospitality.”
I explained the first case, in which a scholar is asked, “Do you know a certain volume of gemara,” and he denies knowing it well. The scholar does know the subject, but, as a matter of humility, he claims ignorance. (Presumably this is not where he is asked a question by someone wishing to learn Torah or needing a halachic decision, but that’s a topic for another discussion.)
A large segment of the class – an adult class! – could not fathom the logic here. I explained that this is a matter of humility, but they still didn’t get it. These are very good people, strong members of society, but the idea that one would humbly deny his strengths was entirely foreign to them.
I think this is a function of society itself. We are taught, encouraged, demanded to promote ourselves, lest we be overlooked, or lest we look down upon ourselves. Humility is just not valued; if anything, it’s considered a character flaw, some function of a lack of self-esteem.
Rabbis are especially expected to have opinions. If a rabbi answers a question on a proba interview - "Do you feel that the State of Israel embodies Mashiach" or "What do you think is the single greatest threat to Judaism today" - with anything less than 100% certainty, he is assumed to be waffling in order to hide offensive opinions. Certainly, it cannot be that he is simply... uncertain. And if he is uncertain, well, then, he would not be a good leader.
It seems that people believe "leadership" has less to do with leading and more to do with talking.
This is what I see in the constant insistence upon having a comment on any and every issue, National Cathedral services and otherwise. There really is nothing wrong with saying “I don’t know.”
And especially when that’s the truth.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
From Shifchah Charufah to Theodicy, “I don’t know” is the right answer
Over the years, I have learned to love the magic words “I don’t know” on many levels.
It started with my high school entrance interview with Rabbi Yitzchak Cohen, for MTA (Yeshiva University’s boys’ high school – aka TMSTAYUHSFB). Rabbi Cohen came to our elementary school, Hebrew Academy of Long Beach, and he interviewed us as a group, and then one by one.
Rabbi Cohen was very intimidating for me; I was a skinny 5-1 or 5-2 kid, and to me he looked like he was about 6-6. He had a long beard, black-framed glasses, and intense expression. His accent (Detroit?) and speech pattern were unusual for me, too, and I didn’t catch everything he said. It isn’t that he wasn’t kindly; I was just automatically intimidated. (Over the years since, I have come to respect and love him, and see him as a great role model.)
At one point during the 1-on-1, Rabbi Cohen began asking me questions. "What does X mean?" "Can you explain Y," that sort of thing. I did pretty well; thank Gd, I had a strong education and a good command of Hebrew, and knew what one would hope an eighth-grade Jewish boy would know.
Until he pulled out the stumper – “What is a Shifchah Charufah?”
I had no idea. I had heard the term somewhere, but I couldn’t remember what it meant. So I did the best I could – I knew shifchah was a maid, and charufah might be linked to חרפה, meaning embarrassment, so I tried, “An embarrassed maid.”
(The right answer: A חציה שפחה חציה בת חורין who is betrothed to an עבד עברי and then becomes involved with another man. Or, according to one view, a regular שפחה כנענית who is betrothed to an עבד עברי and then becomes involved with another man.
Yeah, I knew you knew that.)
That was when Rabbi Cohen taught me a lesson I haven’t forgotten in the 22 years since, and I hope never to forget: If you don’t know, say “I don’t know.” I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s not the end of the world, pal – just say it. I don’t know.
I think he knew that his question would stump me. I think he asked that question just to be able to teach me that lesson in humility and honesty… for which I am very grateful today, although I wasn’t at the time.
The story comes to mind now for two reasons:
1. We’ve been discussing the bizarre case of the Shifchah Charufah in Daf Yomi this week, and
I was reminded again yesterday of this important lesson.
2. It goes back to my post from yesterday, about the funeral of a young woman, as great a person as I know here in Allentown, who died of an extremely painful disease.
After the funeral I was approached by someone who asked me the age-old question, “What is it about? Why does this happen? Is it just that Gd wasn’t looking, was busy somewhere else?”
