Pirkei Avos

"Yehoshua ben (son of) Perachia and Nittai of Arbel received the transmission from them [the rabbis of Mishna 4]. Yehoshua ben Perachia said, make for yourself a rabbi, acquire for yourself a friend, and judge every person favorably."

This mishna brings us to the next generation of scholars and the advice they offered to their and future generations. We are still in one of the earliest generations of the Mishna.

Yehoshua first advises us that we "make" for ourselves a rabbi. We discussed recently (Mishna 4) the role of the Torah scholar within Judaism. As we saw, a rabbi is hardly a religious functionary, conducting services at a synagogue, wedding or funeral, nor is he simply one who is asked to decide matters of Jewish law. A true rabbi is firstly one who serves as a role model for his community, who does not only teach G-d's Torah, but who lives and exemplifies those same values as well.

Second, the true Torah scholar is one who is imbued with the entire gamut of Torah knowledge -- and thus, he is the only one truly able to take that wisdom and apply it to real life situations. Life is far more complicated than ritual and religious ceremony. We are constantly faced with challenges -- struggling with our own natures and in our relationships with others. Many of the decisions we must make during our days and in the course of our lives are in reality religious by nature. Take for example our professional lives. How does the lawyer defend a client he knows to be guilty as sin? How does the psychologist deal with a patient who may be a danger to his family or to society? Say a patient (or close friend) confesses to having committed a serious crime or having a drug addiction? Is one obligated to turn him in, or does true friendship imply confidentiality? When may the doctor provide experimental or alternative treatment to his patient? Say an acquaintance calls during off hours for medical treatment or advice. Does the Torah obligate one with the appropriate know-how to help? How much of my employer's time (or paper) may I waste assuming it's understood (I hope none of you are reading this on work time...) -- or because everyone else does it? How do I deal with employees (possibly myself) who are in the habit of talking behind the boss' back? How much of my earnings must I give to charity -- and to which types of charities? How do I balance my career with family obligations, with Torah study, and with community involvement? And how should I *act*? How friendly and outgoing should I be to others? How much effort should I put in to mending a strained relationship, and when is it time to walk away? What is the proper manner of disciplining my children? How do I draw the line between parenting and butting in? How much respect should I demand of my children? Should I interfere with their every bad practice and association, or should I let them learn life experiences on their own? And how should I get along with my own parents -- possibly whose religious values differ greatly from my own? And am I obligated in their healthcare?

The questions are endless and ongoing -- and they are really what religion is all about. Far beyond what color yarmulke a person wears, these are the issues which truly define if we are Torah-observant and G-d-fearing Jews. And for such issues Israel needs rabbis. Virtually none of the questions above can be answered with a single verse or law in the Talmud. Our Sages had much to say about all such issues. There are priorities and considerations which must be carefully weighed and balanced. And the answers may very well not be the same for any two people.

As a simple example, the Sages had much to say about the importance of Torah study, of child rearing, of community service, and of earning a livelihood. Which are given greater priority? How much time should I spend on each? It really depends who I am, what the Torah's priorities are, and how the Torah's eternal truths apply to me and my situation in particular. And only one who knows the entire Torah can decipher which of its many truths apply in any given situation. It's easy enough for me to tell my wife, "Sorry, can't help with the dishes; the Rabbis said Torah study is important." (I've tried that one before, and it don't work too well...) But helping others -- certainly one's own wife -- is also an obligation. Which comes first? What is the proper balance?

Thus again, Israel need rabbis. The balancing act of life -- how to balance the different values and priorities of the Torah and of life -- is the real trick to life and personal fulfillment. And only the scholar who knows both the Torah's wisdom and me personally will be able to assist me. He will see my own unique qualities and attributes -- often better than I see them myself -- and determine how the Torah's eternal values apply to me personally. And if he knows me -- if I've "made" for myself a rabbi -- then I have some hope of striking that proper balance.

Our mishna additionally tells us to "acquire for yourself a friend." This connects closely to Yehoshua's first statement of making for myself a rabbi. We are dealing firstly with a friend in the spiritual sense -- one who assists me in my religious and personal growth. True friends are those who grow together, who share their feelings, and who grow as individuals. They are open and sincere with one another, and are practically the only ones who can (perhaps) give advice and criticism freely and openly. King Solomon wrote: "Faithful are the chastisements of a friend, while burdensome are the kisses of an enemy" (Proverbs 27:6). A friend is one from whom I grow, and who will point out to me my faults (often indiscernible to myself) and instruct me in how to realize my potential.

It's interesting to note that the mishna uses a stronger word for friend than it did for rabbi. We were instructed to "make" ("asai") for ourselves a rabbi and to "buy" ("k'nai") ourselves a friend. The implication is that more effort must be expended in acquiring a friend. Why is this?

