Is Jewish History Lashon Harah?
David Bashevkin on Parshas Tazria
Hi friends, this week we are revisiting Rabbi David Bashevkin’s essay on Parshas Tazria that was published last year, which explores the complexities of lashon hara through the lens of rabbinic autobiographies and historical narratives. Whether this is your first time reading this piece or you’ve read it before, enjoy!
The accompanying shiur is available on the Orthodox Union's parsha learning app: All Parsha.
My introduction to the prohibition of lashon harah (roughly translated as “negative speech”) was with a song. “Lashon harah lamed hei,” the song begins—the lamed hei being the first letters of each respective word, “spell it backwards that’s where you’ll stay.”
The latter part of the song is what stings most. For those who either haven’t heard the song or worked out what the Hebrew letters lamed hei spelled backward is a reference to, I’ll spell it out for you: הל is a reference to hell.
It happens to be a very charming catchy song. If you hear it once in elementary school it will stay with you for the rest of your life. If you’re hearing it for the first time now, I pray beside you that it doesn’t continue to ring in your ears.
As harsh as the song may seem, is it wrong?
Our parsha introduces the concept of the metzorah, a person afflicted with a skin condition, which the Talmud states is a punishment for the sin of speaking lashon harah.
The punishment certainly fits the crime. A metzorah is removed from the community and dwells by himself. OK, that makes sense. As the Talmud explains, a metzora must dwell alone because he has created loneliness among families and friends through negative speech.
But dwelling alone is not the only part of the purification process for a metzorah. A metzorah must also take two birds—one is sacrificed and the other is set free. It’s a strange part of the process that doesn’t quite connect to the general theme of the metzorah as a speaker of lashon harah. Even the Talmud’s connection seems inadequate. Birds are taken, the Talmud explains, because they chirp—so too one who speaks lashon harah “chirped” and chattered too much. It’s a great allusion to Twitter but why then does the metzorah take two birds—one sacrificed and one set free?
To better understand all of this, let’s explore how lashon harah and the study of Jewish history intersect.
When a notable person publishes their autobiography, let’s be honest, we all read it with the same question in mind: are they going to dish about the other famous people in their lives? No one reads an autobiography to find out the author’s favorite food. And rabbinic autobiographies are no different. This is why it should not come as a major surprise that the few rabbinic autobiographies that we do have come along with a fair amount of controversy.
One of the most controversial and fascinating rabbinic biographies is that of Rav Yaakov Emden, known as Megilas Sefer. Rav Yaakov Emden’s biography would likely be classified today as “oversharing.” He is frank about his sexual difficulties, his career slights, and his medical issues. It sometimes sounds more like a podcast episode than a sefer. In fact, one reader was so startled by Rav Emden’s self-revelations that he insisted that the autobiography was a forgery, writing a separate work called Megilat Plaster that attempted to prove it was a fake. Of course, as Rabbi Dr. Jacob J. Schacter has decisively shown, it is very much authentic. So why share so much? As Rabbi Schacter explains in his fascinating article, “History and Memory of Self: The Autobiography of Rabbi Jacob Emden:
In trying to understand these repeated unself-conscious and self-derogatory comments, one should not overlook the fact that a litany of Emden’s multifaceted life’s problems fits well with the other explanation he gave for writing this work—to publicize the extent of God’s kindnesses and to give his fellow Jews strength and faith to overcome suffering.
But not all autobiographies reveal only the struggles of the author. Many, and this is all the more true with the general study of Jewish history, disclose more sordid information about others that could and should rightfully make a reader wonder, “Is it ok for me to be reading this?” To state it more bluntly, is reading negative stories within Jewish history a form of lashon harah?
This question has been raised repeatedly, especially when the sentiments of the rabbinic author may be out of sync with contemporary rabbinic attitudes and feelings. When the family of Rav Eliyahu Dovid Rabinowitz-Teumim, known by the acronym Aderet (also the father-in-law of Rav Kook), published a second edition of his autobiography Seder Eliyahu, several passages were excised. As recounted in Immanuel Etkes’s fascinating article, “On Shaping the Image of ‘the Gedolim’ in Ultra-Orthodox Lithuanian Hagiographic Literature,” the editors of the new edition felt that the Aderet wrote a bit too freely—almost as if he was talking about someone else’s life. So certain chapters in the life of the Aderet, most notably his poor interactions and opinion of Rav Yitzchak Elchanan Spector were removed from the later edition. Essentially, the Aderet was upset at Rav Yitzchak Elchanon Spector for not recommending him for a certain rabbinic position. “The humiliation I felt from this incident cannot even be put into words,” the Aderet writes.
I have always had mixed feelings about such editorial decisions. I understand why such passages could cast important rabbinic figures in a negative light, but on the other hand, reading a Rabbi discuss their own personal and professional frustrations could likely help someone else going through a similar situation.
