On Education and Educators (Column 419)

With God’s help

Disclaimer: This post was translated from Hebrew using AI (ChatGPT 5 Thinking), so there may be inaccuracies or nuances lost. If something seems unclear, please refer to the Hebrew original or contact us for clarification.

This column is dedicated to my dear daughter Rivka, may she live and be well,

with wishes for success in her studies at the ‘Drisha’ Yeshiva.

These thoughts were refined with her help, and I hope they will be implemented by me and by her.

This past Simchat Torah, during the hakafot in our parking-lot minyan, the carrying of the Torah scrolls was distributed among the congregants as is customary. At some point they announced it was the turn of “educators who have not yet carried a scroll,” and among others they called my name. It’s hard to describe the sense of insult I felt upon hearing this annoying classification (but I worked on my character traits and said nothing. I hope none of my good-intentioned neighbors read these columns). To call me an “educator”?! Unthinkable! After I cooled down a bit, I set out to clarify why this title sounded so insulting and irritating to me. The answer I reached is set out here in this column.

I apologize in advance for words that may hurt some people, but in my estimation this is the truth and it is proper to put it on the table. In what follows I will note various implications of this view, and from there it will also be clearer why it is important to discuss it. This is also an opportunity to respond to Avraham’s request to lay out my approach regarding the proper form of education. I won’t really lay it out here, but at the end I will devote a few words to that as well.

A brief preface on the mitzvah of education

As is known, the Sages instituted an obligation (rabbinic; see Sukkah 2b, end) to educate our children. Its parameters are not unambiguous, and it appears in the Talmud in a very incidental and unsystematic manner. Already in the Talmud itself, and afterwards among the Rishonim, there are disputes and contradictions on questions such as whether the obligation is also on the mother or only on the father, whether there is an obligation to educate girls or only boys, the ages for education, its form, and so on.

A fundamental dispute between Rashi and Tosafot concerns the very nature of the mitzvah of education (see for example in Kehillot Yaakov to Sukkah, §2). According to Rashi (Berakhot 20a), it is a commandment placed upon the parents to educate their child to fulfill the commandments when he grows up and becomes obligated in them. But Tosafot (Berakhot 48a) disagree and hold that there is a rabbinic obligation upon the minor himself to fulfill commandments. The practical implication is regarding a minor reciting Birkat HaMazon: can he discharge the obligation for an adult who is rabbinically obligated? If there is a rabbinic obligation on the minor himself, as Tosafot understand, then a rabbinic (derabbanan) can discharge a rabbinic. But according to Rashi, the minor is not obligated even rabbinically, since the obligation is on his parents; therefore he cannot discharge an adult who is himself obligated rabbinically to recite it.

One can hang these two understandings on two meanings of the term “chinuch” (education) itself. In the common meaning, education means teaching and preparing the minor for performing his role when he grows up. He must be taught and imbued with his halakhic and moral duties. This is a preparatory stage before the thing itself, and this is apparently the meaning of “chinuch” according to Rashi. The second meaning is like “the dedication (inauguration) of the altar”—that is, the beginning of the very activity. In this sense, to “inaugurate” something means to start its normal operation (and not to do something prior to it). This is apparently the meaning of “chinuch” according to Tosafot.

Kehillot Yaakov there notes that even according to Tosafot there is an obligation on the parents to educate their son; however, in their view there is an additional rule in chinuch, namely a rabbinic obligation upon the minor himself. He wonders there: whence did Tosafot derive two such distinct obligations, and why is this detailed nowhere? In my article in Middah Tovah, Nitzavim–Vayelech 5767, I argued that these are two faces of the familiar mitzvah of chinuch—two sides of the same coin: there is a rabbinic obligation upon the minor himself to fulfill commandments. But since the minor is not yet mature and lacks the responsibility to understand that he must perform his duties (hence he is biblically exempt), the Sages place responsibility upon the parents to ensure that he indeed does so.[1]

Education for adults

Seemingly the mitzvah of chinuch was stated only regarding small children (under bar/bat mitzvah age). But that is not necessary, and in my view not reasonable either. I will illustrate through a well-known analysis among the Acharonim concerning a minor who comes of age in the middle of the Omer count or in the middle of Yom Kippur. The question is whether he must begin counting or fasting from when he becomes an adult. Usually this is tied to the question whether the mitzvah of Yom Kippur is defined as a separate mitzvah for each and every moment (and the Omer as a separate mitzvah for each and every day)—in which case, of course, during the moments/days he is an adult he must fulfill the mitzvot before him—or whether it is one continuous mitzvah, and since he did not fulfill it until now, he has already lost it and there is no point in beginning it mid-way.