I believe there are two issues here. First, in spite of everything we've said about the importance of rabbis, they only go so far. We have all heard or read flowery and inspiring words (or e-mails) from rabbis and felt the gut reaction, whether expressed or not, something like: "You know, that's really easy to say on an abstract level. It would be nice if life were so easy. If I were 30 years older and a well-respected rabbi I could also get away with proudly espousing such high and uncompromising standards. But the reality is just not that way."

One's rabbi is usually somewhat older and more established than he. Everything he says is wonderful and inspiring -- he makes it all sound so easy. But he doesn't *really* know what it's like to come from where I come from, and how difficult it would be to break away from parents, friends, culture, habits and everything else I would have to leave behind.

And this is where friends come in. A friend is an equal; he speaks your language. He may even share your background and history. He knows where you're coming from because he's been there himself. And he might just help you figure out how *you* can apply truth to your life, and how it can all become meaningful and relevant to you.

There is a second, unrelated concept behind the idea of acquiring a friend. We don't just "make" friends for ourselves; we must invest in them and "acquire" them. Friendships are two-way affairs. A relationship with a rabbi or teacher, as valuable as it may be, is basically passive. Although questioning and objecting are very much a part of the student's role (as we'll learn later, "The bashful student will not learn" (2:6 www.torah.org/learning/pirkei-avos/chapter2-6.html)), for the most part the student is enjoined to assume a humble, submissive role, as Mishna 4 earlier: "Cleave to the dust of their feet."

Developing friendships, however, requires a much greater investment of time and effort. We "purchase" friendships by our willingness to share our feelings, stay up late discussing our problems, and be available to help him or her get through his or her difficult times. The investment may be great, and we may not "learn" as much as we do from our teachers. But relationships are yet another necessary ingredient towards developing ourselves as human beings and fulfilling our missions on this earth.

Text Copyright © 2007 by Rabbi Dovid Rosenfeld and Torah.org.

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"Yossi ben (son of) Yochanan of Jerusalem said: Let your house be open wide, let the poor be members of your household, and do not chatter excessively with women. This was said regarding one's own wife, certainly with another's wife. Based on this the Sages have said, one who chatters excessively with women causes evil to himself, wastes time from Torah study, and will eventually inherit Gehenna."

For the past two classes we have been discussing the sanctity of the home. As the Sages instruct, religious practices and values must not be relegated to the synagogue or some other setting outside the home. Our homes must be permeated with sanctity, and both Torah scholars and the downtrodden should be welcome within.

We are now ready to discuss the second issue of our mishna, talking excessively with women. It is appropriate to approach this from the context of this and the previous mishna. The sanctity of the home to a great extent rests on the husband-wife relationship within. If their relationship is founded upon closeness and a sharing of values, the home will flourish. If it is based upon frivolity and lust -- or if the husband finds he has better "chatter" (what we today call "chemistry") with women outside the home -- the basic building blocks of the home will be lacking, and the home will only with difficulty survive.

Our mishna uses the term "sicha" for speech, which means light or trivial talk, kibitzing or banter. Regarding another man's wife the danger is evident. Empty, frivolous conversation may lead to a much more serious breakdown of behavior. We will learn later: "Jesting and lightheadedness accustom a person to immorality" (3:17). Interaction with women may be a regular part of our daily activities, but we must always take care that a certain sense of formality is maintained. This of course does not mean to imply coldness or aloofness. As always in Judaism, the correct balance must be sought. However, this is one area in which the Sages, in their wisdom and insight, warn us to take extra care. Dangers lurk -- sometimes only slightly beneath the thinnest veneer of propriety -- and caution must be constantly maintained.

Even with one's own wife the proper balance must be maintained. The husband-wife relationship must be predicated on an emotional closeness and a sharing of values, not on frivolity or physical lust. The underlying bond must be very clear to both husband and wife. We are not bound because we enjoy each other's company, because it provides us with a beneficial financial arrangement, or because we desire the physical pleasure. In fact, our marriage must not be predicated on any reason of a duration less than eternal, and likewise a truly meaningful marriage will weather all sorts of financial and medical challenges. If I am in a relationship because it is good for *me*, then when the cause of that goodness departs (or if I have more enjoyable "chatter" with the gals at the office) the marriage will be in serious trouble.

Rather, husband and wife must view themselves as bound by eternal covenant. Each partner must care for the other for the other's sake, and they must be united in the sacred mission of building a Jewish home and becoming a unified whole. Such lofty ideals must never be trivialized and laughed off. Humor and lightheadedness are often in place in the husband-wife relationship; so is physical pleasure. In fact, any activity which brings husband and wife closer strengthens the Divine bond between them. But such things must never replace the true ideals and purpose of marriage. One serious and intense conversation between husband and wife -- about their goals, feelings and aspirations -- is worth a thousand empty and trivial conversations. Our marriages must primarily be spiritual and eternal. And likewise our speech and conversation must never wholly lose sight of the fact that between us rests the Divine Presence.

