As is known, the destruction of the Temple, which we commemorate and mourn during the current period of “the Three Weeks,” was the result of sinat chinam/“baseless hatred.” The remedy for this, the sages teach, is ahavat chinam/“baseless love”—that is, kindness and generosity that we express to one another even though we have no particular reason or ulterior motive.
In regards to this idea, there is told the beautiful and inspiring story of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak when he first became the Rav of the town of Berditchev. Though he was quickly embraced by the community, there was one man who was fiercely against him and intent on proving his unworthiness. On the afternoon before Yom Kippur, the man came to the rabbi’s home and apologized to him profusely for his virulent opposition.
The rabbi accepted his apology, and the man suggested they have a drink together to celebrate their reconciliation. He had brought with him a bottle of very strong alcohol, and he poured a cup for the rabbi and himself. The rabbi drank his, and the man secretly threw his aside. He poured them both a second, and then a third, each time casting his own aside as the rabbi drank his in celebration of their new friendship. The man eventually left, laughing on his way to synagogue with the assumption that the rabbi would pass out from the powerful drink and be unable to attend that evening’s Kol Nidre services. Finally, the entire community would see that the rabbi was not as holy as they believed him to be, and they would expel him from his position.
But much to the man’s surprise, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak arrived on time and led the services. Afterwards, he led the congregation in the recital of Psalms. When he reached Psalm 41, he recited verse 12 aloud three times: בְּזֹאת יָדַעְתִּי כִּי־חָפַצְתָּ בִּי כִּי לֹא־יָרִיעַ אֹֽיְבִי עָלָי/B’zos yadati ki chafatzta bi ki lo yaria oyvi alai. The simple translation of the verse is: “With this, I will know that You (Hashem) favor me, that you won’t allow my foe to do bad unto me.” But after he recited the verse in Hebrew, he translated it with his own special spin: “With this, I will know that You (Hashem) favor me, that you won’t do bad unto my fore because of me.”
Not only was the rabbi not interested in revenge for the evil the man had tried to do to him, but he prayed to Hashem to not harm the man on his behalf. Hearing this, the man broke down in tears and finally realized that the rabbi was indeed as holy as the other townspeople believed him to be. He fell at the Berditchiver’s feet and begged for his forgiveness.
In contrast to the baseless hatred that the man felt for the rabbi, it is the Berditchever’s selfless and unconditional love that will precipitate the rebuilding of the Temple.
Yet as powerful and elucidating as this story is, something is troubling about telling it at this moment. As Jews are currently besieged by maniacal enemies in Israel and indeed around the world, it is somewhat difficult to fully internalize this message of such forbearance and forgiveness. While we can certainly aspire to this type of selfless virtue in our interpersonal relationships, is it reasonable to demonstrate such care for our foes, particularly those who are savagely intent on our complete obliteration?
Is it not reasonable for us to ask God to destroy our enemies? Should we be so naive as to believe that if we simply demonstrated to them our refinement, they would drop their weapons and embrace us in the way that the Berditchever’s erstwhile antagonist eventually reconciled with him?
Of course, there is an obvious difference in the cases. While Rabbi Levi Yitzchak’s foe was intent on destroying his career and thus his livelihood, he was not attempting to kill him. It is explicitly clear in Torah law that regarding a rodef—one who pursues a person in order to take his life—the person is obligated to kill the rodef before he is killed himself. Certainly, there is no question of Torah law when it comes to our military response to Hamas and those who intend to destroy us. It is our duty to fight them with all of our strength and resources and to eliminate the threat to our lives and to our kin.
Yet we might find a lesson in the Berditchever’s translation of the verse that is relevant even to our dire circumstances today. In his prayer that God would “do no bad unto my foe because of me,” Rabbi Levi Yitzchak requests that no harm should befall his enemy. Yet it can alternatively be read that while harm might come to the enemy, he requests that it should not be “because of me.” In other words, the enemy’s demise may be necessary—as is the case with the rodef—but it is not because I wish him evil. Rather, it is because the threat that he imposes needs to be eliminated. Even in the case where we must kill or be killed, we do not act for vengeance but for the defense of our loved ones, and the values of life and liberty God has enshrined in His Torah.
In this sense, we might follow the Berditchever’s lead and take the verse from Psalms one step further. The second half of the phrase, כִּי לֹא־יָרִיעַ אֹֽיְבִי עָלָי/ki lo yaria oyvi alai, can also be translated “that you won’t allow my foe to MAKE ME BAD.” Perhaps what the verse is expressing is that God’s favor is reflected in his protection of us so that we are not negatively influenced by our enemies to act as they do. Our prayer is not only that we will be unharmed by our foes and not only that our foes’ harm will not be through us, but that we will not become hateful or vengeful like they are. God’s favor should enable us to emulate the virtue of our sages like Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev.
As we work to rectify the errors that resulted in the destruction of the Temple—and this long and challenging exile—we must certainly treat our own people with more respect, forgiveness and generosity. And as we continue to battle those intent on our eradication, we ask for God’s protection and deliverance, and we pray for the ability to maintain the humanity and humility that our tradition inculcates and sanctifies.
