Our Rabbis taught: One should always be flexible like a reed and not stiff like a cedar. Once, R. Elazar b. Shimon was returning from his master’s home in Migdal G’dor. He was riding a donkey along the bank of a river in a leisurely fashion. He was very happy and his head was swollen with pride because he had learned much Torah. He happened upon an exceedingly ugly man, who said to him, “Peace be upon you, Rabbi.” [R. Elazar] did not return his greeting. [R. Elazar] said to him, “Worthless one! How ugly he is! Are all the people of your town as ugly as you?” [The man] said to him, “I do not know, but go tell the craftsman who made me, ‘How ugly is the vessel you made!’”
When [R. Elazar] realized he had sinned, he dismounted from his donkey and prostrated himself before the man and said to him, “I humble myself before you. Forgive me.” [The man] said to [R. Elazar], “I will not forgive you until you approach the craftsman who made me and say, ‘How ugly is this vessel that you made.’”
[R. Elazar] walked behind [the man] until they reached the city. The people of the city came out to greet him, saying, “Peace be upon you, our rabbi, our teacher.” [The man] said to them, “Whom are you calling ‘my rabbi, my teacher’?” They said to him, “This man, who walks behind you.” He said to them, “If this is a rabbi, may there not be many like him in Israel.” They said, “Why [do you say this]?” He said to them, “He did thus-and-such to me.” They said to him, “Nevertheless, forgive him because he is a great Torah scholar.” He said to them, “I forgive him for your sakes, provided he does not make a habit of behaving this way.” R. Elazar b. R. Shimon immediately entered [the study hall] and taught: One should always be flexible like a reed and not stiff like a cedar. Therefore, the reed merited that a quill pen would be made from it to write a Torah scroll, tefillin, and mezuzot. (BT Ta'anit 20a,b)
INTRODUCTION
What is true beauty? It is perceived by the eyes? Through the mind? With the soul? The story of a rabbi puffed up with Torah learning and full of himself, who sees another human being as merely “empty”—worthless and therefore ugly—poses this question for us, and far more.
COMMENTARY
Imagine R. Elazar returning home after a semester packed with Torah learning, jubilant over his progress. He travels at a leisurely pace, his head swollen with pride, his countenance radiating self-satisfaction. Along the road, he encounters a man who greets him cheerfully and deferentially. To R. Elazar, the man is not aglow with Torah learning and his therefore “empty”— worthless in the way that matters most: Torah learning. Addressing the man in the third person, R. Elazar tells him he is ugly and, in a feat of sheer audacity, asks if all the people where he comes from are equally ugly. The man’s response is very telling. He simultaneously reveals the degree of pain R. Elazar’s words have inflicted, as well as the depth of Torah in his soul. The man reminds R. Elazar that he, like all people, was created by God. Therefore, R. Elazar’s caustic comment is an insult to God, the Creator, whose handiwork the rabbi deems essentially deficient. What is more, the man terms himself a “vessel,” implying that the aesthetics of our bodies is far less important and valuable than the “content,” inviting us to compare R. Elazar’s “vessel” with its “content.” The man thereby communicates to R. Elazar that physical beauty is not God’s highest priority nor the measure of the worth of a human being. R. Elazar’s swollen ego instantly deflates; he gets down off the donkey and begs the man’s forgiveness. The man, apparently still hurt and insulted, is not ready to forgive, so R. Elazar—no longer riding high on his donkey—follows behind the man into town. The two have traded places: R. Elazar is no longer in an elevated and superior position; he now trails humbly behind the man.
As the two men enter the town, the residents recognize the rabbi and enthusiastically greet him as an honored visitor. The man is shocked to hear R. Elazar accorded such respect—R. Elazar certainly did not behave like a learned and honored rabbi when they met on the road. The man acerbically comments that if R. Elazar is a rabbinic paradigm, “may there not be many like him in Israel.” The surprised villagers ask what transpired to provoke this. When they hear the man’s account, they ask him to forgive the rabbi for the sake of his Torah learning. The man agrees to forgive R. Elazar for the sake of the villagers—no on account of his learning—but on the condition that R. Elazar changes his behavior. The day’s experience has taught R. Elazar new Torah, which he immediately teaches in the local study house: the importance of not being stiff like a cedar—stuck in place and unable to move beyond stereotypes—but rather flexible like a reed and thereby able to adopt a new perspective when the situation requires it.
QUESTIONS TO CONSIDER AND DISCUSS
- R. Elazar, his ego inflated by his learning, literally “looks down” from his perch on his donkey onto the man he passes. He does not offer a ride, but rather disdain and an insult. Can this story can be interpreted as a commentary on the idea of meritocracy? How is the value of R. Elazar’s Torah learning compromised by his uncivil behavior?
- The story raises an interesting question: Why should the man should forgive R. Elazar? He rejects the townspeople’s request that he forgive R. Elazar on account of his Torah learning, but agrees to forgive the sage only for the sake of the townspeople. Why do you think the man is unwilling to forgive R. Elazar on account of his Torah learning? Can one truly claim Torah learning if their behavior does not reflect Torah values?
- We may have thought R. Elazar’s insensitive insult is the central problem, but Talmud informs us that the story teaches a lesson about flexibility. In what way(s) do R. Elazar and the man he encounters on the road exhibit inflexibility? When the error of his way is pointed out, does R. Elazar resist change? Does the man? In what way(s) do both characters learn to be more flexible?
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