As I explained in Column 192 (see also in Column 414), I do not accept that claim. In my opinion, even if it is one continuous mitzvah, the minor who becomes an adult mid-way is obligated to continue, because even as a minor he was already fulfilling it by virtue of chinuch. True, chinuch is only rabbinic and ostensibly there was no fulfillment of the biblical mitzvah; nevertheless, he must continue for two reasons: (1) The requirement of continuity is grounded in the definition of the concept (“counting,” or “fast”) and not in the definition of the halakhic obligation. If he fasted from the beginning of the fast—even if that was only rabbinically—the continuation of the fast constitutes a fast (for he actually fasted a full day), and therefore he must do so. According to this, the one who came of age now fulfills a biblical mitzvah from here on. (2) The continuity requirement relates to the mitzvah, not to the factual plane, yet he still must continue by virtue of chinuch, for even when he grows up there remains upon him an obligation of chinuch. If he does so, then at least on the rabbinic plane one can say he fasted, since he did so by virtue of chinuch for an entire day. According to this explanation, from here on he fulfills the mitzvah only rabbinically (despite being an adult).

The reason chinuch is usually defined for minors is that once they come of age they are biblically obligated in the commandments and therefore there is no point in defining for them a mitzvah of chinuch (in either of the above meanings). But in a case like this—where he cannot fulfill the biblical mitzvah even after coming of age (because of the requirement of continuity)—there is no reason to assume that chinuch does not apply to him. He is no worse than a minor, and if the Sages obligate a minor to fulfill commandments rabbinically, they likely obligate an adult who is not biblically obligated to do so as well. Of course it is easier and more natural to claim this according to Tosafot, who hold that the obligation of chinuch is on the minor himself, but one can argue it even according to Rashi.

What is an “educator”?

Let me return to my wounded feelings. Seemingly, I really am an educator. I am engaged in Torah teaching, and every teacher, as is known, is also a “mechanech” (educator). True, in my case it is generally before “big kids” (students or adults), but essentially it is quite similar. As we have seen, the mitzvah of chinuch can also be defined in relation to adults. It thus seems the crux is not in the audience’s age but in the essence of the act itself. Among us it is common to identify learning with education, or at least to see learning as part of the educational act. But I think this is mistaken.

First, we saw that education concerns what comes before life—as a preparation for it. Learning, however, is a task meant to accompany us throughout our lives. Beyond that (and closely related): the educator’s role is to instill in the pupil values and proper modes of conduct and behavior. To do this, he teaches those values and persuades him in various ways to adhere to them. Yet his fundamental role is the instilling, not the learning. In the educational process, learning serves the instilling.

To sharpen this further, let us examine philosophical ethics instruction. There is a famous witticism about the Greek philosopher who researched and taught ethics and, when caught in unworthy acts, explained that he is a lecturer in ethics and need not adhere in his behavior to ethical values—just as a mathematician who teaches and researches mathematics need not be a triangle. This story is often brought as a joke or to condemn philosophers who do not practice their own doctrine, but to me it correctly describes the role of a researcher and lecturer in philosophy. I would criticize his behavior—as I would criticize anyone who behaves unethically—but the fact that he engages in research or teaching ethics neither adds nor detracts in that regard. A researcher in ethics is to clarify ethical issues and reach conclusions, irrespective of whether he practices them in his personal life.

