Pirkei Avot, Part 5: Serving Without Expecting a Reward

Antigonos — already a Greek name, which tells us we are in a period when Judaism and Hellenism live in a certain harmony. Ish Sokho: he is a man, a distinguished man from the region of Sokho, which lay in the territory of Yehudah. It was he who received the tradition from Shimon HaTzaddik, and he used to teach: “Do not be like servants who serve their master in order to receive a reward.” In fact the word peras is usually translated as “reward,” but it means rather “compensation,” because the Hebrew word for reward is sakhar. We will see why that matters. “Do not be like servants who serve their master in order to receive peras” — but be like servants: servants, still and always.

Take note: this notion of the eved (servant) never leaves us. “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt,” and we are now servants of Hashem, servants of the Eternal. We have set aside our free will, but consciously […], and what gives value, in a way, to our choice is that we expect nothing from this divine service. But the text concludes: vihi mora shamayim aleikhem — “and let the fear of Heaven be upon you.” We do not know what this ending is meant to signify; in Avot de-Rabbi Natan it is completed with the words “so that your reward be doubled in the World to Come.” This, then, is the teaching of Antigonos of Sokho, who left us no other teaching than this one, even though he is a link in the chain of the Oral Tradition. But we understand him: he is quite simply a chassid and not a tzaddik. A chassid is one who acts lifnim mi-shurat ha-din, beyond what justice demands. Kibbel mi-Shimon ha-Tzaddik — he received, then, from Shimon HaTzaddik: Shimon was the tzaddik, the righteous one; he is the chassid, the pious one.

So what are they teaching us — that there is nothing to expect from the service of G-d? Is that possible? The Torah speaks of wages reserved for the righteous, and not in a future world, but in the immediate present. Consider: “If you walk in My statutes… I will give your rains in their season, the land will yield its produce,” you will dwell securely in your land, I will drive all your enemies from your borders. And we know very well that even the honoring of parents, which had no need of being motivated by a reward, carries the words: “Honor your father and your mother… so that your days may be prolonged and so that it may go well with you” — that is in the second version of the Ten Commandments. And in the second paragraph of the Shema, you know it too: if you show love of G-d, “I will give the rain of your land in its season,” and you will gather in your grain, your wine and your oil; but if you do not obey My commandments, “He will shut up the heavens and there will be no rain, and the ground will not yield its produce” (Devarim 11:17).

So, without reviewing all the texts, there truly is a relationship between the mitzvah and its immediate reward. But a distinction must be made. When the Sages affirm that there is no reward for the mitzvot in this world, it is because how could a spiritual value be repaid with a material compensation — a material pleasure that is fleeting and dispiriting? Certainly, the fulfillment of the mitzvot has value only in the World to Come. But this concerns the individual. For the individual there is no reward for the mitzvot in this world. For the collective of Israel, yes, there is — if you will, an immediate response, a wage; and here the word used is sakhar and not peras. And this sakhar engages all the generations. That is why either we are settled on the land and enjoy the fruits of the land and peace on our borders, or else — G-d forbid — the land spews out its inhabitants and we are scattered among a thousand nations, objects of persecution and hatred. And here the text warns us, already in the Ten Commandments, that sin passes from generation to generation, and that G-d reckons the sin of the first generation upon the second, the third and the fourth — but that is on the collective level. On the individual level,

each person is responsible for his good deeds and his misdeeds; but it is G-d who decides when justice actually intervenes. So there is, if you like, a divine justice that is carried out — it has to be earned — but there is also what Antigonos teaches us on the individual level. Take note: the purpose of the mitzvah is the mitzvah itself; the joy we gather in fulfilling it is sufficient in itself. You know very well that, so far, Shimon HaTzaddik has taught us that the world rests on three pillars. We have seen the Torah on one side: in the Torah we indeed seek knowledge. In gemilut chasadim (acts of loving-kindness) there is this willed interdependence, because no one can do without others. The problem arises quite simply in man’s relationship with G-d. In this relationship of man with G-d, how are we to conceive it? Is it in the perspective of avot u-vanim, father and child, or of adon ve-eved, master and servant?

On Rosh Hashanah we say Ha-yom harat olam, “Today the world was conceived,” and it is the Day of Judgment — “whether as children or as servants.” In other words, it is as sons or as servants that we address Him: Avinu Malkenu, He is at once our Father and at once our King. When He is our King, we are His subjects. When He is our Father, we are His children. And these are two entirely distinct relationships, which have been brought to light through narrative. You know it, you remember that aggadah of Choni, whom the community, in a time of distress, asked to pray for rain. He drew a circle around himself, placed himself inside it and said to G-d: I will not move from here unless You answer my request and give rain immediately.

