Altruism is not a given; many have argued against it. Social Darwinists, inspired by the theory of evolution, argued against helping the poor. Charity, they maintained, runs counter to the “survival of the fittest.” Helping the weakest in society would only undermine progress by allowing the unfit to procreate. Ayn Rand attacked altruism as collectivism in disguise, a made-up virtue that allows the mediocre to undermine individual greatness. Nietzsche blamed the Jews for having introduced a “slave morality,” which focuses on caring for the weak; the focus of society should be to empower greatness. He explains that “A nation is a detour of nature to arrive at six or seven great men.” Individual greatness is the ultimate goal; altruism can only get in the way.
Judaism follows a very different path. It certainly respects the importance of individualism. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once asked the British historian Paul Johnson what struck him most about Judaism. Johnson responded that it “was the most successful example he knew of that managed the delicate balance between both – giving equal weight to individual and collective responsibility.” But Judaism’s central passion is empathy and kindness. The Talmud says that “performing acts of kindness” is one of the distinguishing virtues of Jews. This statement is not a mere homiletical flourish; the idea is grounded in the narratives of Parshat Vayera and Chayei Sarah.
Abraham’s family practices kindness. He welcomes strangers, as does his nephew Lot; so does his great-niece and future daughter-in-law Rebecca. This stands in distinct contrast with Sodom, a place that “had plenty of bread and untroubled tranquility; yet she did not support the poor and the needy.” (Ezekiel 16:49)
Abraham does support those in need. He runs to greet guests and bows to them with respect. He offers them a bit to eat and then runs around his home to prepare them a feast.
Rebecca does the same. Abraham’s servant asks Rebecca for a drop of water. Even though he is a supplicant, Rebecca treats him with great respect, and tells him “Drink, my lord”; and she gives him more to drink than he asked for. She holds the jar while the servant drinks, to make it easier for the tired, thirsty man. Unbidden, Rebecca draws water for the servant’s camels. All the while, the text lingers over the way Rebecca hurries and runs to help this stranger.
This focus on the details of Abraham and Rebecca’s hospitality is the text’s way of saying: This is important. Kindness is the Jewish way.
Philosophers and theologians will offer multiple rationales for altruism. First, it is critical for social bonds, and the healthiness of any society; ultimately, we will all depend on the kindness of others at one time or another. It is also a moral obligation to transcend selfishness and seek goodness for the community as a whole. From a religious perspective, to give is divine, and man is meant to emulate God. And, in a passage that anticipates the insights of positive psychology, Maimonides writes that “there is no greater and more beautiful happiness than to bring joy to the hearts of the poor, the orphans, the widows, and the strangers.” Giving makes the giver happier.
Altruism is a universal value. However, exile will transform Jewish altruism, and a new perspective, forged in crisis, will take hold.
After leaving Egypt, the former slaves never forgot what it was like in a hate-filled society. They carried within the command “You too must befriend the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” And we do exactly this at the Seder; in the first paragraph of the Haggadah we call to the wandering strangers in the street “Let all who are hungry come in and eat; let all who are in need come and join us for the Pesach.”
Suffering brings with it an obligation to find a meaningful response. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik wrote, “The Halakhah teaches us that an afflicted person commits a criminal act if he allows his pain to go for naught and to remain without meaning or purpose.” If so, the suffering of exile brings lessons that must not be neglected. And it is here that kindness will take on a critical role, not just as a response to a bitter past, but as a road map to a better future.
The primary theme of the Book of Ruth is kindness. As the Midrash explains: “Why was the Book of Ruth written? It is to teach you the extent of the good reward for those who perform kindness.” Ruth, the Moabite, marries an Israelite man who moved to her country. After all the men in the family die and lose all of their wealth, Ruth’s former mother-in-law Naomi decides to return home to Israel. Naomi tells Ruth to stay behind in Moab, where she can return to her former life; but Ruth remains loyal to Naomi, and insists on accompanying her home. In Israel, Ruth’s loyalty catches the eye of Naomi’s relative, Boaz; and he too is inspired to continue the name of the family by redeeming the family’s fields and marrying Ruth. Ruth’s actions set off a cascade of goodness. During a profound crisis, her consistent compassion changes everything.
The punchline of the book comes at the end. In a short, dry genealogy, we are informed that Ruth, this poor stranger, is the progenitor of King David. Ruth’s kindness not only repairs her family; it brings redemption to the world.
In the aftermath of exile, we recognized the power of a broken heart. It listens for the cries of the stranger and orphan, and is the first to hear the call of redemption.
The Messiah himself is a product of exile, wounded and sick. The Talmud tells how one Rabbi, Yehoshua ben Levi asked Elijah about when the Messiah would come. Elijah responded: “Go ask him,” and explained that the Messiah is sitting outside Rome, one of the poor who suffer from illnesses.
The Messiah himself is broken-hearted. But even in his pain, he looks to redeem everyone else. At the end of the Talmudic passage, Elijah explains to Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi he can tell the Messiah apart from the other poor invalids because “all of the others untie their bandages and tie them all at once, but the Messiah unties one bandage and ties one at a time. He says to himself: Perhaps I will be needed, and I don’t want to be delayed.”
What an inspiring image. The wounded Messiah, even when readjusting his bandages, never loses focus on working for redemption. And the challenge to all of us, amidst the turmoil of our own suffering, is how to be wounded redeemers ourselves.
After 13 months of war, Israel is filled with anguish. Remarkably, despite their own heartbreak, some insist on changing the world with kindness. Recently, a video was posted of Rachel Goldberg, the widow of Rabbi Avi Goldberg, who fell in battle a few weeks ago. After the conclusion of shiva, Rachel went to a hospital to play the violin for families of wounded soldiers in the intensive care unit, and give them some encouragement.
There is no better demonstration than this of what it means to be a wounded redeemer.
And it is through the kindness of these wounded redeemers that redemption will come.
Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz is the Senior Rabbi of Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York.