That is for the researcher. The same applies to one who teaches ethics (e.g., a university lecturer in ethics). He too is not required to any particular behavior by virtue of his role, for his concern is the transmission of knowledge and intellectual modes of analysis. The goals of the researcher and the lecturer lie on the cognitive plane, not the behavioral one. Moreover, even for his students, the aim of a teacher or lecturer is not to direct their behavior but to teach them the field—that is, its knowledge and the established modes of thought and analysis. If the students do not behave ethically, that is not the lecturer’s failure, but perhaps that of their educators and parents, and mainly their own. Only if they acted so due to lack of knowledge or understanding in ethics would that be the lecturer’s failure—but that should not be considered a personal-educational failure; rather a failure in learning and knowledge transmission. If they know and yet do not act accordingly, that is an educational failure, not a learning one.

So who bears the task of shaping the pupils’ ethical behavior? Their educator (and the parents, in their capacity as educators). Indeed, the educator who wishes to create ethical behavior in his pupils also needs ethical analysis and the study of values, issues, and methods of thinking and analysis; but these are tools that serve him in striving toward his foundational aim: forming proper conduct. In the educational process, learning is a means, not an end (except in an educational process whose aim is to educate for learning and its importance; that is not our concern here).

In my article about the role of academia, I sided with the unpopular position of the Hebrew University’s Department of Jewish Thought—there dubbed the philological-historical approach—which sees the role of the lecturer and researcher as clarifying and analyzing ideas without dealing with their instillation and their existential meanings for students. This distinction is similar to what I describe here. A lecturer is not supposed to be an educator, and it is not his job to deal with the existential ramifications of the ideas he teaches. He should focus on teaching the ideas themselves. A beit midrash or school should also deal with instillation, with the existential meanings of those ideas, and with ways to implement them. He engages in research and teaching; they engage in education.

In the controversy at the Hebrew University there was another approach, according to which part of the lecturer’s role is to educate the students and bring them to implement the ideas learned. Even if I accept that a lecturer may choose to engage in this, we should agree this ought not be the core aim of a lecturer in philosophy or Jewish thought. For an academic lecturer, such engagement can be a means that helps students better understand the ideas. Perhaps one can “hitch a ride” on the learning and also try to educate alongside it—but these are two different pursuits. Such a lecturer must understand that in doing this he dons a different hat. Here he is acting not as a lecturer but as an educator. Being an educator is a positive and important role, but it is not the lecturer’s mandate. We can debate whether a lecturer should “waste” academic time on education, and whether he has a mandate to engage in education when he is paid to teach and when students come to him to learn, not to be educated. But even if we accept that it is legitimate, we must concede it is not his core task. He volunteers to perform an additional (important) task different from his task as lecturer and researcher.

For my part, I also favor separating the tasks. I oppose agendas in academia (as far as possible), at least when this is not done transparently (i.e., when the lecturer presents his view rather than all positions and the arguments for and against each). The price of academic purism like mine is the severing of lecturers from tasks that may seem important and beneficial to us, such as educating for ethical behavior. This is true even when I agree with the lecturer’s stance, and all the more so when I disagree with the “educational” directions he chooses. Let him focus on transmitting knowledge and skill—that is his mandate. Values are not the mandate of academics. Give to the educator what is his, and to the lecturer and researcher what is theirs.[2] But that is merely my personal view.

The same distinction from another angle: “Adorn yourself first”

It is customary to demand of one who tries to move another person to action that he himself behave in the manner he demands of others. When I rebuke someone, he often retorts that I too act that way—in effect saying to me, “Adorn yourself first.” Is there substance to this demand? In my opinion, no. If Reuven scolds Shimon for improper behavior, Shimon should examine his words on their merits. If he discovers he was indeed wrong, he must mend his ways regardless of Reuven’s conduct. If Reuven himself is lacking in that matter, it is on Reuven to mend his ways; it is not a condition for his ability to rebuke Shimon.

Psychologically, we are built such that we do not accept rebuke from one who himself is not clean in the matter. But that is a psychological bug, not a substantive issue (no one is perfect). Therefore it is indeed advisable that we correct ourselves before rebuking others—and of course even without rebuking others—but that is only so that our rebuke will be received. It is a recommendation for the psychological effectiveness of rebuke, not an essential requirement. My being “fixed” is not a condition for my “right” to rebuke another, simply because I do not need a right to rebuke. The rebuke should be judged on its own merits, not by the question whether the rebuker has the “right” to say it.