So the rain began little by little, drop by drop, and he said: no, that is not enough. Then it came in torrents, and he said: no, this will destroy the crops. And finally he obtained rains of blessing. Then Shimon ben Shetach — the “Litvak” of the day — said to Choni HaMe’agel: had you not been conducting yourself toward the Holy One, blessed be He, as a son, I would have excommunicated you. But what can I do with you, who behave like a pampered child before the Omnipresent? Happy is the mother who gave birth to you, since you have only to throw your arms around His neck and He hears your prayer. Two or three similar stories are repeated, and Choni HaMe’agel appeals to the miracle: he asks for an immediate change in the laws of nature.

If he draws circles around himself, it is to say to G-d: You have fixed immutable laws; well, I have decided not to move from where I am until You break the vicious circle of those laws and perform a miracle. I think we immediately make the connection with the prayers we ask others to offer on our behalf to the Holy One, blessed be He — for a sick person, for a child we are waiting for, for a difficult situation, especially in these times, is it not so? Such prayer is justified, and we are hoping for something that lies beyond justice, as the name Choni itself indicates: something gratuitous. And at the opposite pole from Choni HaMe’agel there is Chanina ben Dosa. Chanina ben Dosa wants no miracles; he lives in utter poverty. It is told that on the eve of Shabbat his wife would light the fire and put in a few twigs of wood so that smoke would rise and it would look as though she were preparing for Shabbat. But she had a wicked neighbor who one day said: “But they have nothing! I’m going to see what she is preparing.” She comes in, and she sees that the oven is indeed full of bread. And the wife of Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa, who witnesses this and who thought she would be put to shame and lose face before her neighbor, becomes an object of blessing. But the great Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa himself, in his poverty, wants to know nothing of it: a handful of carobs suffices him, me-erev Shabbat le-erev Shabbat, from one Shabbat eve to the next.

Why? Because he refuses to tie his divine service to anything concrete. So what are we to make of this saying? How are we to interpret this saying of Antigonos of Sokho? In reality, the two parameters of love and fear are both put forward by the Torah: to fear the Eternal your G-d and to serve Him; to love the Eternal your G-d and to serve Him. Love is the way of a child; fear is that of the servant. How are love and fear — ahavah and yir’ah — to be combined? You know that in the prayer books of the past the Divine Name was written with two yuds, and people asked themselves, and still ask, why these two yuds came to replace the Divine Name in the prayer book.

And the answer is that the first yud is the yud of the Name that speaks of being, of love: at the basis of creation there is, first of all, love. And the last yud is the yud of the Name Adnut, which means “the Master”; it ends with a yud. So when we interlace the Name of being with the Name of mastery, we have a first yud, which belongs to the one Name, and a last yud, which belongs to the other. And in sum, what our Sages suggest is indeed gilu bi-re’adah, “rejoice with trembling” — that this love should not turn into familiarity, at times verging on vulgarity:

an offhand way of speaking with the Divine. For a son allows himself a great deal with his parents that he would not allow himself before a king. It is the two, joined together, that make true divine service. Let us return now to Antigonos of Sokho, and to his “not in order to receive a reward.” Several commentators supposed that Antigonos meant: do not be like slaves who serve G-d in expectation of wages; serve Him out of love, expecting nothing. Now, out of love, what one wants is to please the person one loves. And so we must see to it that our service be acceptable, that it find favor before the Eternal.

Those who opted for this interpretation were troubled by the notion of “servant.” Yet “greater is the service of Torah than its study”: serving a master is greater than the teaching one gathers from him. Because there the teaching rubs up against the reality of life. There are many things to learn; an adaptation takes place, and there is even a desire to go beyond the letter through the spirit. So those who set aside this love to which Antigonos supposedly referred — since he does not speak of it — put the emphasis on avadim, servants. We are avadim, we are servants. Indeed, we were compelled at Mount Sinai to take the Law, to adopt it; otherwise, one may say, that Mount Sinai was going to bury us. And that is why the first law that comes after the Ten Commandments is ki tikneh eved ivri, “when you acquire a Hebrew servant.” Did the Torah have nothing to speak of but the Hebrew servant? No — it was to highlight that this servant, just as the world regains its freedom of being on Shabbat, likewise: six years he shall work, and in the seventh year he must recover his freedom. For this notion of being a servant to a servant must be abolished: there are only servants of Hashem.

