The Madness of Lishmah

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Artwork: Infuriate, by Benjamin Ee

The Madness of Lishmah

From time to time, I am asked whether I have any interest in pursuing a PhD, an Ed. D, or any other professional achievements beyond simply teaching. The earliest conversation of this nature I can remember took place years ago, while I was still learning in yeshiva and hadn’t even started grad school yet. I was speaking with a highly successful professional who also happened to have the credentials of a professional philosopher. He asked me what I was up to, and I said, “I’m learning in yeshiva and earning my bachelor’s degree in psychology.” He asked, “To what end?” I said, “The only reason I’m getting a bachelor’s degree is so that I can apply to grad school.” He asked, “To what end?” I said, “I’m only getting a master’s degree in Jewish Education because I’ve been told it’s necessary to get a good job as a high school teacher. I just want to teach high school.” He asked, “To what end?” I repeated my answer: “I just want to teach high school.” “Nothing more?” “Nothing more.” He then shot me a look of horrified disbelief, which he followed with a rather audacious question. I don’t remember his words, but his sentiment was something like, “And you’re just going to let all of that intelligence go to waste?” Clearly, this man and I differed in our views about learning and teaching.

This weekend I read a poem by Rumi entitled, The Sheikh Who Played With Children, which reminded me of that conversation. The poem opens with a young seeker looking for wisdom: “I need to find a wise person. I have a problem.” A bystander says, “There’s no one with intelligence in our town except that man over there playing with the children, the one riding the stick-horse. He has a keen, fiery insight and vast dignity like the night sky, but he conceals it in the madness of child’s play.” (I was amused by the parallels to Rav Chaim Soloveitchik – a real-life genius who was also known for playing horsey with the local schoolchildren.) The young man approaches the sheikh and presses him for relationship advice, which he reluctantly gives. As the sheikh is about to gallop away, the seeker asks him about the life he has chosen: "What is this playing that you do? Why do you hide your intelligence so?" The sheikh responds:

"The people here want to put me in charge. They want me to be judge, magistrate, and interpreter of all the texts. The knowing I have doesn't want that. It wants to enjoy itself. I am a plantation of sugarcane, and at the same time I'm eating the sweetness."

Knowledge that is acquired is not like this. Those who have it worry if audiences like it or not. It's a bait for popularity. Disputational knowing wants customers. It has no soul. Robust and energetic before a responsive crowd, it slumps when no one is there. The only real customer is God.

Chew quietly your sweet sugarcane God-Love, and stay playfully childish.

Your face will turn rosy with illumination like the redbud flowers.

In his introduction to Perek Chelek the Rambam says about learning lishmah (lit. “for its own sake”): “ein tachlis ha’emes ela l’daas she’hu emes – the only purpose of the truth is to know that it is true.” Rambam mentions that most people will not be able to grasp the concept of lishmah. To them, learning is only a means to other ends. They cannot grasp what it means to seek knowledge for its own sake. They view any pursuit of something as an end in and of itself as foolish. They will never stop asking, “To what end?”

Perhaps this is why Rumi depicted the true sage in this manner. In the eyes of the world, those who learn lishmah appear as mad as a sheikh playing horsey.

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