I do feel, often, like I should have an answer, like I’m expected to have the answer. "Rabbi, you've been at this for a dozen years; what can we say when something like this happens?" And I’m supposed to say something which will give all of this meaning.
But I’m no closer to understanding this than I was to knowing the meaning of shifchah charufah as a fourteen year old kid.
Oh, on a theoretical level I can talk about the gemara’s four approaches to suffering and Rav Soloveitchik’s “what now” instead of “why” question, but, ultimately, when dealing with מתו מוטל לפניו, an actual case, Rabbi Cohen was right: When you don’t know, say I don’t know.
It’s the right answer.
It started with my high school entrance interview with Rabbi Yitzchak Cohen, for MTA (Yeshiva University’s boys’ high school – aka TMSTAYUHSFB). Rabbi Cohen came to our elementary school, Hebrew Academy of Long Beach, and he interviewed us as a group, and then one by one.
Rabbi Cohen was very intimidating for me; I was a skinny 5-1 or 5-2 kid, and to me he looked like he was about 6-6. He had a long beard, black-framed glasses, and intense expression. His accent (Detroit?) and speech pattern were unusual for me, too, and I didn’t catch everything he said. It isn’t that he wasn’t kindly; I was just automatically intimidated. (Over the years since, I have come to respect and love him, and see him as a great role model.)
At one point during the 1-on-1, Rabbi Cohen began asking me questions. "What does X mean?" "Can you explain Y," that sort of thing. I did pretty well; thank Gd, I had a strong education and a good command of Hebrew, and knew what one would hope an eighth-grade Jewish boy would know.
Until he pulled out the stumper – “What is a Shifchah Charufah?”
I had no idea. I had heard the term somewhere, but I couldn’t remember what it meant. So I did the best I could – I knew shifchah was a maid, and charufah might be linked to חרפה, meaning embarrassment, so I tried, “An embarrassed maid.”
(The right answer: A חציה שפחה חציה בת חורין who is betrothed to an עבד עברי and then becomes involved with another man. Or, according to one view, a regular שפחה כנענית who is betrothed to an עבד עברי and then becomes involved with another man.
Yeah, I knew you knew that.)
That was when Rabbi Cohen taught me a lesson I haven’t forgotten in the 22 years since, and I hope never to forget: If you don’t know, say “I don’t know.” I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s not the end of the world, pal – just say it. I don’t know.
I think he knew that his question would stump me. I think he asked that question just to be able to teach me that lesson in humility and honesty… for which I am very grateful today, although I wasn’t at the time.
The story comes to mind now for two reasons:
1. We’ve been discussing the bizarre case of the Shifchah Charufah in Daf Yomi this week, and
I was reminded again yesterday of this important lesson.
2. It goes back to my post from yesterday, about the funeral of a young woman, as great a person as I know here in Allentown, who died of an extremely painful disease.
After the funeral I was approached by someone who asked me the age-old question, “What is it about? Why does this happen? Is it just that Gd wasn’t looking, was busy somewhere else?”
I do feel, often, like I should have an answer, like I’m expected to have the answer. "Rabbi, you've been at this for a dozen years; what can we say when something like this happens?" And I’m supposed to say something which will give all of this meaning.
But I’m no closer to understanding this than I was to knowing the meaning of shifchah charufah as a fourteen year old kid.
Oh, on a theoretical level I can talk about the gemara’s four approaches to suffering and Rav Soloveitchik’s “what now” instead of “why” question, but, ultimately, when dealing with מתו מוטל לפניו, an actual case, Rabbi Cohen was right: When you don’t know, say I don’t know.
It’s the right answer.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Derashah: Behaalotcha - Ode to the Humble Shul Board Member
This week is our shul's annual meeting and election of officers, and one of the goals of this derashah is to honor those who serve on our shul board.
Now we’re down to two, Senators McCain and Obama, both claiming to have the tools of leadership, both claiming to be men of integrity, both claiming unyielding commitment to the good of this country. How do we choose between them?