“For the children of Israel are servants to Me; they are My servants”: My people Israel belongs to Me as a servant. And notice that we speak here in the first person, just as the text itself does. There is no generality; there is a dependence, a close-knit relationship between G-d and His servant. He is the Adon, the Master. That, incidentally, is why we say — I don’t know whether you have ever reflected on it — A-donai: “my masters,” not “my master,” for had it been “my master” I would have said Adoni. But since we refer at once to the G-d of creation and the G-d of revelation, to the G-d of physical law and the G-d of moral law, we join them in the attribute of A-donai, in the plural. So this notion of the eved clings to our skin; but the fact that we were chosen to serve the cause we serve is sufficient in itself. Professor Leibowitz took as his reference for yir’at Hashem, the fear of G-d, the fear that was attributed to Avraham after he agreed to lay his only son Yitzchak on the altar — and this for the salvation of all humanity.

Now we know the Akedah of Yitzchak, which we invoke on behalf of the descendants. We know very well that Yitzchak is ketz chai: ketz means a limit, but it is a living limit — that is, a cycle that engenders another cycle, into infinity. That is how the Jewish people survives in every age. And this is the answer that Antigonos opposes here to the Greek philosophy of the time: philosophy deals only in generalities; ours is not a philosophy, it is a lived experience. And this experience with G-d we carry with the sole desire of serving a cause that is lifnim mi-shurat ha-din, beyond the strict laws of justice; and consequently we do not seek immediate compensation. That does not mean — the Talmud points this out — that one who gives charity so that his son may recover, or who studies in order to be called “Rabbi,” or who prays in order to be rich [is to be rejected]: the fulfillment of the mitzvah in itself, the purpose of the mitzvah, remains valid. It is not rejected for all that; but it is not the ideal. That is what he is telling us, and that is why he repeats himself — the Maharal insists on this — and says it twice: Al tihyu ka-avadim ha-meshamshin et ha-rav al menat lekabbel peras, “Do not be like servants who serve their master in expectation of a reward.” The Rambam, here, says: take care — a child, you cannot tell him “study this” or “do that” without promising him something in exchange.

When a person is still small and still attached to material life, it is better to educate him in that way, promising him sweets, games, and later other rewards suited to his level; and one should also hold up before him the fear of punishment. But that is not the main thing. The most important is the second phrase — and the second phrase is the fear of sin, the fear of transgressing. And that is why he says: if you want to pass to a higher stage, heyu ka-avadim ha-meshamshin et ha-rav shelo al menat lekabbel peras — so be like servants who expect nothing in return. But he himself perceived that there was a difficulty here, a danger.

Indeed, Antigonos of Sokho had two disciples, Tzadok and Baitos. Tzadok stood at the head of the Sadducee movement, as his name indicates — a movement that did not recognize the existence of Olam ha-Ba, the World to Come, that rejected the idea of techiyat ha-metim, the resurrection of the dead, and said to itself: […] there is nothing, there is nothing to expect, so why go on serving? These are, in sum, the first beginnings of Christianity, which start with Tzadok and Baitos, since they would later […], given that they would reject the Law — the principle of the Oral Law. Now here we have said that serving is more important than studying, and so for them this practice led nowhere; it was better to build man as he is. And here there is indeed a fundamental distinction from philosophy as a whole — namely the philosophy that says: if G-d does not exist, man is worth nothing, the world is nauseating. Sartre was a proponent of this philosophy. We, on the contrary, say: if G-d exists, man beside Him can only serve His design. And consequently he must apply himself to His word, to His precepts — and that is vihi mora shamayim aleikhem. That is the conclusion of the teaching: if you truly, truly follow this path and adopt it, as Chanina ben Dosa did — whose only teaching left to us is “Anyone whose fear of sin precedes his wisdom, his wisdom endures” — anyone in whom the fear of sin, of deviation, precedes his knowledge, his wisdom, then his chokhmah has a foundation; otherwise his chokhmah [does not endure]. For we say, “Believe that there is wisdom among the nations”: wisdom that would be shared even with the other nations can enjoy no special consideration, because what is expected of this disinterested service is vihi mora shamayim aleikhem.

In the Passover Haggadah we say: “‘And with great awe’ — this is the revelation of the Shekhinah.” The fear of G-d is the revelation of His Divine Presence. So what does vihi mora shamayim aleikhem mean? It is a third dimension of yir’ah. We have seen yir’at ha-onesh, the fear of punishment; we have seen yir’at chet, the fear of sin. And the third dimension is the awe of the sublime, that sublime which gazes upon us. For however much we may want to reduce everything to the rational — and there are moments when we come to formulate wishes, to pray, to hope — the one who is conscious of G-d’s omnipresence, of His nearness, vihi mora shamayim aleikhem, becomes the object of a revelation. And it is a permanent joy, a permanent joy; that is what characterizes man. The animal enjoys; it has moments of satisfaction, of pleasure offered to it. But the servant of G-d — his simchah, his joy, is not the kind that drowns itself in the pleasures of life; it is the kind that lets him feel a presence, a hashgachah, a providence, all along his path. The road is arduous. There are many, many snares, many trials.

