Disagreeing Well Is a Matter of Life or Death

Jews around the world entered last Shabbat carrying the heartbreak of the murder of Shira Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky outside the Capital Jewish Museum. For many of us, myself included, it felt both shocking and like this was the logical next step from the violent chants at protests and the linguistic dehumanization of Jews within pro-Palestinian circles — demonstrating the power of our words to create realities.

Here in Toronto, the weekend was building up toward last Sunday’s Walk for Israel, the largest annual solidarity demonstration in the Diaspora, in which over 20% of the Greater Toronto Area’s Jews walk peacefully with Israeli flags and music to show their support. Given the events in Washington, there was a feeling of high alert, of needing to be on call to protect the Jewish people. And the strain began to show.

Two separate times during weekend social gatherings, I was in a group conversation in which an acquaintance escalated a small disagreement about Israel among community members into harsh words and name-calling. One even casually declared a local rabbi, who I know to be a dedicated community-builder and progressive Zionist, to be “anti-Israel”— a chilling and potentially career-damaging epithet used these days to declare a Jew to be outside the bounds of Jewish community. In each instance, I was shocked to silence. I was so distressed, I’m still thinking about it days later.

Something has gone wrong.

It is not an overstatement to say that our words in situations like these can carry the weight of life or death. The Talmud tells of these kinds of breakdowns between friends and colleagues. One in particular comes to mind. It’s the story of Rabbi Yochanan and Reish Lakish, two Talmudic scholars and beloved friends who tragically died as a result of an argument they had.

The two met when Reish Lakish, then a thief, leapt into the Jordan River to attack the great Rabbi Yochanan. Rabbi Yochanan instead convinced Reish Lakish to turn his strength toward learning Torah. Reish Lakish subsequently mastered Jewish law to such a degree that he became Rabbi Yochanan’s chavruta, his study partner — his equal.

One day they were studying the laws of impurity as applied to metal knives of various kinds. They had a disagreement about when the manufacturing process was finished. Rabbi Yochanan said their manufacture was finished at the stage when they were formed in a furnace. Reish Lakish said it was when they were cooled in water.

Then the fatal wound. Rabbi Yochanan, instead of continuing the debate on the merits of the arguments, tried to win by retorting: “A robber knows his trade.” Meaning: Well, you would know, wouldn’t you Reish Lakish? Because you are nothing more than a thief who knows his daggers. Reish Lakish’s years of study were wiped out in an instant.

Reish Lakish lashed back that Rabbi Yochanan, who poured years of teaching and support into Reish Lakish, meant nothing to him.

They walked away from each other in hurt and fury. Reish Lakish fell ill from it. His wife pleaded with Rabbi Yochanan to intercede and heal him. Rabbi Yochanan refused. Reish Lakish died. The unraveling of their friendship was final.

Already there is much to learn from this story, the retorts between them familiar to any whose heated argument with a loved one devolved to words that cannot be taken back.

But the lesson is not over.

The Talmud continues: After Reish Lakish’s death, Rabbi Yohanan went mad with grief. The rabbis sent a substitute scholar to go learn Jewish law with him and, to make him feel better, the scholar agreed with every argument Rabbi Yochanan made. This made Rabbi Yochanan distraught.

Yochanan said: “You are not like Reish Lakish! When I stated a law, Reish Lakish used to raise 24 objections, to which I gave 24 answers, which consequently led to a fuller comprehension of the law. You say, ‘A teaching has been taught which supports you’ – do I not know myself that my statements are correct?” R. Yochanan would go and tear his clothes and cry, “Where are you, Reish Lakish! Where are you, Reish Lakish?” and he screamed until his sanity wore away from him. The Rabbis prayed for mercy on him, and he died.

This isn’t just a story about being kind in conversations.

It’s a story that explains that we have a dire, fundamental need to be in relationship with those who disagree with us. It sharpens our own understanding. When someone objects to our version of things, it helps us find truth together. But only if we listen, only if we approach each other with honor. When we remember we are friends or colleagues.

I’m not naïve enough to say we should apply this to people who explicitly call for violence against Jews. There are limits. However, I do know that if we adopt the tactics our opponents use against us—name-calling, dehumanizing, deliberate cruelty—we’ve lost something essential. Something that makes us who we are and want to be.

This is especially true if we aim those tactics at someone we disagree with by only a few shades—maybe someone from our extended friend group or from school pick-up. It feels less dangerous to release all that tension in a forceful altercation about the fine points of Israeli politics or the reliability of news sources with a friend, colleague, or fellow community member. Certainly less dangerous than trying to convince an anti-Israel protestor that you are not a Nazi.

But please let us consider the lessons of this story of Rabbi Yochanan and Reish Lakish. First, that our words have life and death consequences; we can’t just release sharp anger at someone because it makes us feel a little more in control in the moment. And second, that engaging with those who disagree with us is a major way we learn and grow. It sharpens our thinking and helps us get closer to something like the truth—so much so that one of our great Talmudic rabbis was driven mad by losing such a person.