We can formulate it thus. Rebuke can have two aims: (1) Cognitive-intellectual: to explain to the other how one ought and ought not behave. (2) Educational: to persuade him to act this way rather than that. Aim (1) does not depend on my being personally improved in the matter about which I rebuke my friend. But the chances of achieving aim (2) certainly do depend on that (unfortunately; as noted, it is a human bug).[3]

This distinction helps sharpen the difference between an educator and a lecturer. The rebuker serves in two roles: lecturer and educator. The lecturer transmits information, and that is unrelated to his personality and traits. The educator seeks to instill and achieve some personal-practical goal—and, sadly, because of our flawed human makeup, the chance of achieving it depends on the educator’s character and behavior. The educator is required to behave in accordance with the doctrine to which he educates, but the lecturer is not required to behave according to the doctrine he teaches.

We see that the tasks of material transmission (a lecture) and education are in many cases intertwined. Therefore the question whether we are dealing with education or with learning is not determined by what we do in practice but by the fundamental aim of the process. If the aim is educational and the learning only serves it, then it is education. If the aim is learning and the education only assists it or “hitches a ride” on it, then it is learning.

He to learn, and his son to learn

Our tradition has instilled in us a primary value and intuition regarding self-sacrifice to transmit Torah to the next generation. People sometimes feel they are merely a means for Torah to be passed to their children. But if one pushes this approach to the extreme (as sometimes occurs), it produces a very problematic and unreasonable picture. We can see this via the Talmudic sugya in Kiddushin 29b.

The Gemara cites a baraita that discusses a case where it is not possible for both the father and his son to study Torah extensively (Maimonides writes that in any case neither is completely exempt):

Our Rabbis taught: If he is to learn and his son is to learn—he takes precedence over his son. Rabbi Yehuda says: If his son is diligent and sharp and his learning is retained by him, his son takes precedence. As in the case of Rav Yaakov, son of Rav Acha bar Yaakov: his father sent him before Abaye; when he came, he saw that his teachings were not sharp. He said to him: I am preferable to you—go back, and I will go.

On the one hand, the initial ruling is that in such a case he takes precedence over his son—perhaps contrary to the initial intuition I described. The reason is that if each focuses on transmitting Torah onward and does not learn himself, then the son too will transmit Torah onward, to his own son, instead of learning himself. In the end, no one will truly learn Torah. For whom is this entire process undertaken? Someone also has to do the work itself—that is, to learn and develop the Torah. Transmission is only a means to the development of Torah; it cannot be the main goal of the process. Torah must stand at the center of our collective, intergenerational effort, not the father and not the son.

That is the baraita. But Rabbi Yehuda says that if the son is more successful in learning (in various parameters), then the son takes precedence. This continues the same pattern of thought. Although basically he precedes his son, for every person should engage in the important task himself (and the son, when he grows up, will do so as well), if the son is sharper and more successful in learning, then the son precedes. The reason is that the entire process of learning and teaching should be undertaken not for the son and not for the father but for Torah. Therefore, whichever of them is more successful should be the one to learn. The intergenerational transmission is carried out so that, ultimately, someone will do the work itself.

This picture is not only about father and son, but also about teacher and student, and about the public as a whole. There is a collective goal for the public to develop Torah. In a certain sense, we are all supposed to work for it, not it for us. The public must ensure there are among it Torah scholars whose concern is the development and refinement of Torah and delving into it. Everything else is peripheral. In this view, the transmission from teacher to student and to the community is merely a means. The goal is the learning itself.

Of course this is only a partial presentation. In the end, Torah does not stand alone; it is meant to be applied in reality by people. If we only learn and deepen and refine it without ensuring its dissemination and public observance, that is clearly a defective state. When I speak of seeing Torah as the goal, I mean Torah as embodied in individuals and in the community as a whole. Therefore, after the deepening, understanding, and refinement of Torah, it is important that we transmit it onward so that future generations will continue to do so. Still, I propose here a perspective different from the common one—if only by shifting the proportions between teaching and education, on the one hand, and the learning itself, on the other. From this picture it emerges that there is substance to viewing the sacred functionaries—rabbis, educators, judges—as important functions, but we sometimes forget that all this exists for the sake of those who do the work itself: developing and refining Torah. From the vantage point of eternity, what matters is who contributed to the development of Torah and left his imprint for future generations—i.e., to Torah itself. In this sense, we all work for the Torah scholar, not he for us.

