October 3rd: Yom Kippur and Shabbat Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon: If I Had a Hammer:
Last evening, I mentioned some of the folk songs that were so important to my generation—songs that seemed Jewish even though they were not. Among them was Peter, Paul, and Mary’s song, If I Had a Hammer. Listening to it recently brought back all kinds of memories—but also a few puzzlements. I realized, after years of hearing it and singing it, that I do not understand the song’s logic. It does not make any sense.
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.
I’d hammer in the evening. All over this land....
Have I perhaps changed over the years? Or did this anthem of the 1960s about “having a hammer, ringing a bell, and singing a song” ever make sense?
We’ll get back to this later, but now I’d like to shift to another memory of my teenage years. I was on the high school debate team, and, half-a-dozen times a year, we went on overnight bus trips to tournaments in other cities. A variety of drivers drove those buses, but one driver was clearly our favorite: Ted Hariu. He must have liked us too for he got the assignment most of the time. The thing about Ted was that, even though he was the total opposite of what was cool in our teenage eyes, he was cool anyway. Whereas our heroes and role models were rock musicians, incisive journalists, or young political activists, he was a middle-aged, blue collar guy with short greased-back hair. He did not have a beard or long sideburns, and he wore a Greyhound Bus uniform. His personal vehicle was a pickup truck—back before they were cool, and he was into country music, not rock. For our crowd—middle class kids, college bound, and trying hard to be both sophisticated and intellectual, the idea of driving a bus or a truck for a living was the furthest thing from our minds. Indeed, any kind of blue collar career was not the grand future we envisioned for ourselves. And yet, we liked to hang out with Ted during the tournaments and considered him cool: a friend.
Part of it was the way that he, like those few adults to whom teenagers gravitate, took us seriously, paying attention to us and not being put off by our teenage hair, clothes, music, or attitudes. This was not the custom of many parents who were often critical of youth culture. But more than that, there was a seasoned toughness in Ted and his life and the way that he talked about the decisions he had made, the opinions he had, and the goals he had in mind. He was, in the parlance of the time, real, and we respected his skills—both in life and in maneuvering that very large, double-clutch Greyhound bus.
For all of our pretensions of grandeur, there was something very substantive and admirable about this blue-collar guy—someone who had developed skills and used them well, who had a place in the world, and who was kind to others.
Back to the song. What was If I Had a Hammer all about? Was it an expression of our hopes and expectations? Perhaps, but I think that it also revealed our awareness that we were not yet the heroes of our dreams. Though we sang about having a hammer, we could all have easily gotten one—borrowing one from the home tool box or buying one at the hardware store. Why then did we sing as though the mere possession of a hammer would somehow be significant. Ringing a bell was equally unsubstantive. It was just a way of making noise and calling attention to ourselves. As for singing a song all over this land, I understand the inspirational quality of songs—and, of course, prayers, but, if they do not inspire concrete deeds, then they are more hollow than hallowed. Mere singing is not enough.
Perhaps we teenagers understood deep down that the real challenge was not in getting a hammer, ringing a bell, or even singing a song, but in learning how to use that hammer—actual or metaphorical—in building something. Perhaps that is why Ted Hariu the bus driver seemed so real to us. He had developed his skills and was doing something of substance.
In retrospect, I think that songs like If I Had a Hammer are developmental—efforts to clarify our values. They showed our teenage awareness of our own immaturity. We sang such anthems of adolescent impotence and desperate hope in the anticipation of eventually doing something real with our lives.
I am told that the most successful new military officers— graduates of West Point, Annapolis, or ROTC programs—are the ones who find a non-commissioned officer to mentor them. Though these new lieutenants have authority, they do not yet know how to sail a ship, load a cannon, or manage troops. They are in command, but they need a Master Chief or Sergeant who knows how to fight a war and how to prepare for one. By paying attention, young officers can infuse their leadership with practical experience and wisdom. It is not a matter of disrupting the chain of command but rather of respecting real knowledge and putting the mission above rank and ego.
This, by the way, is also a feature of the management system known as Total Quality Management. Based on techniques developed by W. Edwards Deming (1900-1993) that led Japanese industry to economic dominance in the 1970s and 1980s, it was eventually adopted by many American companies and the US. Navy. One of the main features was the inclusion of lower level employees—shop stewards, production line workers, and sailors—in decision making. No matter how highly trained an executive or line officer is, there is value in regularly talking to the people who actually do the work of the company—whose real world experiences are crucial for good corporate decisions.