Still, the question remains, are such stories even permissible to share? Zev Eleff discusses some of the halachic questions, specifically related to lashon harah, that arise from Jewish history in his Hebrew article, “On the Intersection between Halacha and History.” It may not be the same precise prohibition as speaking lashon harah of the living, but Shulchan Aruch most certainly records an early rabbinic enactment prohibiting speaking negatively of the deceased. Interestingly, the question of whether the actual prohibitions of lashon harah apply to those deceased, Eleff argues, may hinge on a more esoteric question—do we believe that dead people care about what is said about them in this world? The feelings of the deceased aside, it is certainly prohibited to speak negatively of those deceased—either because of actual lashon harah or because of a later rabbinic enactment.
But who decides what is considered negative? What if sentiments change and what would seem honest, vulnerable, or just historically accurate for one generation is deemed inappropriate by the next generation?
This question came to a very public debate in 1997 when the Torah U’Maddah Journal, edited by Rabbi Dr. Jacob J. Schacter, published an article from Professor Marc Shapiro entitled, “Scholars and Friends: Rabbi Jehiel Jacob Weinberg and Professor Samuel Atlas,” which published for the first time, correspondence between Rav Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg, sometimes referred to by the name of his responsa Sereidi Aish, and his old friend, Professor Samuel Atlas, who was on the Talmud faculty at the Reform movement’s Hebrew Union College. Atlas, an accomplished Talmud scholar in his own right, published the comments of the Raavad on Bava Kama was not the typical person associated with a world-renowned Orthodox rabbi. Beyond their unconventional friendship, much of the content of their correspondence was cause for concern for more traditionally-minded readers. Professor Shapiro was well aware of the potential controversy their correspondence would likely cause. “When one realizes that it was only with Atlas that R. Weinberg felt comfortable in revealing his innermost thoughts feelings, and frustrations,” Professor Shapiro writes, “it becomes apparent that we are confronted with a relationship the likes of which is unknown in the history of gedolei Yisrael.”
Some of their correspondence is typical. Rav Weinberg tells Professor Atlas to stick to the plain meaning of the text in his analysis—“You’re not a Rosh Yeshiva!” They exchange writing and give one another feedback. But some letters are quite surprising. In one letter, Rav Weinberg shares his concerns about the state of the Orthodox community:
I am very distressed at the great fanaticism which has increased in strength in the Orthodox camp … The Satmar rebbe forbids studying Hebrew and others say that the formation of the state was a sin which cannot be repented for…one writer protested that R. Saul Lieberman was given the Rav Kook Prize, due to the fact that he works with the Reformers…On the one hand, they proclaim every “rebbe,” which everyone knows is not outstanding in Torah knowledge, as gadol and rosh kol benei hagolah. For the members of Agudah, every unimportant rabbi who joins them is considered a great gaon.
In another letter, Rav Weinberg half-jokingly says that Professor Atlas—due to his fine character is causing a chillul Hashem (desecration of God’s name). “We see that one can be an upstanding and noble man,” Rav Weinberg explained, “ even if one does not belong to the community of zealous Hasidim and is not punctilious about laws and customs.”
Perhaps most egregious, was Rav Weinberg’s concerns about the way Jewish law treats non-Jews. “The entire world hates us,” Rav Weinberg writes, “We assume that this hatred is due to the wickedness of the nations, and no one stops to think that perhaps we also bear some guilt.” Rav Weinberg then lists several halachot that make distinctions between Jews and non-Jews that troubled him. But, what can we do, he concludes. “Can we uproot our Torah teaching with apologetic formulae or clever deceptions,” he writes, “God knows that I have written this with the blood of my heart, the blood of my soul.”
The publication of these letters caused quite a storm.
In the next issue of the Torah U-madda Journal, two letters to the editor were published. One, which was brief, questioned the publication of the letter regarding Jewish-Gentile relations. “Why publish them in English where every anti-Semite can find them to his delight,” the letter writer wondered. A much longer letter, in Hebrew, was published from Rav Avraham Abba Weingort, one of the most prized disciples of Rav Weinberg. These were such personal letters, Rav Weingort writes, had Rav Weinberg been asked he certainly would not have permitted to have them published. Publishing such letters, Rav Weingort felt, was a violation of personal trust. Aside from that, he added, it violated the aforementioned prohibition of speaking negatively of the dead. Rav Weingort explains that Rav Weinberg, who lived through the Holocaust, lived a lonely life filled with suffering. He struggled with depression and at times his only solace was confiding his concerns with his closest friends—such ideas are not meant for publication. Rav Weingort signs his letter as “a student who was like a son” to Rav Weinberg.