Between educator and Torah scholar: “Mizrachnikim” and Haredim

For many years now we have repeatedly observed that among “Mizrachnikim” (religious-Zionists) there is usually an identity between a rabbi, or Torah scholar, and an educator. When I ask students after their hesder program whether they plan to continue learning long term, the answers hinge on prospective positions: rabbi, rosh metivta (R”M), judge, and the like. One remains to learn because he sees value in teaching or in holding some sacred office; another, for the same reason, does not remain (because he does not see value in it, or he does not think it suits him and/or that he will be hired). One can understand this as mere livelihood considerations, but my sense is that there is something more. The typical Mizrachi person identifies learning with preparation for sacred office. He lacks a model of a Torah scholar for wisdom’s sake. Often one can hear questions about the Haredim: Why do we need so many learners and Torah scholars? Do we need so many rabbis and judges? This rests on an implicit assumption that Torah study is a kind of professional training—that is, that learning and research are intended for the sake of teaching and education. Precisely the opposite of the picture I described above. The Haredi ethos (at least the Lithuanian one), by contrast, sees “rabbi” and “judge” almost as pejorative labels. There is a certain disdain for these offices, and many define them as learning “not for its own sake” but for the sake of livelihood (as is also cited in the name of the Chazon Ish). Even a rosh yeshiva, who certainly receives great honor there, is honored not because he is a teacher but despite being a teacher—because he is an original, profound Torah scholar (if indeed he is). This ethos is the polar opposite of the Mizrachi one.

Among “Mizrachnikim,” the honor accorded to Torah scholars is weighted primarily by their office, and much less by their spiritual and Torah level. A rosh yeshiva, head of a mechina (most of the public does not understand that this is something like a high-school teacher, more or less), a community or city rabbi—these are those who receive honor. A Torah scholar—however exceptional—figures less on the Mizrachi screen and range. One can see a rosh yeshiva/mechina whose Torah and spiritual level is a joke, yet he receives royal honor. The office creates the person—and even more so, the attitude he receives. That is also how they usually vet you for a position: they ask if you have rabbinic ordination, as if that were a condition for being a Torah scholar (and even as a condition for being hired not only as a rabbi). Thus the Chief Rabbi of Israel is received in our circles with an aura of sanctity, though he may be a fellow with the abilities of an average yeshiva student, with thinking ability and originality below average, and with a worldview and personality at a kindergarten level. Without referring to anyone personally, there is no doubt we have not had in a long time a Chief Rabbi whom one could truly call a profound and original Torah scholar of stature. But the Mizrachi public has lost its sense of smell for this. If he is the Chief Rabbi, he deserves royal honor. In Column 271 I noted several examples of this fascinating phenomenon, and due to the sensitivity I will not repeat them here. I think that in the Haredi (at least Lithuanian) world, even the balabatim and the amei ha’aretz have not lost their sense of smell, and honor is granted there more or less to those who truly deserve it (at least according to their view; there are distortions there as well, of course).

I noted this also in Column 139, where I discussed two rabbinic figures—both paragons whom I greatly esteem—yet the attitude toward them reflects this phenomenon. I also mentioned there my article on two models of rabbi and Torah scholar, comparing the two famous rabbis of Dvinsk (the Rogatchover and the Or Sameach), where I also discussed this comparison. In both places I described the tendency in our circles to see the rabbi as a public servant (a legitimate view in itself, of course), while ignoring the reverse picture in which we all exist for him. The assumption underlying the common view is that transmission and education are the main roles and missions of a Torah scholar, whereas the truth is the reverse. The sacred functionaries are means for transmitting Torah onward (education and teaching), which in itself is only a means to the fundamental goal of developing and refining Torah.