We might choose based on track record. We might choose based on specific issues - Israel, healthcare, education, defense, etc. From a close reading of our parshah, though, I see one more criteria: The best leader is the one who knows his own inadequacies.
We naturally gravitate to humble leaders, and that’s one reason these candidates have made it this far, but selecting humble leadership is about more than human psychology - it’s a religious ideal writ large in the life of Moshe Rabbeinu, the greatest leader we've ever known.
Moshe Rabbeinu, in the first two years of his career, resigned no fewer than three times - each time due to his own feelings of inadequacy for the task at hand.
• The first time was in the desert, at the סנה בוער באש, the Burning Bush, when he said, מי אנכי כי אלך אל פרעה, Who am I to address the Pharaoh, who am I to lead an exodus from Mitzrayim?
• The second time was after the חטא העגל, the Golden Calf, when HaShem threatened to destroy the nation and begin again with Moshe, and Moshe said, “Better to kill me, too,” for I have failed as their leader.
• And the third time is in our parshah, when the Jews complain about their desert life and Moshe declares to Gd, “I can’t take care of this nation; if you’re going to have me continue in this job, just take my life now!”
Three attempted resignations, all surrounding the same theme: Moshe felt he could not serve the nation’s needs.
Moshe’s humble approach to leadership continues when he is told to share his authority with other elders. HaShem says explicitly that these new leaders will diminish Moshe’s status; He says, ואצלתי מן הרוח אשר עליך ושמתי עליהם, I will take some of the Divine inspiration that has been yours, and place it upon them. But Moshe wholeheartedly embraces the concept - he has no fear of sharing authority to aid the nation.
Second, the midrash records that two brothers, Eldad and Meidad, proclaimed in the midst of the Jewish camp that Moshe would die, and Gd would appoint Yehoshua as the next leader. Yehoshua himself, horrified, turned to Moshe and pleaded “כלאם, Jail them!” But Moshe replied, “I wish all of the nation would become prophets!”
Moshe has no fear of his own demise and the end of his reign; he leads at the convenience of the people, as determined by Gd, and he is fully prepared to see the end of his reign come.
It is this humility, this sense of his own abilities and their limits, that makes Moshe fit to lead. It is not for nothing that Moshe is described as עניו מכל האדם אשר על פני האדמה, the most humble man on earth.
Later Jewish leaders also exemplified this trait:
When שמואל הנביא came to coronate Shaul, the prophet couldn’t find him. He inquired, Where is this man? And he was told, הנה הוא נחבא אל הכלים, Him? He’s hiding out in the shed. Shaul considered himself unworthy, so much so that people questioned the wisdom of Shemuel’s decision, saying, מה יושיענו זה, this is the one who is going to save us?!
Fast-forward to the selection of Dovid haMelech, and again, Shemuel comes to anoint a new king, but the new king is nowhere to be found. All of Yishai’s sons are present, but Dovid is out with the sheep; he doesn’t imagine himself a king.
I might think that a leader would specifically need to lack humility; how can a person guide others, if he isn’t sure of himself? But humility is important in a leader for two reasons: Practicality, and Religion.
First, Practicality: Humility limits the possibility that a leader will ignore the needs and input of others.
Rabbi Yochanan prescribed, in the name of R’ Shimon ben Yehotzadak: אין מעמידין פרנס על הציבור אלא אם כן קופה של שרצים תלויה לו מאחוריו, we don’t appoint a leader unless he has some embarrassment lurking in the shadows, something which will remind him of his own weaknesses, to keep him in line.
Writing in 13th century France, R’ Menachem Meiri expanded on that theme, writing, “We do not appoint a leader unless he is known to be עניו ושפל רוח וסבלן, humble and patient, because he will need to function in different ways for different constituencies and be loved by each of them, each according to its own needs. And if they cannot find such a person, and they must appoint אבירי לב ועזי מצח, people of tougher, brasher spirit, they should be careful not to appoint people who are too arrogant, such that they believe they will hold that power forever, and that they are the best-suited for the job.”