Most importantly, this issue of Torah U-madda Journal featured a long article, just over 75 pages, where Rabbi Schacter reckons with his editorial decision to publish the correspondence. Entitled, Facing the Truths of History, the article is an examination of how shifting standards and sensitivities should be considered in the way we relay Jewish history. If you have not read the article in its entirety it is worth doing so this Shabbos. It is an absolute classic. After presenting myriads of examples of stories and incidents that seem to demonstrate an uncomfortable relationship between communal sensitives and actual factual historical truth, changing the past to suit the sensitivities of the present, Rabbi Schacter writes:
In addition does such behavior not betray an extraordinary sense of hubris? Are not all these later writer claiming that they know better than the Gaon of Vilna or R. Hirsch or R. Soloveitchik or R. Zevin or R. Bloch what appropriate Jewish behavior entails? Is it not a distortion of the “da’as Torah” of R. Zevin, for example to omit those words of his about the State of Israel or that of R. Bloch to his letter about the State? Maybe they both wanted this information to be known…Indeed, what right does someone today have to come along and say that he knows better? In these circumstances, distoring the truth preserves the author’s view of what he believes the gadol should have been and not what, in fact he was. I am reminded of a quote by James Russel Lowell, “The mythic instinct erelong begins to shape things as they ought to have been, rather than as they were.”
Still, even after Rabbi Schacter’s impassioned defense of historical truth, Rav Weingort’s letter, as a faithful student of Rav Weinberg, gave Rabbi Schacter pause. Specifically, Rabbi Weingort’s assertion that Rav Weinberg would not have wanted such letters published—other more halakhic concerns seemed less compelling to Rabbi Schacter—resonated. “Indeed,” Rabbi Schacter writes, “there is no one today who has as intimate a knowledge of Rabbi Weinberg as has Rabbi Weingort.” Still, Rabbi Schacter notes that once they have been published, the most important question to consider is what we can learn from them for our own spiritual lives. The article concludes with a request for forgiveness from Rav Weinberg—a request Rabbi Schacter made on a special trip to his gravesite.
Which brings us back to the metzorah.
A metzorah brings two birds in the purification process—one is sacrificed, and the other is set free. Rav Shlomo Ganzfried, author of the Kitzur Shulchan Aruch, writes in his work on the parsha, Apiryon, that the reason why these two birds are brought is to symbolize the ideal relationship to speech. The metzorah is guilty of speaking negatively. Corresponding to the negative speech of the metzorah, is the bird that is sacrificed, symbolizing the grave consequences of negative speech. But that is not all. Another bird is needed, a bird who lives. “Life and death are in the hands of speech,” Rav Ganzfried writes. It is not enough to just decry negative speech, we also need to bolster and encourage positive speech.
And this is really at the heart of the very violation of lashon harah. Oftentimes, as the song indicates (“spell it backwards that’s where you’ll stay!”), our relationship with speech is framed in the negative. That, however, sorely overlooks the positivity that emerges from a kind word, an encouraging speech, and, yes, sometimes even the truths of history. Some marshal history to tear down, while others can use that very same history to uplift, edify, and comfort. As Rabbi Schacter once told me in a conversation on 18forty about censorship, sometimes the stories that seem most unseemly can provide the most comfort when someone is struggling.
My dearest friend, Rabbi Daniel Feldman, wrote an outstanding book on the laws of lashon harah entitled, False Facts and True Rumors: Lashon Harah in Contemporary Culture. He concludes his incredible work by focusing not on the dangers of speaking negatively, but on the proverbial second bird, the kind of speech that brings life:
The focus that has emerged in recent years on the study of the laws of lashon hara is a profound gift. A life devoted to understanding and refining commitment to these principles is a life of ever-expanding sensitivity, of ever-growing awareness, of ever-increasing appreciation of the complexity of humanity. It is a constant attention to the most fundamental needs of others, in all of their diversity and nuance. It is a lifelong course in the finest points of interpersonal interaction. It is a mindset that forces the trivialities of life to recede and to fade, while directing attention towards the genuine priorities of life, whatever they may be. It is a recognition of the endless capacity to grow, to improve, and to transcend a history of mistakes or misjudgments. It is an affirmation that humans must not be painted by the brush of their worst moments, and that the full picture of an individual will always be so much more than any other person can grasp at any moment. It is, in essence, to derive infinite potential through perceiving the infinite potential in others.
Shabbos Reads — Books/Articles Mentioned
History and Memory of Self: The Autobiography of Rabbi Jacob Emden, Jacob J. Schacter
Megilas Sefer of Rav Yaakov Emden: Was it a Forgery? (Hebrew), Jacob J. Schacter
The Gdoilim: Leaders Who Shaped the Israeli Haredi Jewry (Hebrew), eds. Benjamin Brown & Nissim Leon
On Shaping the Image of ‘the Gedolim’ in Ultra-Orthodox Lithuanian Hagiographic Literature, Immanuel Etkes
Scholars and Friends: Rabbi Jehiel Jacob Weinberg and Professor Samuel Atlas, Marc Shapiro
Facing the Truths of History, Jacob J. Schacter
False Facts and True Rumors: Lashon Harah in Contemporary Culture, Daniel Feldman
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I am [unspecified number] decades old, and beginning from my earliest youth I had 14 years of intensive Yeshiva education.
Yet, incredibly, I've never before heard of that song, until I just read about it in your post.
While it is arguably cute, I would venture that its premise is, linguistically speaking, something of a stretch.