But on the collective level, for the future of the people as a whole, even if we ourselves as individuals do not have the satisfactions we hoped for, it is never lost — it adds up. And that is what makes us go on, against wind and tide, surviving every misfortune, even in dispersion, while our strength is reduced, considerably. We nevertheless manage to transmit, because what we seek to hand on is that Abrahamic faith of which it is said: “Now I know that you are one who fears G-d” — when Avraham heard from the mouth of G-d that he was yere Hashem, one who fears G-d, and no longer “Avraham, who loves Me,” no longer Avraham who loves G-d — when he brought his offering and laid his son on the altar […]. We have laid on the altar not a single child, but many children […]. Yet our strength lies in the fact that we have never sought immediate compensation […].

We have continued to serve humanity [without] nursing hatred and feelings of revenge. You know, […] the Jewish people’s [blessings] are also set out as curses. This parashah is called tokhachah, rebuke — tokhachah, the word for rebuke, derives from the word hokhachah, proof: if you will, the proof of the virtues at our disposal. […] Dispersion, a loss of energy, is never for the sake of punishment. Punishment exists only for the sake of an improvement of being, a re-creation, a reconstitution — and that, in a sense, is the genius of the people of Israel. I will stop here and leave you a few minutes for your questions.

— Hello, Mr. Benizri. Éric Slupovsky. Thank you for your lecture. I would simply like to make a small remark about last session’s lecture, because I was able to watch it later thanks to the website of the Maison de la Culture Juive. And I would very much like to thank you for your lectures, which truly leave their mark on us and which we find very interesting. But I would also like to thank you for a message you convey to us, sometimes directly and sometimes between the lines: a humanism, an openness to the other and respect for him, which is sadly so lacking today in the religious authorities of Israel, or even in the religious political parties we know. It is deplorable to see the way these parties or these rabbinic authorities sometimes behave toward Ethiopian Jews, the Falashas and the Falash Mura, or toward foreigners who come to seek asylum among us.

It pains me greatly. And your teaching brings me closer to a Judaism from which those authorities have distanced me for decades. That said, I wanted to ask you a question related to something you said this evening, namely that creation is love. In that sense it is clear that we are all moved by love. But in what way does G-d Himself need the love of human beings, or in what way does He need to give us love? He is G-d; He is not in a relationship in which He needs something or needs to give something. How would you answer this? — G-d needs to make partners. He needs nothing. Indeed, it makes no difference to G-d whether you eat kosher or do not eat kosher; it matters only to you yourself. Insofar as you are in fact looking for a way to overcome your weaknesses, then a code is given to you to help you. Now, in the same way that G-d remains beyond the reach of every human being, this teaching nonetheless has to be carried to everyone, but at different ages, as we do with our children: to each child his portion, his ration […] — one cannot reduce it entirely to that. To give this teaching of a transcendent G-d to a child who wants something concrete, something that clings to reality — well, that is precisely our situation in the world with respect to the rest of humanity.

G-d is the Creator of the whole universe; He loves all His creatures and brought them into the world. And He wants us, indeed, to be His spokesmen. As such, we were chosen, and we constitute within ourselves a mosaic of all the other peoples. Look at this people today, which finds itself with a mosaic of cultures from the different regions it comes from. It would be wonderful if we managed to show that this mosaic is capable of forming a beautiful philharmonic ensemble. Then it will be for all the nations of the world to learn the lesson. — Yes. Yes. There is still a great deal of work to do. — Listen, it is not enough. It does not happen in a day.

[…] We have come a long way. Even to those who fight us, we have given life. — Yes, I think this is truly a very, very beautiful lesson in humanism, as you have always taught us, Mr. Benizri. I remember that the word that always came back in your lectures was “transcendence” — speaking of transcendence and of each person’s conduct, toward others and toward himself. That is what I retain from all these years of study: a form of transcendence of man in his conduct. And I believe that even now you still transmit this notion to us. Thank you. — And is it “Antignos” of Sokho? — No, it is not “Antigone.”

