Holy Thriving
A few posts back I wrote about the role of Mussar in bringing a human being to flourish. On that subject, I was once invited to a conference that took place at “The Institute for the Study of Human Flourishing” at the University of Oklahoma which has existed since 2015. When I was in college, we had courses in politics and literature and biology, not “human flourishing.” I see this as progress. The traditional university model focuses heavily on the intellect, but when “flourishing” or “thriving” are the goals, then every aspect of the person – the intellect and so much more – needs to be addressed, assessed and cultivated.
The same distinction applies to Judaism. In the recent past, and continuing into the present, there are many ways in which Jewish thought and practice over-emphasizes the intellect at the expense of other dimensions of human life. No doubt the intellect is great and hugely influential, but when it is given an outsized role in life, other essential human qualities are sidelined, and life turns out not to be satisfying, nor do individuals and communities flourish.
The “blame,” so to speak, can be laid at the feet of Rambam (Maimonides), who viewed the intellect (sekhel) as the highest human faculty and the means by which a person comes closest to God. His argument that the perfection of the intellect is the ultimate purpose of human life has had an enduring influence in the Jewish world.
And yet we have all run into very intelligent people of highly developed intellect who are obnoxious and ethically foul.
Another model is conveyed in a story that is told about Rabbi Yisrael Salanter. He was a great scholar of Talmud, which is perhaps the most intellectual activity that our species has ever developed. And yet when he learned the section of the Talmud (Gittin 45a) that rules that, “Captives are not redeemed for more than their [actual monetary] value, for the betterment of the world,” he suddenly burst into tears.
Rav Yerucham Levovitz, the Mussar supervisor of the pre-War Mir yeshiva, quotes that story and gives a pithy interpretation. What he wants to say is that Rav Yisrael had internalized the Torah and its values to such an extent that he responded to its laws not just intellectually but emotionally as well.
The Torah places extraordinary emphasis on life and redeeming captives saves people from mortal danger. Yet here the law states that we should not save a captive at any price. What’s the reasoning? Well, if we pay an exorbitant ransom to redeem one person, it will only make the business of capturing Jews more lucrative for our enemies. Ultimately, that will lead to even greater suffering for more people in the future.
Rav Yisrael learned this law and his heart cried out for the poor captive individual who might be killed because the community refused to pay an excessive ransom. But it broke as well for the potential future victims who would suffer on account of the opposite decision.
Between the urgent duty to rescue a captive right now and the risk that paying too high a price would endanger others in the future, there was no good option. Either way lay suffering. The intellect was of no help. Confronted by having to choose between two painful outcomes, weighing one person’s real suffering against other people’s possible suffering, his heart burst and tears flowed.
This is the extent to which Rav Yisrael felt other people’s suffering, something we can take to be characteristic of his flourishing as a human being. His heart was alive and intensely sensitive.
Once, when I was scholar in residence at a synagogue, the rabbi of the congregation introduced my sermon with a few words of his own. He asked, “What is the most important question asked in the Torah?” No one, including me, had an answer to that question and so he continued. We were in the week of parasha Vayeshev. Joseph was imprisoned in Egypt, where he meets the Pharaoh’s cupbearer and baker. One day, seeing their troubled faces, he asks: “Why do you appear sad today?” (Genesis 40:7).
“That,” said the rabbi, “is the most important question asked in the Torah.” He explained that it was in answer to that question that the cupbearer and baker told Joseph their dreams, which he then interpreted, and because of that, the men recommended him to Pharaoh to interpret his dreams, which in turn resulted in Joseph not only being freed from prison but elevated to a high position in Pharaoh’s government, so that he was in a position to receive and help his brothers, and that ultimately led to the redemption of the slaves from Egypt and the establishment of the Jewish people in their own land.
And it all began with attention to and awareness of the suffering of two individuals. History turned on “Why do you appear sad today?”
This sensitivity to others became a hallmark of Mussar.
On a trip to America to raise funds, Rabbi Dovid Budnik, rosh yeshiva of the Novardok yeshiva in Dvinsk, Latvia, addressed a group of distinguished rabbis just before Rosh Hashana. He asked them:
“Do any of you have anything to repent for?”
No one responded so Rav Dovid continued:
“You are eminent rabbis and you won’t have sinned. But you get up in the morning, you daven, then you have a cup of coffee and read the newspaper. There you see the suffering, the poverty, the tragedies, the troubles of other people—and what do you do? You have a sip of your coffee and turn the page. You have become accustomed to human suffering. You have allowed yourselves to become indifferent. For that you should repent.”
He was chastising them for being emotionally numb. A person can be exposed repeatedly to the pain of others and gradually lose the ability to feel that she or he has any sort of responsibility for the wellbeing of the other.
In Mussar thought, that loss of sensitivity undermines flourishing. Not only that, it is also a serious spiritual failing because it is an impediment to becoming holy. It’s another reflection on the limits of the intellect that we are unable to define holiness, since the Torah tells us that it is a quality of the divine (“You shall be holy because I, the Lord your God, am holy”), yet we can sense how unavoidable it is that holiness entail exquisite sensitivity to the needs and feelings of others. Could holiness possibly reside in the heart of a cruel or even an indifferent person?
How remarkably important to underline this in an era when hatred is rampant.
Alan