Second, Religion: Humility recognizes that the leader is not selected based on his own righteousness, but rather based upon a Divine plan.
HaShem told Moshe as much when He said to Moshe at the סנה, You go lead, ואנכי אהיה עם פיך ועם פיהו, I will be with you and with Aharon, to help you do the job. Esther recognized the same thing, insisting on national prayer before she would venture to approach Achashverosh on behalf of the nation.
Judaism does believe in the Divine Right of the King, but not as a product of the king’s personal virtue; rather, HaShem has deemed the leader the person of the moment, and HaShem is the source of his every triumph.
So when it comes to choosing a leader, we seek not only flights of rhetoric or decorated military careers, wonkish brilliance or legions of experienced advisers. Atop all of these qualities, we seek a leader who understands that he serves at the convenience of Gd and the nation, and who believes - truly, sincerely, authentically believes - that his service is not a product of his own genius but rather of community necessity.
The ideal Jewish leader, like Moshe, like Shaul and like Dovid, does not harbor an answer for every question, does not have a neat position paper addressing every circumstance, but does own the ability to acknowledge his flaws.
But beyond presidency and monarchy, this need for humility applies to all levels of leadership, including shul leadership. Even regarding the שליח ציבור who leads the davening, the gemara records that even the שליח ציבור, the chazan, must refuse humbly when asked to lead the davening, accepting only if the offer is extended a second time.
Which brings me to our shul board, a collection of men and women who do their best, day after day, for our community. They are rarely acknowledged for their work, but all of us live in their debt, for they make all of this possible.
This week, on Thursday evening at 7 PM, we will be having the shul’s annual meeting, at which new board members and officers are elected, and we hear reports from the heads of different shul departments.
To be blunt: If you are able, please come to the meeting.
I know that a lot of people don’t go because nothing interesting ever happens at these meetings. As it happens, this year there may be controversy; I plan to speak on some challenges we are facing, and I plan to address what may fairly be called the Third Rail of shul politics. But aside from that, this is our chance to honor the humble men and women who serve our shul on its board.
It’s not traditional for a rabbi to like his shul board, but I can say in all sincerity that I am very confident in our leadership. We are privileged to have men and women who come to meetings ready to serve what they perceive to be the shul’s best interests, and who work hard on projects between meetings, to help move our shul forward. We have people who work on the shul’s physical plant, people who work on education, people who work on social programming, people who work on finances, people who work on administrative issues. To a one, all of them devote significant time and energy to the greater good, humbly and without fanfare. So on Thursday, please make some time to honor them and thank them for their work, by coming to the meeting. I look forward to seeing you there.
-
Notes:
1. My explanation of Moshe's rationale for מחני נא מספרך is, of course, not the only approach.
2. The Torah's text indicates Moshe will lose some of his רוח הקודש when the others gain it, but see Rashi to Bamidbar 11:17.
3. On Moshe's humble approach, see also Sanhedrin 8a on the difference between HaShem's counsel to Yehoshua and Moshe's counsel to Yehoshua, כי אתה תבוא את העם הזה vs כי אתה תביא את העם הזה.
4. The selection of Shaul is in Shemuel I 10, the selection of Dovid is in Shemuel I 16.
5. The quote about קופה של שרצים is from Yoma 22b, and the Meiri's comment is on that gemara.
6. The little-practiced law of the chazan [most don't refuse at all, or refuse altogether too much] is found on Berachot 34a.
Now we’re down to two, Senators McCain and Obama, both claiming to have the tools of leadership, both claiming to be men of integrity, both claiming unyielding commitment to the good of this country. How do we choose between them?
We might choose based on track record. We might choose based on specific issues - Israel, healthcare, education, defense, etc. From a close reading of our parshah, though, I see one more criteria: The best leader is the one who knows his own inadequacies.