The complete picture

This picture presents a hierarchy among three functions: the learner/researcher, the teacher, and the educator. The researcher engages in developing and understanding Torah. The teacher engages in granting and transmitting it onward to future generations. The educator engages in instilling the matters so that they will also be actualized in practice and will continue to be transmitted onward. Perhaps we can expound the verse “Educate the youth according to his way; even when he grows old he will not depart from it,” which Rabbeinu Yonah interprets: he will not depart from the path of becoming educated. That is, the improvement is intended not so that he be improved, but so that he continues to improve (see more on this in Columns 170 and 360, and in my article here). Transmitting Torah also has the role that Torah will continue to be transmitted—but we must not forget that, at the very end, there is also a purpose to all these transmissions. We place great emphasis on the teacher and the educator, but we forget the conceptual aspect of this whole process, which in the end is intended for the researcher and the learner.

It may be that this problematic attitude is a reaction to the Haredi attitude, which suffers from the opposite problem. There, emphasis is placed only on the Torah scholar, regardless of office and benefit to the public. There too, the entire public is aimed toward that track, ignoring that not everyone is suited, and that it is also not right to build a public that consists only of Torah scholars. Torah needs to live among the people in the fields. The complete picture is a weave built from integrating these two axes: the principled-eternal view that sees everything as means for the Torah scholars in every generation (the teacher and educator are means to the researcher and learner), and the practical view that sees the application of Torah across broad layers in every generation—and the Torah scholars must serve that aim (here the learner and researcher are means for creating sacred functionaries—educators and teachers). Each of the two publics abandons one of these sides; but the complete picture must hold both in a balanced way. See on this Column 34.

So why was I offended?

For two main reasons: (1) The very identification testifies to a distortion of values and a warped perception of Torah and its study. I am certainly not an educator, for I engage in research and learning and a bit of teaching, but definitely not in education. If one calls me an educator, that expresses the distortion I have described here. But there is something beyond that. My feeling is that there is something inferior in the educational enterprise. It is about training people, using propaganda and appeal to emotion. It is a bundle of skills invented to deal with bugs and has no value in itself. In my eyes this is not of intrinsic value like Torah or wisdom. Before continuing, I will preface an apology for the elitism that will be displayed in the next lines—some of which will be very politically incorrect. I write them nonetheless because it is important to discuss them, particularly in light of the implications I described above.

There is no doubt we also need people who will engage in education; but this is a blameless necessity, not an exalted pursuit in and of itself. In a perfect world, research and teaching would suffice, and people who know what is right would proceed to do it. In our flawed world, we are all flesh and blood, dwellers in clay houses of dust, and therefore there is no escaping education. Because of our bugs, there must be a process that helps a person carry out what he already knows and believes. That is what education is for. But this is a pursuit comparable to technological skill—or the training and shaping of human beings. You deal with children or youth and their problems, and this is very important and helpful, but these are not matters of the loftiest order.

Here we can bring the words of the Gemara in Kiddushin 82a:

Our Rabbis taught: Whoever’s occupation is with women—keep far from him; such as: goldsmiths, carders, [perfumers?], peddlers, weavers, barbers, launderers, blood-letter, bathhouse attendant, and tanner—we do not appoint from them a king or a High Priest. What is the reason? Not because they are invalid, but because their craft is lowly. Our Rabbis taught: Ten things were said about the blood-letter: he walks on his side, his spirit is haughty, he hangs [himself], he sits, he is stingy, his eye is evil, he eats much and excretes little, and he is suspected of sexual immorality, of theft, and of bloodshed. Bar Kappara expounded: A man should always teach his son a clean and easy craft. What is it? Rav Yehuda said: …

The tanner (borski) is among the lowlier crafts whose occupation is with women (in the Sages’ eyes: impulsive and not sophisticated creatures), and whose “association is evil.” Even if we do not accept this regarding women—at least in our day—I think that regarding children it is certainly correct. The educator deals with children, not highly developed creatures, and he must treat them, develop them, and raise them.

On 82b the Gemara adds further:

It was taught: Rabbi says—there is no craft that will pass from the world. Fortunate is he who sees his parents in a superior craft; woe to him who sees his parents in an inferior craft. The world cannot exist without a perfumer and without a tanner; fortunate is he whose craft is perfumery, and woe to him whose craft is tanning. The world cannot exist without males and without females; fortunate is he whose children are males, and woe to him whose children are females. Rabbi Meir says: A man should always teach his son a clean and easy craft, and pray to Him to whom are wealth and property, for poverty does not come from the craft and wealth does not come from the craft, but to whomever wealth belongs—as it is said: “Mine is the silver and Mine is the gold, says the Lord of Hosts.”