There is a general concept within Judaism that the greater a potential for good something has, the stronger the temptation to misuse it. Love and marriage are prime examples of this. Marriage gives man and woman the ability to build the ultimate relationship -- symbolic of man's relationship with G-d, as well as to create life. Each partner loves and provides for the other for the other's sake, yet realizes and appreciates that the other does for him or her for the very same reason. And as each partner does for the other, he or she grows closer to the other as well -- for we love those to whom we give. Eventually, a couple merges -- into a complete and united whole.

However, anything which has such potential for good can as well be corrupted into a means of perpetrating the most terrible of evils. And this is the manner in which the world works, for the "dark side of the force" (we can call it Satan, but the idea is quite the same) will not allow such potential for goodness to go unchecked and unchallenged. Just as the most heinous of crimes are committed in the name of religion, the worst acts of selfishness can be perpetrated under the guise of "marriage". Rather than marriage being used for selflessness, giving and bonding, it can be used for selfishness and abusiveness. Men and women are different by nature (if any of you haven't noticed). If they merge, their natures will complement one another and they will become a united whole. If, however, one marries solely for his or her own sake -- to take from the other, to dominate or abuse, or to give himself an illusory sense of importance by putting the other down, he is involved in the most selfish and crushing relationship possible. The very closeness and intimacy of marriage gives each spouse the ability to crush and hurt the other in a manner not possible in any other sort of relationship. And sadly, we all know how ugly, painful and devastating unhealthy relationships can be, and how slowly the scars heal.

The sex drive is another example of this concept. Marital relations, at their highest level, are a form of giving and sharing, and are potentially an act of creation. (There is also a kabbalistic concept that sex is a physical manifestation of our ultimate spiritual relationship with God -- one reason why the Prophets so often berate Israel for going "a whoring" after idolatry. (Thought heard from R. Motty Berger, www.aish.com.)) However, precisely because it can be used for such good, there is no other drive which man is so tempted to misuse and to vulgarize, and to pervert from an act of holiness into one of selfishness, hedonism and animalism.

For all of the above reasons, Judaism has always placed paramount importance on the separation of the sexes, in such areas as synagogue service, schooling and general social interaction. This does not stem from a sense of inequality between men and women, and certainly not from any kind of notion that sex and marriage are in any way "sinful". To the contrary, God says, "It is not proper for Adam to live alone" (i.e., unmarried) (Genesis 2:18), and the Torah sets this as a precedent for all future generations: "Therefore, a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife" (2:24).

Rather, knowing the unique quality of the husband-wife relationship, the Rabbis took every precaution that such potential for good and beauty not be compromised. The more we spread ourselves out -- the more we enjoy interaction and good chemistry with other members of the opposite sex -- the less special and unique our relationship will be with our spouses. Thus, our mishna exhorts us: Do not become overly light and frivolous, not with your own wife and certainly not with another man's. We are quite literally dealing with fire: with human passions and with the most delicate and precious of human emotions. And only with the most caring and sensitive nurturing can man and woman, in spite of -- or perhaps because of -- their differences, merge into a sacred and sanctified whole.

Text Copyright © 2007 by Rabbi Dovid Rosenfeld and Torah.org.

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"Yossi ben (son of) Yochanan of Jerusalem said: Let your house be open wide, let the poor be members of your household, and do not chatter excessively with women. This was said regarding one's own wife, certainly with another's wife. Based on this the Sages have said, one who chatters excessively with women causes evil to himself, wastes time from Torah study, and will eventually inherit Gehenna."

Last week our discussion in part focused on the sanctity of the home. The previous mishna stated that Torah scholars should be welcome in one's home. As we explained, the home must be a place suited for scholars and scholarship. Religion must not be relegated to the synagogue or other place external to ourselves. It must permeate our homes and our very lives. Our homes are not our castles in which we -- rather than G-d -- reign and set the standards. The mezuzah on our door-post testifies that within is a dwelling place of G-d. And our behavior within must be worthy of receiving that Divine Presence.

This mishna, authored by the colleague of last mishna's author, continues the same theme. Our homes are not only places in which honorable and respected Torah scholars are welcome. The poor and downtrodden must be welcome as well. And as we will see, this often requires an even greater degree of selflessness.

We sometimes feel our homes are our sanctuaries -- to which we retreat and close ourselves off from the word's problems. I personally know the feeling when a disheveled and unsavory-looking beggar comes to our door (unfortunately, an ongoing occurrence in my neighborhood in Israel). The knee jerk reaction can be summed up as: "Here are a few dollars (or shekels); now get out of my life!" (as my teacher R. Moshe Eisemann once put it).)

We really don't want to be bothered by other people's problems. We are willing to part with a few dollars for their sakes -- we do feel genuine sympathy for our fellow human beings -- but we're hardly willing to make their problems our problems. It disturbs our equanimity and peace of mind to see such suffering face to face. (Those of us who are aware of the facts in our homeland can only begin to appreciate the great heroism and sacrifice of the Israeli security and emergency medical personnel.) However, for most of us, charitable causes come no further than our doorways -- if even there. Within is my own life -- my personal "space" which I am simply not willing to compromise.