We naturally gravitate to humble leaders, and that’s one reason these candidates have made it this far, but selecting humble leadership is about more than human psychology - it’s a religious ideal writ large in the life of Moshe Rabbeinu, the greatest leader we've ever known.
Moshe Rabbeinu, in the first two years of his career, resigned no fewer than three times - each time due to his own feelings of inadequacy for the task at hand.
• The first time was in the desert, at the סנה בוער באש, the Burning Bush, when he said, מי אנכי כי אלך אל פרעה, Who am I to address the Pharaoh, who am I to lead an exodus from Mitzrayim?
• The second time was after the חטא העגל, the Golden Calf, when HaShem threatened to destroy the nation and begin again with Moshe, and Moshe said, “Better to kill me, too,” for I have failed as their leader.
• And the third time is in our parshah, when the Jews complain about their desert life and Moshe declares to Gd, “I can’t take care of this nation; if you’re going to have me continue in this job, just take my life now!”
Three attempted resignations, all surrounding the same theme: Moshe felt he could not serve the nation’s needs.
Moshe’s humble approach to leadership continues when he is told to share his authority with other elders. HaShem says explicitly that these new leaders will diminish Moshe’s status; He says, ואצלתי מן הרוח אשר עליך ושמתי עליהם, I will take some of the Divine inspiration that has been yours, and place it upon them. But Moshe wholeheartedly embraces the concept - he has no fear of sharing authority to aid the nation.
Second, the midrash records that two brothers, Eldad and Meidad, proclaimed in the midst of the Jewish camp that Moshe would die, and Gd would appoint Yehoshua as the next leader. Yehoshua himself, horrified, turned to Moshe and pleaded “כלאם, Jail them!” But Moshe replied, “I wish all of the nation would become prophets!”
Moshe has no fear of his own demise and the end of his reign; he leads at the convenience of the people, as determined by Gd, and he is fully prepared to see the end of his reign come.
It is this humility, this sense of his own abilities and their limits, that makes Moshe fit to lead. It is not for nothing that Moshe is described as עניו מכל האדם אשר על פני האדמה, the most humble man on earth.
Later Jewish leaders also exemplified this trait:
When שמואל הנביא came to coronate Shaul, the prophet couldn’t find him. He inquired, Where is this man? And he was told, הנה הוא נחבא אל הכלים, Him? He’s hiding out in the shed. Shaul considered himself unworthy, so much so that people questioned the wisdom of Shemuel’s decision, saying, מה יושיענו זה, this is the one who is going to save us?!
Fast-forward to the selection of Dovid haMelech, and again, Shemuel comes to anoint a new king, but the new king is nowhere to be found. All of Yishai’s sons are present, but Dovid is out with the sheep; he doesn’t imagine himself a king.
I might think that a leader would specifically need to lack humility; how can a person guide others, if he isn’t sure of himself? But humility is important in a leader for two reasons: Practicality, and Religion.
First, Practicality: Humility limits the possibility that a leader will ignore the needs and input of others.
Rabbi Yochanan prescribed, in the name of R’ Shimon ben Yehotzadak: אין מעמידין פרנס על הציבור אלא אם כן קופה של שרצים תלויה לו מאחוריו, we don’t appoint a leader unless he has some embarrassment lurking in the shadows, something which will remind him of his own weaknesses, to keep him in line.
Writing in 13th century France, R’ Menachem Meiri expanded on that theme, writing, “We do not appoint a leader unless he is known to be עניו ושפל רוח וסבלן, humble and patient, because he will need to function in different ways for different constituencies and be loved by each of them, each according to its own needs. And if they cannot find such a person, and they must appoint אבירי לב ועזי מצח, people of tougher, brasher spirit, they should be careful not to appoint people who are too arrogant, such that they believe they will hold that power forever, and that they are the best-suited for the job.”