True, everyone needs a tanner—but why am I to blame?! There are crafts that are very important and necessary, yet still inferior. Unlike the Sages, I don’t think I would advise people to avoid them, but I do agree that the esteem of a craft is not a function only of its necessity. One must examine the content one deals with, not only its importance; and in that sense, education is not a pursuit of the highest order.

I know this sounds bad to contemporary ears: every labor that provides livelihood is respectable, and who are we to build hierarchies among pursuits and among people (where is political correctness?!). And certainly when it comes to education, whose importance is hard to deny. But the Sages, freed from the shackles of (our) politics, do distinguish among labors and create a hierarchy of importance and stature. Engaging in Torah and being a Torah scholar is a pursuit with spiritual breadth and intrinsic value. Education is a blameless necessity. By the way, when I first heard that, it surprised me greatly: the mitzvah of chinuch is only rabbinic. Biblically there is no obligation to educate.

I am, of course, very glad there are idealistic people who volunteer to engage in education. This pursuit is vital and necessary for all of us, and we should appreciate those willing to enter that quagmire. Their work is with children (like those in the Gemara whose work is with women, or the tanner with hides, or the slaughterer with animals and birds). Yet although we should appreciate their idealism and be grateful for it, that does not mean the pursuit itself has spiritual breadth and is worthy of esteem. To sharpen: I am not saying there are no teachers and educators with spiritual breadth. There are (a minority, in my view). But the very educational act involves dealing with lowly matters—the stage after changing diapers.

As is known, the Gemara in Bava Batra 21a greatly praises Rabbi Yehoshua ben Gamla, who founded organized education in Israel:

For Rabbi Yehuda said in the name of Rav: Remember that man for good—Yehoshua ben Gamla is his name—for were it not for him, Torah would have been forgotten from Israel. For at first, whoever had a father taught him Torah, and whoever had no father did not learn Torah. What did they expound? “And you shall teach them (otam)”—read “you shall teach yourselves (atem).” They then instituted that they seat teachers of children in Jerusalem. What did they expound? “For from Zion shall Torah go forth.” Yet still, whoever had a father would bring him up and teach him; whoever had no father would not go up and learn. They instituted that they seat [teachers] in every province, and they would bring them in at age sixteen or seventeen; and if his teacher became angry at him, he would kick and leave—until Yehoshua ben Gamla came and instituted that they seat teachers of children in every province and in every city, and they would bring them in at age six or seven.

In my view, this is esteem for one who dedicates himself to a lowly craft for the sake of the public and the collective. He deserves great appreciation for his idealism—like one who dedicates his life to changing diapers. But this is not necessarily esteem for the capacities and the pursuit itself. As we saw above, there is a difference between saying that some pursuit is necessary and vital, and that we owe gratitude to those willing to engage in it, and saying that the pursuit is worthy of esteem in itself. In my estimation, that is the proper form of esteem due to educators: they give of themselves to a pursuit that lacks spiritual breadth and intellectual depth; for that they have my full appreciation. But from there to seeing them as Torah scholars—the distance is great. Incidentally, as far as I have seen, the Gemara does not cite Torah statements of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Gamla, and I do not know to what extent he was a Torah scholar. He may have been a great and idealistic teacher and educator (and also a High Priest in a pinch), but the gap between that and a Torah scholar is large.

Before you pelt me with your etrogim, I remind you that each of us accords importance to people, among other things also by their occupation. There are those who esteem athletes, rabbis, actors, singers, doctors, intellectuals, writers, poets, or professors. The meaning of this esteem is that there is added value to what they say by virtue of being such. Of course a person’s traits and personality are very important—not only his knowledge and field of occupation—but here I focus on the latter. An intellectual and spiritual pursuit has a unique added value that deserves esteem accordingly by virtue of the pursuit. Education is not such.