This mishna obligates us infinitely further. We must not be charitable with our wallets alone; we must open our homes. (Many of the commentators understand the advice of the mishna to be that one invite the indigent into his home as hired workers -- providing them the most dignified form of charity available.)

Further, when our doors are open to those in need, our charity assumes an entirely different dimension. When I, the well-to-do philanthropist, donate generously to a Jewish institution, I *expand* myself. A wing of a Jewish school is named after me (or maybe after my father if I'm really "selfless"). I wax greater. I am the well-known and well-admired benefactor of Jewish causes, the guest-of-honor at the annual banquet.

However, when I allow others into my home, I become *smaller*. I have constricted myself, giving of my own space -- and of myself -- for others. Such a small and contracted dwelling has taken so little for itself that it may well contain room for the Divine Presence.

When G-d instructed Israel to collect material for the construction of the Temple, He commands them to "take for Me a gift-offering" (Exodus 25:2). Why *take* for Me? Why not *give* to Me? The answer is that to build a home for the Divine Presence, we must "take" of ourselves. Charity of the highest form is not an act of expansion -- generously bequeathing *our* money on the Temple. It is a "taking" of ourselves, making room for the Divine.

(A number of years ago I was driving in an unfamiliar neighborhood. In the distance, I could see a building with large words figuring prominently along the top of its length. I knew immediately I was approaching a Jewish neighborhood. Sure enough, before long "The Alfred and Gladys Mermelstein Educational Center" (or whatever) towered before me. One can always recognize a Jewish institution in that buildings, wings, hallways, rooms, furnishings, light switches are all named after some generous benefactor. We could just imagine the Temple today: the Irving and Sadie Finklestein Ark of the Covenant, Ernest and Phyllis Peckman Menorah, Arthur and Sonya Perlowitz Laver etc. (These names are purely fictional of course. I hope I wasn't real unlucky just now... ;-).)

So too, in constructing the Temple, Israel was not attempting to take over the holy sanctuary, to make it theirs. They were diminishing themselves, parting with their wealth and greatness just a little bit -- and in the process making room for the Divine Presence. (Based in part on a lecture heard from R. Yochanan Zweig (www.talmudicu.edu).)

(By the way, people who do donate generously to Jewish causes *are* deserving of honor. It is a worthy and well-accepted Jewish practice to accord honor where it is due -- allowing such philanthropists to serve as a model for others to emulate. However, one cannot deny that such is not charity at its highest level.)

Likewise, one of the principal collections for the Temple was the silver half-piece, the "machatsis hashekel" (Exodus 30:11-16). This was brought as a completely anonymous gift. The rich, the poor, all gave the same identical piece of silver. We neither draw attention to ourselves nor take credit for ourselves when giving charity. The plain, unembellished half- piece represented that we all stand equally before G-d, that no one, whether rich or poor, has greater claim to the Temple and to Israel's heritage, and that Israel's true strength lies in our standing together as anonymous -- but united -- members of the Children of Israel. Charity at its highest level is an act of contraction -- of making ourselves smaller and in so doing becoming one with G-d. And therefore, it is man's greatest act of expansion.

We now arrive at the final topic of our mishna, the husband-wife relationship. As we will see, this forms the most crucial element of the home. Only a home and marriage whose foundations are based firmly upon sanctity and meaning, rather than frivolity, will be able to open itself up to guests and strangers. This, however, is a discussion in itself and will be dealt with G-d willing next week.

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"Yossi ben (son of) Yo'ezer of Ts'raidah and Yossi ben Yochanan of Jerusalem received the transmission from them. Yossi ben Yo'ezer used to say: Let your house be a meeting place for the sages, cleave to the dust of their feet, and drink thirstily their words."

This mishna introduces us to the next generation of Torah scholars. Antignos, the author of last week's mishna, lived in the generation immediately after the Men of the Great Assembly. His generation was transitional. With this week's scholars begins a new era in Jewish religious history, known as the era of the Zugos, or Pairs, which lasted for most of the remainder of Second Temple period. A high court of 71 scholars known as the Sanhedrin provided the religious and often political leadership of the Jewish people. It was led by a pair of scholars, firstly a Nasi (prince, nobleman), and secondly an Av Beis Din, or court head.

Most of the remainder of this chapter of Pirkei Avos will introduce us to successive generations of leaders of the Sanhedrin. The era of the Zugos may be considered the beginning of the period of the Mishna since the scholars of this age are occasionally quoted in the Mishna (see Chagiga 2:2 and Sotah 9:9). Yossi ben Yo'ezer and Yossi ben Yochanan lived at approximately the time of the Hasmonean revolt against the Greeks and the Chanukah miracle.

