What made Judaism survive was not that it belonged to a gifted few, but that it became the inheritance of everyone.
Why is Ben Zoma called Ben Zoma?
Last night, near the very beginning of the Haggadah, we came across the name Ben Zoma. It is an unusual name. Most of the sages of the Mishnah are referred to by their own names—Rabbi Akiva, Rabbi Yehoshua, and so on. So why is this particular sage known by his father’s name? Why not call him by his first name?
Three explanations are offered.
Rashi, in his commentary to Pirkei Avot, says that Ben Zoma died at a young age, before he had the chance to become established as a rabbinic authority in his own right. Because of that, he remained known by his family designation rather than by an independent title.
A more upbeat explanation is that there were two students in the academy named Shimon: one was Shimon ben Azzai, and the other was Shimon ben Zoma. To avoid confusion, each was identified by his father’s name.
Maharal of Prague offers a different approach. He explains that Ben Zoma was already exceptionally gifted while still very young. When he first sat among the sages, people still referred to him by his father’s name because he was, in effect, still a boy. The name stuck, and even later, after he became a great scholar in his own right, he continued to be known as Ben Zoma. In fact, there is even one place in the Talmud where he is referred to as Rabbi Shimon ben Zoma.
The Potential in Every Person
Either way, Ben Zoma says something remarkable in Pirkei Avot. He asks: “Who is wise?”
If we were asked that question, most of us would probably think of someone like Albert Einstein, or at least someone with a PhD, or perhaps a renowned rabbi or brilliant scholar. In other words, we tend to think wisdom belongs to a very small group of unusually gifted people.
But Ben Zoma gives a very different answer: “Who is wise? One who learns from every person” (Pirkei Avot 4:1). A wise person, he says, is someone who is able to learn from anyone. Someone who understands that every person has something to teach.
In effect, Ben Zoma broadens the definition of wisdom and opens the door for everyone to belong to the “club” of the wise. You do not have to be a towering genius or an exceptional scholar. Anyone can become wise.
He goes on to ask: “Who is strong?” In Hebrew, that can mean two things. It can mean someone physically powerful, someone with great strength. Or it can mean a hero—someone who has done something dramatic and courageous, like saving a person from a burning house or from drowning. Most people do not think of themselves in those terms. Very few people ever even have the opportunity to perform an act of heroism.
But again, Ben Zoma redefines the term. “Who is strong? One who conquers his impulse” (Pirkei Avot 4:1). Once again, he takes a quality that seems reserved for a rare few and turns it into something every person can aspire to. Real strength is not about muscles. It is about self-mastery. It is the ability to control one’s reactions, feelings, and urges.
A person who is angry and still manages to hold back—that is strength. A person who sees a piece of chocolate, badly wants it, and still says no—that too is strength. This is a kind of greatness that is open to everyone.
Ben Zoma continues: “Who is rich?” If we had to answer, we would probably point to someone like Bill Gates. Yet if you ask a wealthy person, he may well say he is not nearly as rich as people imagine. He has money, yes, but not really enough. In any case, wealth too seems to belong to a very small segment of society.
And then Ben Zoma says: “Who is rich? One who is happy with his portion” (Pirkei Avot 4:1). Wealth is not measured by the size of a bank account. A rich person is someone who is at peace with what he has, someone who is content with his life and not consumed by envy.
Suddenly, “rich” is no longer a label reserved for a tiny financial elite. It becomes something much more human and much more attainable.
Ben Zoma’s message is that the most important qualities in life should not be confined to a narrow elite. Wisdom, strength, and wealth are not meant for a select few. They are possibilities that belong to everyone.
The Holiday That Opens the Doors to Everyone
In many ways, that is exactly what happens on the Seder night. More than any other holiday, the Seder is built to include everyone. Around the table sits not only the wise child, but also the rebellious one, the simple one, and even the one who does not yet know how to ask.
Other holidays do not highlight this idea quite as strongly. Even on Yom Kippur, when we begin Kol Nidrei by declaring that we are permitted to pray together with transgressors, not everyone knows how to pray. But everyone knows how to eat, and everyone has a place at the Passover Seder. In the “Four Questions” as well, the structure is telling: the youngest child asks first. Once the little child, barely able to get the words out, is given the floor, everyone else already feels more comfortable, no matter how much they know or do not know.
That, really, is one of the secrets of Judaism’s success in preserving its traditions. It was never kept in the hands of a narrow elite. Judaism became the inheritance of the entire people. Every Jew sitting at a Seder table is part of the story and part of the chain of transmission.
That was also the great achievement of the Chasidic movement. Until about three hundred years ago, in much of Eastern Europe, Torah knowledge was concentrated in the hands of a small scholarly class. Most Jews could not read well, and certainly did not have the opportunity to study deeply, so many felt that they were standing outside the picture. Then Chasidism came along and said: closeness to G-d is not reserved for great scholars. Anyone who turns sincerely to G-d can reach Him. Even a child crying out in simple earnestness can shake heaven.
Chasidism taught that what G-d truly wants is the heart—“Rachmana liba ba’i” (Sanhedrin 106b). That is something every person can bring. It opened the circle wider and drew everyone in. In the words of the prayers, “all are beloved, all are chosen, all are holy.” That is why, within a relatively short time, the Chasidic movement spread so powerfully across Eastern Europe.
The Rebbe, whose 124th birthday we marked this week, carried that same idea forward through the Ten Mitzvah Campaigns. If a Jew puts on tefillin even once, or drops a few coins into a charity box, that person has already created a point of connection with G-d.
And that may be the larger message: whenever we do a mitzvah or create a meaningful Jewish experience, we should try to include as many other Jews as possible. The more people who share in it, the greater the chance that it will live on into the next generation.
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