Claims that my words here hurt people and create an unjustified hierarchy are disingenuous. In our world there are hierarchies—some justified and most likely not. Shall we say that the views of our housekeeper, our cobbler, or our garbage collector likewise have added value? Clearly such people can be intellectuals and outstanding Torah scholars—and then, of course, it is important and very useful to hear their views. But that is because they are intellectuals and Torah scholars. Their occupation as such does not create that esteem. So it is with educators. In short: if we are to have a hierarchy, let it be the correct hierarchy.

The honor of educators remains in its place—but they are not necessarily Torah scholars and men of spirit. Some certainly are, but that is incidental, exactly as a garbage collector or housekeeper might be. It is not a direct outgrowth of being an educator, nor inherent to that pursuit. To some extent that is true of every occupation. A “man of spirit” is not a label for one who practices some profession—education, teaching, or anything else—but for one who truly is a man of spirit, by virtue of who he is and his achievements. Still, one who engages in an intellectual field has added value to his words also by virtue of his occupation, beyond his personality and character (with appropriate caution).

In sum: one can be an educator who stands head and shoulders above others, and he deserves esteem for that. But to say about someone that he is an educator is not equivalent to saying he is a Torah scholar or an intellectual. Therefore I, who am not an educator in any way, take that label as an affront. But for one who truly is such, it is clear that calling him an educator does not insult him.

The proper form of education

As noted above, this is an opportunity to add a few words about education as I see it. This is all the more necessary in light of what I wrote here. If indeed education is a kind of training and shaping, is there really room for such an enterprise? Why not leave the pupil to choose his path and shape his character on his own? As I wrote, it is a blameless necessity. The fact is that it is difficult for a person to shape himself entirely alone without the help of educators.

Still, in my view, one should strive for education to minimize as much as possible the components of training and propaganda. There are various euphemisms for this—warm attitude, warmth and love for the students, etc.—but all of these are meant to influence the student not through his cognition; therefore, in my view, although these are the essential components of the educational process, they are lowly actions (tannery). The rest of the components are not education but teaching and learning, as I have explained. I do not think we have the option to educate on the basis of learning alone (though that is how it ought to be), but we should strive to approach that. Present the pupil with the different options, teach him to analyze them and their advantages and disadvantages, and then also exhort him a bit toward the right direction. That too can be done in various ways. One can present him with role models, situations, events, or people, so that he can be impressed, connect, and form a position in worthy directions. But it is never pure learning. Without the educational component (again, learning is not essential to education), it is apparently not possible.

This kind of education takes risks, since the chance that the pupil will choose a path other than the one you are trying to direct him toward is great. In this educational path you acquaint him with different ways and encourage him to choose among them on his own, not merely permit it; therefore it is no wonder the results are less assured (though absolute certainty exists in no approach, of course). I have spoken more than once (see for example here and Columns 67 and 304) about the value of autonomy (that a person will do what he thinks) which is no less important than the value of truth (that he do what is right), and this applies to education as well.

I will not enter into details here, for this is not the place and I do not have a fully worked-out practical doctrine on the matter. But I have described the principled direction as an outgrowth of everything I wrote above, and may it be pleasant to the hearer (just bear in mind that I am not speaking as an educator).

[1] See in our article there further examples of splitting between the obligation and the responsibility to carry it out, mainly in communal commandments.

[2] Similar critiques arise with respect to educators and school principals who educate students according to their agendas (left–right, traditional–secular, etc.). There the critique is narrower and gentler, since educators’ mandate is indeed education and not only learning. The demand that educators not mix in personal agendas is harder to implement than in academia—if it is possible at all. If an educator understands that the occupation is corrupting and immoral, is it not right, from his perspective, to educate his students against the occupation? That is his mandate as an educator. The problem that leads to such demands of educators as well is that education in Israel is centralist—that is, funded and managed by the state’s Ministry of (Lack of) Education—and therefore parents do not know and do not determine according to which values their child will be educated (except religious vs. secular, and even that not entirely).

[3] It has an obvious evolutionary explanation: if every rebuker ensures he himself is improved, that is an optimal way to achieve general social improvement. If you are not improved, you will not be able to achieve improvement in the other. That gives you added motivation to be improved yourself.