The basic message of our mishna is that it is not sufficient to study from Torah scholars, but one must ensure that scholars congregate in his home. The implication is two-fold. First, as the commentator Rabbeinu Yonah (of 12th Century Spain) explains, we must make our homes a place worthy of scholars and scholarship, a home in which people who value wisdom will feel comfortable -- regardless of the intellectual capacity of the homeowner himself.

This often requires that we overcome a major psychological barrier. People are often prepared to attend services or lectures in a synagogue or place of study, but such activities are usually relegated to some sacred location well outside of the home. Our homes, however, are our own sacred (but not *too* sacred) abodes. We reign supreme -- and we are the sole arbiters of the standards of modesty and behavior to be maintained.

The first message of our mishna is thus that we must not serve G-d on the outside alone, while maintaining our own "space" within our homes. G-d must permeate every aspect of our lives. There cannot be any dark closets in our houses or corners in our hearts which do not allow G-d to enter. The Talmud writes that on the Day of Judgment the beams of one's own house testify as to a person's true nature (Ta'anis 11a). We are judged not according to how we interacted with our coworkers or with strangers on the street, but by our behavior towards our own family members and in the privacy of our own homes. The mezuzah on our door-post testifies that within is a house of G-d. And inside must be a house in which scholar and layman alike feel comfortable and welcome -- and sense the aura of the Divine Presence. (Based in part on a lecture heard from R. Yochanan Zweig (www.talmudicu.edu).)

The second message of our mishna is that we should not interact with scholars in religious or intellectual contexts alone. We should invite them into our homes. We should see them close up, in personal interaction, and our homes should be molded by such contact. This is because we should not only study Torah; we must see it in action. And this is truly the way we find out what Judaism is all about.

The Talmud writes, "Greater is the service of scholars more than the study from them" (Brachos 7b). What is a Torah scholar really like? How have the Torah's lessons fashioned him as a human being? How does he interact with others, with his wife and family members? What are his values? What kinds of subjects does he talk about? How does he spend his time? The Talmud writes that the light speech of the scholars of the Talmud is equivalent to words of Torah (Eiruvin 54b). True Torah scholars personify the Torah and its lessons, and provide the role models modern man so desperately needs but does not have. A Torah scholar is not one who spouts abstract wisdom. He is one who lives it. And he is the sort we should welcome into our homes and observe in close and intimate quarters.

(It is a point of personal pride on my behalf to have studied under and built personal relationships with R. Yaakov Weinberg of blessed memory and many other Torah scholars in Ner Israel Rabbinical College (Baltimore, MD) and in other institutions of higher learning. Seeing firsthand what Torah study does to a human being was for myself personally a source of growth and inspiration far beyond anything I have every gained from any Jewish text.)

(It is also worth noting that although the Torah fully permeated each of these individuals, they were all very different personalities. Far from the Torah forcing one type of behavior and demeanor onto these great men, it allowed each of them to fully develop his own personal strengths and qualities. There are many paths to greatness; the Torah guides us along them all.)

(Finally -- as I write now and then -- the Internet simply does not cut it in terms of offering this type of growth. It is a wonderful tool for disseminating Torah teachings to the far corners of the globe (I've heard back from readers from just about everywhere I can imagine -- just waiting to hear from Antarctica...), but a student should never feel that reading weekly e-mails is the true road to personal growth. Judaism requires scholars, community structure, and constant personal interaction. "Virtual Judaism" (sorry for the buzzword) is a recent innovation -- and a very poor approximation of the real thing.)

There is a final aspect to the importance of personal interaction with Torah scholars, which I'll attempt to cover briefly. We discussed not long ago (1:1 www.torah.org/learning/pirkei-avos/chapter1-1b.html) that for the truly important things in life -- character development, interpersonal relationships, what kind of people we should be -- there are no hard and fast rules. Ritual is fairly well-defined. Personality development, however, is not the same for any two individuals. We need to know who we are and what our individual qualities are to truly discern the Torah's personal message for us. Now how do we tune in to that message?

This is the true importance of the Torah scholar. It is relatively easy to decide a strictly religious question such as whether or not a chicken is kosher. That requires knowledge of a fairly well-defined set of laws. A rabbi is "useful" for that but not indispensable. Many law books have been written on such topics and a learned layman could usually manage to find the answer himself (or he could just throw out the chicken; no major affair). But what about interpersonal relationships? How do I deal with my mother-in-law? What kind of career should I choose? How much time should I set aside for study, for community work? What character traits should I focus on and develop? How do I realize my potential?

The only way to answer such questions is to know the entire Torah and recognize its personalized message for me. There is simply no single verse or law we can point to. One must know everything the Torah has to say about values and priorities, and decide how they relate to him personally. And only a true Torah scholar can do this. And if he knows you personally, he may help you discover the Torah's personal message for you.