Second, Religion: Humility recognizes that the leader is not selected based on his own righteousness, but rather based upon a Divine plan.
HaShem told Moshe as much when He said to Moshe at the סנה, You go lead, ואנכי אהיה עם פיך ועם פיהו, I will be with you and with Aharon, to help you do the job. Esther recognized the same thing, insisting on national prayer before she would venture to approach Achashverosh on behalf of the nation.
Judaism does believe in the Divine Right of the King, but not as a product of the king’s personal virtue; rather, HaShem has deemed the leader the person of the moment, and HaShem is the source of his every triumph.
So when it comes to choosing a leader, we seek not only flights of rhetoric or decorated military careers, wonkish brilliance or legions of experienced advisers. Atop all of these qualities, we seek a leader who understands that he serves at the convenience of Gd and the nation, and who believes - truly, sincerely, authentically believes - that his service is not a product of his own genius but rather of community necessity.
The ideal Jewish leader, like Moshe, like Shaul and like Dovid, does not harbor an answer for every question, does not have a neat position paper addressing every circumstance, but does own the ability to acknowledge his flaws.
But beyond presidency and monarchy, this need for humility applies to all levels of leadership, including shul leadership. Even regarding the שליח ציבור who leads the davening, the gemara records that even the שליח ציבור, the chazan, must refuse humbly when asked to lead the davening, accepting only if the offer is extended a second time.
Which brings me to our shul board, a collection of men and women who do their best, day after day, for our community. They are rarely acknowledged for their work, but all of us live in their debt, for they make all of this possible.
This week, on Thursday evening at 7 PM, we will be having the shul’s annual meeting, at which new board members and officers are elected, and we hear reports from the heads of different shul departments.
To be blunt: If you are able, please come to the meeting.
I know that a lot of people don’t go because nothing interesting ever happens at these meetings. As it happens, this year there may be controversy; I plan to speak on some challenges we are facing, and I plan to address what may fairly be called the Third Rail of shul politics. But aside from that, this is our chance to honor the humble men and women who serve our shul on its board.
It’s not traditional for a rabbi to like his shul board, but I can say in all sincerity that I am very confident in our leadership. We are privileged to have men and women who come to meetings ready to serve what they perceive to be the shul’s best interests, and who work hard on projects between meetings, to help move our shul forward. We have people who work on the shul’s physical plant, people who work on education, people who work on social programming, people who work on finances, people who work on administrative issues. To a one, all of them devote significant time and energy to the greater good, humbly and without fanfare. So on Thursday, please make some time to honor them and thank them for their work, by coming to the meeting. I look forward to seeing you there.
-
Notes:
1. My explanation of Moshe's rationale for מחני נא מספרך is, of course, not the only approach.
2. The Torah's text indicates Moshe will lose some of his רוח הקודש when the others gain it, but see Rashi to Bamidbar 11:17.
3. On Moshe's humble approach, see also Sanhedrin 8a on the difference between HaShem's counsel to Yehoshua and Moshe's counsel to Yehoshua, כי אתה תבוא את העם הזה vs כי אתה תביא את העם הזה.
4. The selection of Shaul is in Shemuel I 10, the selection of Dovid is in Shemuel I 16.
5. The quote about קופה של שרצים is from Yoma 22b, and the Meiri's comment is on that gemara.
6. The little-practiced law of the chazan [most don't refuse at all, or refuse altogether too much] is found on Berachot 34a.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Daf: Sotah 4-5
In general, it’s important to keep one eye on Rashi and the other on Maharsha all through Sotah. As we move into the latter two-thirds of the first perek, though, it’s extra-important.
4b
The gemara connects one who eats bread without first washing נטילת ידים with one who lives with a זונה – a rather remarkable comparison! The Maharsha explains that they are related in that both result in poverty.
See Tosafot נעקר.