And as for this name: it is Antigonos — not “Antigone” — Antigonos of Sokho. That is to say, there is no mention of “Rabbi,” no mention of any title […]. We have been taught “greater than Rav is Rabbi, greater than Rabbi is Rabban,” and greater than Rabban is one’s name alone — you know there is a hierarchy. First Rav, then Rabbi, then Rabban, and then there is no more title. Rav is the small title of a teacher facing his student. Rabbi is when the student has already adopted him and refers to him; he becomes his Rabbi, “my master.” Rabban is when he is the master of a whole group, of a community that recognizes itself in him. But when he becomes the reference for all of humanity, he does not even have the title Rabban: his name alone suffices.

Another question. — If I may take the floor — I would like to leave room for others — but since you often speak of miracles: many people believe that miracles just happen like that, which is of course a rather simplistic idea of miracles. But speaking of miracles, there is a figure who performed many miracles, and I would like your opinion on him. It is the Baba Sali. My whole childhood was steeped in stories of the Baba Sali, and I know that the Baba Sali was Moroccan, like you, and I would like to know your opinion: how did the Baba Sali really perform miracles? Was it through his holiness?

I was reading about him today; he is a very intriguing figure for me, all the more so since it is said that my father received the blessing of the Baba Sali, which assured his survival a few days after his circumcision. So this Baba Sali is a particularly important figure for me. — Listen, these rabbis who performed miracles — that is precisely why I did not want to refer to them; I referred to Choni HaMe’agel. I took another figure, I took Choni HaMe’agel. And you know, there are two aspects here. These are wonderful men who, in order to save someone, agreed to give, to sacrifice a part of themselves. You know the story: on the eve of Sukkot, the Baal Shem Tov had not found an etrog (citron); he was searching for one. And then he was told: there is someone who has found an etrog, who brought it from very far away. Can he sell it to me? He sends his attendants, who promise that man the moon if he will only give up his etrog to the Baal Shem Tov; and the man refuses, he does not want to. He says: on one condition only will I give it to him — if he gives up to me his Olam ha-Ba, his share in the World to Come.

So the Baal Shem Tov accepts: “I sign it over to you — I cede you my Olam ha-Ba.” And the Baal Shem Tov goes on to dance with this etrog on the day of Sukkot: “Now that I have even sold my Olam ha-Ba, I am happy, because now I truly have the proof that I do not serve G-d out of any self-interest, but solely to fulfill His will.” And G-d’s will is indeed to answer the expectation of all His creatures, to allow this world to endure. And these people, these tzaddikim who performed miracles — who am I to pass any judgment whatsoever? But it is a fact that they brought relief to many people. But you know, there is another problem.

One day the grandson of Choni HaMe’agel was likewise renowned — because, you know, this was passed down from father to son, was it not — for performing miracles. Well, the son too performs miracles, the grandson performs miracles; among the Admorim and among the Babas, it all comes together. And so this grandson — or rather great-grandson — was asked: Aristobulus wants you to come and pray for his success, so that he may triumph over his brother Antigonus. Since you perform miracles and have satisfied so many people, well, here too you must perform a miracle for him. Knowing that if he prayed for one, he would put the other brother in difficulty, he refused — and the people stoned him, and he died of it.

This is to say that there is a drawback in appealing to such miracles. First of all, it encourages laziness of mind and a regression of spirituality. Because if, by asking for a blessing, you can lay claim to such-and-such a good, then it becomes a barter. Now the wages of a reward are meant to enable you to do another mitzvah, to enable you to fulfill yourself further. But when you have obtained that, it has not fully helped you to fulfill yourself. You obtained what you wanted, but nothing more. Do you see? So that is why Shimon ben Shetach did not accept that Choni HaMe’agel address G-d to demand rain. No — because it was up to the people to call itself into question, to multiply its prayers, to mend its ways, and to become worthy of its rains.

Not through the intermediary of someone who is unique in his generation; rather, the whole people had to be raised up toward this reward. That is the reason — and this is important in the teaching of Antigonos of Sokho. Of course, this leaves the door open; we have not resolved the problem between those who today go to the grave of the Rebbe of Breslov and, in joy and dance, seek to draw the Rebbe’s blessing upon themselves, notably at the hilulot (anniversary celebrations at a tzaddik’s grave), and those who in a sense keep their distance and try instead to fulfill themselves on their own. If they never obtain what they want — so much the better if they do not obtain it. At least it remains a point of reference for their children, for their grandchildren, because nothing — as I said earlier — nothing is lost. There we are. Another question?

— Just many thanks. […] Thank you very much for the lecture. Are there no more questions? Please. Until next week — until next week, until next week. Thank you very much, goodbye — and let us hold on to these words of humanism.