Thus, we are told to cleave to Torah scholars. We must not only study Torah from them. We must get to know them -- and get them to know us. It has been thousands of years since Israel has been blessed with prophets. There is no one (sane) who will come to us today and tell us the word of G-d. But we are blessed with scholars, not in abundance, but they dwell among us today: "For it [the Torah] shall not be forgotten from the mouths of its [Israel's] descendants" (Deuteronomy 31:21). And the Talmud writes that a scholar is greater than a prophet (Bava Basra 12a). Prophets are told the word of G-d, but scholars discern it on their own. And they are our surest means -- and mankind's last great hope -- of discovering G-d's eternal message to mankind.

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Text Copyright © 2007 by Rabbi Dovid Rosenfeld and Torah.org.

"Antignos of Socho received [the transmission] from Shimon the Righteous. He used to say: Do not be as servants who serve the Master to receive reward. Rather, be as servants who serve the Master not to receive reward. And let the fear of heaven be upon you."

Antignos of Socho lived in the first generation after the Men of the Great Assembly (of Mishnas 1-2). He served as a bridge between the Great Assembly and the era of the Zugos or "Pairs", to which we will be introduced G-d willing next week. Antignos also lived during an age in which Ancient Greece dominated practically the entire civilized world -- both politically and culturally. Hellenism was the dominant culture of the times, and as we will see below, was making significant inroads into Jewish thought as well. (The Greek influence on Israel -- in perhaps less pernicious manner -- is evidenced even in the Greek name of our mishna's author.)

At its simplest level, our mishna's message is that one should serve G-d for no ulterior motives -- neither honor, social acceptance, nor even to receive reward in the World to Come. Rather, one should serve G-d simply because it is G-d's will -- for G-d's sake rather than one's own. There are, however, a number of difficulties with this simple message, and as always, we will see that the words of the Sages are far more profound than we might first suppose.

First of all, our mishna does not tell us what we *should* have in mind when we serve God. It only tells us how *not* to serve G-d. Isn't there a positive message Antignos could tell us, a positive motive we should embrace? And supposing there is, why did our mishna neglect telling it to us?

Second, we are left with an almost impossible situation. We know in truth that God does reward us for our good deeds. In fact, G-d's purpose in creation was to create beings upon whom He could bestow goodness (as we discussed last week). So what does it mean that we should ignore this? Is our obligation to trick ourselves, to live some kind of illusion, pretending something we know to be true is really not? Is Judaism at its ideal level somehow based on denying reality?

Finally, the Midrash (Avos d'Rav Nassan, 5:2) tells us that Antignos had two students who misunderstood his teaching and as a result broke off from traditional Judaism, founding their own religious sects. The students were Tsaddok and Bysos. They understood Antignos' dictum that we should serve G-d not for reward to mean that there *is* no reward for the fulfillment of the commandments. The obvious next step is: "Why bother?" They therefore established breakaway sects, known as Tsaddukim (Sadducees) and Bysusim (Boethusians), which rejected Judaism's Oral tradition altogether, accepting only the much-more-vague and much-less- demanding Written Torah instead.

The question on this is what was in fact their difficulty with their teacher's statement? What was so difficult or misleading about "Don't serve for reward" which became misconstrued to mean "There won't be any reward?" Were they just willfully twisting their teacher's words in order to take it easy on themselves? Or was there some kind of intellectual basis for their misunderstanding?

To understand our mishna, there is an important principle we must establish. When Israel was given the 613 commandments at Sinai, the intention was not: "Do these actions and get reward." It was rather: "Develop a relationship with your Creator; here's how." The mitzvos (commandments) are not just haphazard actions which we are rewarded for performing. They are statements of G-d's values. We do not simply (and blindly) perform them. We grow into them. We develop an appreciation for G-d's values and grow to become people who appreciate those same values. By doing so we become more G-dlike individuals, more capable of enjoying the resulting closeness we will have with our G-d in the World to Come.

Thus, the mitzvos are not actions and restrictions alone. They are calls to greatness, goads to inspire us to higher levels of awareness. As a simple example, the Torah commands us, "Thou shalt not kill" (Exodus 20:13 -- the sixth of the Ten Commandments). The intention was never simply that we refrain from the *act* of murder. That is only the mitzvah at its basest level. Rather we were instructed in something much higher, more accurately expressed as, "Appreciate the value of a human life." Human beings are precious and in the image of G-d. We must respect the value of our fellow human being: his life, his health, his self-respect, and his feelings. The Talmud accordingly writes that one should allow himself to be killed rather than *embarrass* his fellow -- just as one must die rather than kill him (Sotah 10b). Making someone else wish he were dead is -- according to G-d's value system -- tantamount to killing him. And we, who are not simply enslaving ourselves to our G-d but are forging a relationship with Him, must obey His commandments with that awareness.