The gemara here translates the biblical term יקרה as “valued.” This is reminiscent of Sanhedrin 38b, in which the use of the word יקר is brought as proof that Adam haRishon spoke Aramaic; it seems that this word means slightly different things in Hebrew and Aramaic – valued vs. heavy. Of course, the two meanings are related, directly as well as in slang.
Rava says that learning Torah will not save a person from Gehennom if he sins. See the mishnah later on 20a about learning Torah to delay – but not eliminate - the effect of the Sotah water.
5a
See Tosafot כל, who is bothered by the fact that the mishnah in Perek Chelek in Sanhedrin, which lists those who do not merit olam haba, doesn’t include the arrogant person mentioned here.
The gemara recommends an eighth of an eighth of arrogance. The Vilna Gaon famously pointed out that the eighth pasuk in the eighth parshah in the Torah begins with קטנתי מכל החסדים, Yaakov’s humble declaration that he does not deserve all that HaShem has done for him.
I also wonder about the eighth of an eighth being 1/64 – marginally less than 1/60, the shiur for nullification in a mixture… (for a similar idea, see the gemara in berachos about dreams having 1/60 of prophecy, and of Shabbos being 1/60 of olam haba, etc.)
5b
The gemara says that one who evaluates his path, calculating his actions, will merit great things. But what if he were to calculate and decide that it would be better for him not to do a mitzvah? The same question may be asked of Pirkei Avot 2:1, which encourages calculating a cost/benefit analysis of mitzvot and aveirot!
Some of the commentaries to Avot 2:1 don’t take it as a literal recommendation; further, the game is fixed, since the reward for mitzvot and for avoiding aveirot is always supposed to be greater than any earthly benefit. For another view, though, see Terumat haDeshen 5 regarding a man who elected to skip minyan in order to claim a debt owed to him. Terumat haDeshen justifies the calculation (although he disagrees with its conclusion).
Lots of interesting material in these pages; I have noted a few items here. As always, best to have a gemara in front of you for this.
4b
The gemara connects one who eats bread without first washing נטילת ידים with one who lives with a זונה – a rather remarkable comparison! The Maharsha explains that they are related in that both result in poverty.
See Tosafot נעקר.
The gemara here translates the biblical term יקרה as “valued.” This is reminiscent of Sanhedrin 38b, in which the use of the word יקר is brought as proof that Adam haRishon spoke Aramaic; it seems that this word means slightly different things in Hebrew and Aramaic – valued vs. heavy. Of course, the two meanings are related, directly as well as in slang.
Rava says that learning Torah will not save a person from Gehennom if he sins. See the mishnah later on 20a about learning Torah to delay – but not eliminate - the effect of the Sotah water.
5a
See Tosafot כל, who is bothered by the fact that the mishnah in Perek Chelek in Sanhedrin, which lists those who do not merit olam haba, doesn’t include the arrogant person mentioned here.
The gemara recommends an eighth of an eighth of arrogance. The Vilna Gaon famously pointed out that the eighth pasuk in the eighth parshah in the Torah begins with קטנתי מכל החסדים, Yaakov’s humble declaration that he does not deserve all that HaShem has done for him.
I also wonder about the eighth of an eighth being 1/64 – marginally less than 1/60, the shiur for nullification in a mixture… (for a similar idea, see the gemara in berachos about dreams having 1/60 of prophecy, and of Shabbos being 1/60 of olam haba, etc.)
5b
The gemara says that one who evaluates his path, calculating his actions, will merit great things. But what if he were to calculate and decide that it would be better for him not to do a mitzvah? The same question may be asked of Pirkei Avot 2:1, which encourages calculating a cost/benefit analysis of mitzvot and aveirot!
Some of the commentaries to Avot 2:1 don’t take it as a literal recommendation; further, the game is fixed, since the reward for mitzvot and for avoiding aveirot is always supposed to be greater than any earthly benefit. For another view, though, see Terumat haDeshen 5 regarding a man who elected to skip minyan in order to claim a debt owed to him. Terumat haDeshen justifies the calculation (although he disagrees with its conclusion).
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