As you cogitate on this, you may begin to recognize the old Ivory-Tower-versus-practical-reality tension that so pervades the interface between academics and the average Joes and Josephines who make the world go around. It is a curious tension and one that can be seen over at Penn State—a place where there are several different dimensions. The students live in one. The faculty and researchers live in another. The office staff and administrators live in a third world. And, the OPP guys (those in the Office of Physical Plant) have their own Penn State, one focused on plumbing and electricity, on rooms to set up and gardens to tend, on the steam plant and parking, and every kind of infrastructure. Everyone has a role, but, at a certain level, the OPP guys are... Penn State. Without them, nothing happens.
This gets us to Pirke Avot, the most popular tractate in the Talmud. The greatness of Rabbinic Judaism can be seen throughout both Mishnah and Gemara, but page for page, Pirke Avot is our best source of Jewish wisdom. Its brief p’rakim/passages are also much more accessible than the complex and lengthy discussions in the rest of the Talmud. This is why Pirke Avot is so popular, with its proverbs studied and quoted both frequently and fondly. However, as explained by Rabbi Dr. David Aaron of the Hebrew Union College, the Rabbis who populate Pirke Avot were part of an elitist fraternity of scholars. There were strict rules, limited admission, and an attitude of intellectual superiority. They considered themselves the brain trust of the Jewish People, and they were very exacting of whom they admitted and what behaviors were required for continued membership. In addition to general Jewish wisdom, much of Pirke Avot records their high standards and single-minded devotion to Torah.
However, in the midst of their elitism, one can also find self-awareness of the limitations of such high status. In dozens of their sayings, they also speak of the importance of practicality, realism, and the Am Ha’aretz, the little guys—people like bus driver Ted Hariu and the lower level workers that Deming believed in including in decisions. These average agrarian workers or craftsmen are also God’s people, and they possess their own kind of experience, wisdom, and innate worth. Here are some examples:
In Avot 4.5, “Rabbi Zadok said: do not make the Torah into a crown for self-exaltation, nor a spade with which to dig.” The ancient Sages did not believe in getting paid for studying or teaching Torah, and the Talmud often mentions their various vocations or non-Torah sources of income. One, Rabbi Yonatan Hasandlar (Jonathan the Sandalmaker), was even known by his craft. In later ages, RASHI (Rabbi Solomon son of Isaac) grew grapes and made wine, RAMBAM (Rabbi Moses son of Maimon) was a physician, and the Baal Shem Tov (Rabbi Israel son of Eliezer) was a shochet. Making a living grounds even the wisest and helps them understand life.
In Avot 1.5, “Yose ben Yochanan of Jerusalem says: Let the poor be members of your household.”
Though the Sages emphasized and congratulated themselves on their intellectual acumen, they were warned about disrespecting those who were not part of their elite fraternity.
In Avot 2.4, Hillel warns his fellow scholars about judging without really understanding:
“Do not judge your fellow man until you have reached his place.”
In Avot 4.1, Rabbi Ben Zoma goes further,
Who is wise? He who learns from every man.”
Even the poor and illiterate have something of value to teach.
This thought is continued by Ben Azzai in Avot 4.9:
“Do not despise any man, and do not discriminate against anything, for there is no man that has not his hour, and there is no thing that has not its place.”
In Avot 3.9, Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa expands the discussion to include the importance of good deeds backing up good words.
“Anyone whose deeds exceed his wisdom, his wisdom is enduring, but anyone whose wisdom exceeds his deeds, his wisdom is not enduring.”
And of course, there is the most famous of them all from Avot 1.2:
“The world stands on three things: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.”
Simon the Righteous does not need to remind his fellow scholars about the importance of Torah study and worship. They already know and are fully invested in the system. However, lest they fall into the trap that their intellects and piety are all that matter, their leader reminds them of the ultimate and equally existential value of kindness and good deeds. For the original audience of elite scholars, the first two, Torah and Avodah, are just set ups for the third component and its vital dose of practical goodness.
I do not regret singing If I Had a Hammer. Its words, like those of many poems and prayers, transcend logic and speak of ineffable aspirations. But, there is more to life than singing about a hammer. Getting one and using it is the necessary step in making our aspirations and dreams come true. I think we knew that back then and, while ringing bells and singing songs, we worked on respecting and emulating those for whom Tikkun Olam is more than just words.