A relationship is in truth a very complex animal. Let's take the example of a marriage. Both husband and wife should love each other and care for the other not for his or her own sake but for that of the other. I do not do for my wife only in order that I'll get back from her. I do because I truly care about her, and am interested in her happiness and well-being. (I realize we're talking on the fairy-tale level, but let us not lose sight of what a relationship and marriage ideally ought to be. Many of us actually got married once upon a time with that in mind... ;-)

At the same time, let us say, that I, the ideal selfless husband, care for my wife for her sake alone, but she doesn't care a fig for me. In fact, she is in it only for herself -- in getting what she can out of my sizable paycheck (fortunately couldn't be the case in my marriage...). Or even worse: she ignores me altogether, paying no attention to my love and devotion. In being so selfless, am I building a relationship? Or am I just sacrificing myself, wasting my very essence on an uncaring human being?

Giving to another without getting in return is not a relationship. It is meaningless self-sacrifice. It does not build you and bring you closer to the other in the way only a relationship can. Thus, if we were to serve G-d and actually *not* receive reward, we would not be building a relationship with Him at all no matter how selfless we would be. We would be in some sort of miserable, hopeless master-slave relationship. It would have no meaning, and no matter how many mitzvos we would perform, we would never truly be getting closer to G-d.

Thus, for a relationship to be meaningful, both sides must be doing for and responding to the other. I must know that G-d responds to my service and rewards in kind. Yet, at the same time, to be a selfless and giving relationship, I must not be serving Him for that reason.

And there of course is the rub -- and the dilemma of our mishna. I must know that G-d rewards, but I must not serve Him on account of this. Thus, Antignos gave us no positive reason for serving G-d. I have a relationship with Him. I am not serving Him for *my* agenda at all, but simply because it is what the G-d I love wants. We must live that impossible paradigm of knowing that G-d rewards yet ignoring it all the same. And this is no small feat. Relationships are probably the most difficult -- and meaningful -- form of social interaction we have on this earth. Our relationship with G-d is not -- and should not be -- any less demanding.

(Part of the above based on a lecture heard from my teacher R. Yochanan Zweig (www.talmudicu.edu).)

For this reason, perhaps, Antignos' students were not able to come to grips with their teacher's message. If Judaism does reward, then we can serve G-d out of a selfish relationship. This is easy enough; it is how we conduct most of our relationships in life. If, however, we are told not to serve G-d for reward, it means we must serve Him for His sake. And we cannot truly do that -- being wholly selfless -- if we receive *any* kind of reward in return. Thus, taking their teacher's reasoning to its logical conclusion, there must *be* no reward -- unless we are being told to delude ourselves.

The students were unable to overcome this logical and emotional dilemma. And so, being unwilling to sacrifice themselves in true selflessness, they sought greener pastures -- in some of the many other alluring and selfish "relationships" the world has to offer. The poetic but not- terribly-encumbering Scripture would allay their guilt pangs. But these students were out for their own good and their own pleasures -- and tragically paved the route to be taken by so many other wayward Jews over the centuries -- who would fail to recognize the true wonder and meaning of Judaism.

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"Shimon the Righteous was of the last survivors of the Men of the Great Assembly. He used to say, the world is based upon three things: on Torah, on service [of G-d], and on acts of kindness."

Shimon the Righteous served as High Priest in the early Second Temple period. As our mishna attests, he lived at the end of the period of the Great Assembly. Placing him in historical context, the Talmud records that he led the Jewish delegation to greet Alexander the Great upon his conquest of the Holy Land (Yoma 69a). As we will see in coming weeks, with his passing yet another transition occurs in Jewish religious history -- from the period of the Great Assembly to the period of the "pairs".

This mishna discusses what is perhaps the most fundamental question of Judaism -- and really of life: What is the purpose of the world? What is the world "based upon" -- meaning, what underlying objectives did the L-rd have in creating it? Did G-d create the world to operate of its own momentum, handing over its reins and fate to mankind? Or does G-d have His own agenda in creation, and the world exists -- and continues to exist -- only insofar as it furthers G-d's Divine plan? And just what is that Divine plan? Why exactly did G-d create mankind, and what are we to do about it?

Needless to say, such questions are not the sort we can answer in a single essay or in any limited amount of space. G-d's Master Plan is not something which can be explained in logical and straightforward analysis, nor can it probably be fully understood by human beings altogether. Yet Shimon the Righteous, in one short sentence, hints to some truly profound ideas, ones which will begin to lead us in the proper direction. We will attempt to gain some insight into his words in the coming paragraphs.

(Many of the ideas below are based on R. Moshe Chaim Luzzato's _The Way of G-d_. I'm going to attempt to quickly summarize a number of different concepts in Jewish thought below. In the interest of brevity (not one of my specialties ;-) we're going to have to keep it fairly superficial for now. In future classes, G-d willing, we will dwell on some of these themes at greater length.)

Jewish thinkers sum up G-d's creation of the world as follows: It was the ultimate act of goodness. G-d is perfect and infinite. He has no need for a universe; He has nothing to gain from creating mankind. Thus, we can only view creation as an act of altruism -- for the sake of man.

Further, if G-d is truly perfect, His acts must be viewed as acts of perfect goodness. G-d created man in order to have creatures upon whom He could bestow goodness. Creation was therefore the ultimate selfless act: G-d, who needs nothing, created a world in order to give man everything.

So let's ask an obvious question: If G-d wanted to grant good to man, why didn't He just place us directly in that place of heavenly reward, the World to Come? Give us good! Why did He place us in a world containing so much evil and temptation -- only promising us reward if we forgo all the "good stuff" and instead study His Torah and observe His commandments? Why the roundabout good? Why is G-d seemingly doing things the hard way?

The answer to this is a concept we can all appreciate deep down, yet which all the same must be grown into. It is what the Zohar and kabbalists refer to as "the bread of shame" ("nahama d'kisufa"). If G-d were to "reward" us for doing nothing it would not be reward; it would be humiliation. Receiving a handout is an embarrassing, mortifying experience. Getting something we did not earn does not make us feel good about ourselves. It makes us feel crushed, ashamed to show our faces in public. Try looking in the face of someone who did you an enormous favor. You'd much rather never have to see him again. If G-d were to give us what we did not earn, we would hardly feel "close" to Him. We would never be able to have any kind of meaningful relationship with G-d in the World to Come -- which is really what the World to Come is all about.

Thus, rather than handing us free "reward", G-d affords each of us the opportunity to earn it and become deserving of it. And this world is the place in which we do it. We are given commandments -- what to do and what not to do in order to forge a relationship with our L-rd. At the same time, the world is full of temptations, attempting to draw us away from our Divine calling. We must contend with our own lethargy, human passions and weaknesses, and all sorts of negative manners in which we might misuse our spiritual drives.

The entire physical world is thus in a state of equilibrium. Man is poised between the choices of good and evil -- constantly, throughout his lifetime. If he chooses good, he sanctifies himself and truly earns the ultimate reward which awaits him. If he chooses evil, he harms his own spirituality and distances himself from G-d and the ultimate purpose of creation. But G-d had to allow for the possibility of sin and evil in this world -- in spite of all its concomitant destruction. Without it, the choice of good would not be truly meaningful -- and would not be deserving of reward.

We have thus far explained the concept in our mishna of "service". G-d created man in order that man serve Him. Service ("avodah") is often used to refer more specifically to Temple service or to prayer, but more generally it means service of G-d in all its forms.

We next arrive at a related concept. G-d did not just create x billion individuals, commanding each of them to serve G-d in a vacuum. He did not create 5 (6?) billion mazes, promising each little human a piece of cheese for getting to the end. G-d created an entire world, in which individuals are interconnected -- into families, communities, nations, and societies -- who somehow must get along with one another.

This too is a part of man's cosmic mission. Spirituality does not lie in man's relationship with G-d alone. It resides in his behavior towards his fellow man as well. By caring for one another, by building meaningful relationships and harmonious societies, we serve G-d through our interactions within the world. Further, we create an entire world of peace and harmony, making it a reflection of the G-d of Truth and Peace who created it. Thus, by serving G-d, we not only improve ourselves but perfect the entire universe -- left unfinished by G-d for man to complete.

Thus, by fostering interpersonal relationships, man becomes deserving of reward on an entirely different plane -- not only for his personal accomplishments, but for fulfilling his cosmic mission to the universe and to G-d. And through this man upholds the second pillar of the world: "acts of kindness."

One more concept will complete this discussion. What is the ultimate reward G-d grants man in the World to Come? It is the ultimate good possible. What is the ultimate good? G-d Himself. The World to Come will allow us the infinite pleasure our souls truly crave (whether or not we recognize it smothered under so many corporeal layers down here): closeness to G-d. Observing the mitzvos (commandments) does not earn us "reward" which we "cash in" after 120 years. It sanctifies our souls, making us more G-dlike and able to enjoy a relationship with the Divine. The mitzvos condition us for closeness to G-d in the World to Come.

This concept is best appreciated through Torah study. It is the commandment which allows us more than any other to sense our closeness to G-d. We understand G-d's wisdom and values, and we begin building that relationship with Him right here and now. Ultimately, this is the purpose of all the commandments. But Torah study allows us that feeling in this world as well.

Thus, the true purpose of the world: that we serve G-d and earn reward, that we perfect G-d's creation as a whole through acts of kindness, and that we, via Torah study, develop ourselves into people who will one day enjoy the ultimate pleasure of closeness to G-d in the World to Come.

It's amazing and frightening that we go through so much of our days and lives giving little heed to such matters. But in truth, in a few short paragraphs we may begin to discern the pattern of G-d's universe. There is much more we will discover, G-d willing, over our years of study, but the basic pattern emerges almost from the start. And as the years go by, we will evermore continue to recognize that Judaism at its core is a religion of logic, of meaning, and of understanding of both G-d and mankind.

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Text Copyright © 2007 by Rabbi Dovid Rosenfeld and Torah.org.