Sacred Speech Series

Jewish Family Education with Candace R. Kwiatek, The Dayton Jewish Observer

Meshka, the village kvetch, couldn’t stop complaining. She grumbled about her aching body and too-small house. She whined about her daughter’s infrequent visits. She fretted about her son, lazy as “a bump on a kosher pickle.”

One morning, Meshka’s complaining tongue began to itch. Suddenly, her house shrank, and her aching feet swelled. Her daughter forgot her altogether, and her son turned into a pickle.

Meshka poured out her troubles to the village rabbi who nodded thoughtfully and advised, “Replace your grumbling with gratitude.”

So Meshka complimented her son’s diligence in his studies and delighted in her daughter’s regular monthly visits. She noted her sturdy home’s coziness and gave thanks that, despite her age, she could be on the go all day.

It didn’t take long for Meshka’s new outlook to change her life and that of her village for the better.

Although about gratitude, Meshka’s tale also highlights a common flaw in everyday speech: a tendency for “I” to be the sole perspective of the speaker or the focal point of an interaction.

Self-expression — sharing thoughts, feelings, attitudes, values and other aspects of one’s unique identity—is, of course, essential for communicating with others.

But “I” has a myopic view of the world that works as a feedback loop according to modern psychology research, reinforcing one’s own views — for better or worse.

Drawing upon centuries of Jewish wisdom, Meshka’s rabbi implies much the same, hinting that speech reflects a person’s perspective, which in turn shapes their reality.

In keeping with the famous rabbinic teaching, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” Judaism encourages honest, authentic self-expression through speech.

At the same time, it’s not to be an exercise in egocentrism, as the adage continues, “If I am only for myself, what am I?”

In Judaism, a primary purpose of speech is to foster understanding and connections between individuals. This builds relationships and communities.

To accomplish this, “I”-centered speech must be balanced by, in the words of many scholars, “an awareness of one’s place in the larger community and one’s relationship with God.”

Examples abound in Jewish texts. Petitioning Moses for the right to inherit their father’s land, the daughters of Zelophehad exclaimed, “Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son!”

When God asked the newly-anointed King Solomon what he desired, he responded, “Grant your servant an understanding mind to judge Your people, to distinguish between good and bad.”

In a Talmudic text, the first-century sage Rabbi Tarfon recalls having learned a specific law, but admits, “I cannot explicate the distinction, as I do not remember what it was.”

We may not realize how often our speech is “I”-focused, as in the following examples. But simply being more mindful as we talk can make a huge difference in the content and quality of our speech.

Interrupting. As a native New Yorker, Rabbi Bonnie Koppell writes, “Interrupting was a way of life. It was the only way to be heard… So imagine my shock when I moved to Arizona and discovered that people found me to be rude when I interrupted.”

Linguist Deborah Tannen notes that interrupting is a typical Jewish conversational style that can show engagement or validation of another’s ideas, but it can also signal a lack of listening. In either case, Pirke Avot warns that “a wise man…does not break into his fellow’s speech…”

One-upmanship. When God searched for a suitable high place upon which to give the Torah, midrash teaches, the mountains squabbled with one another for the honor, each boasting its qualities to be superior. All except Mount Sinai, which God ultimately chose because of its humility.

To keep self-confidence and humility — “I”-focus and “other-focus — in balance, Reb Simcha Bunim taught that everyone should have two pockets. In one should be a note saying, “For my sake the world was created,” and in the other a note saying, “I am but dust and ashes,” to be read as needed for uplift or grounding.

Peremptoriness. Reb Yaakov Yitzchak of Pshischah sent several students to a distant hamlet where one of the locals offered to prepare a meat meal for them. The students immediately began interrogating him about the meticulousness of his kashrut, all the while critiquing, intimidating, judging, even belittling their host. A beggar nearby eventually commented, “With regard to what goes into your mouths, you are scrupulous. Yet, regarding what comes out of your mouths, you make no inquiries at all!” Chastened, the students returned much wiser to Pshischah.

Speechless. The 19th-century British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli was once asked by a parliament member if the MP should weigh in on a controversial discussion.

“Do you have anything new to add?” Disraeli asked.

“No,” the legislator conceded, “I just want to be on record as having participated in the debate.”

Disraeli answered, ‘It is better to remain silent and have people say, “I wonder what he’s thinking,’ than to speak up and have people say, ‘I wonder why he spoke.”

Disraeli’s contemporary and a renowned Bible commentator, the Malbim discovered similar wisdom in the verse from Ecclesiastes, “A time to remain silent and a time to speak.”

“It is possible for a person not to remain silent, and yet say nothing,” he noted after hearing a particularly vacuous speech.

“The Baal Shem Tov taught that a person is born with a fixed number of words to speak, and when they are spoken, the person dies,” notes Rabbi Rami Shapiro. Every word counts, self-serving or relationship-building, meaningful communication or empty, idle talk. “The next time you are about to utter a word,” Shapiro exhorts, “ask yourself whether the word is worth dying for.”

**Clarification**
A reader raised a question about fulfilling promises, which I addressed in last month’s column. To clarify, when giving one’s word, whether in the form of a covenant, oath, vow, or promise, the obligation must be fulfilled. However, already in Ecclesiastes 5:3-4, in the era of Israel’s kings, doubts were raised about the advisability of making vows because they were being made inappropriately or left unfulfilled.

This perspective was later amplified by the rabbis of the Talmud, to the point that those who fulfilled their vows were called “wicked and sinners”— not because they fulfilled them, but because they made vows in the first place (Nedarim 22a, 77b).

The modern expression bli neder (no vow) paired with a promise or similar commitment is an extension of these earlier views, but in no way allows for treating promises lightly or lessens one’s obligation to keep their word.

Literature to share

The Forgotten Italian Restaurant by Barbara Josselsohn. An aged, handwritten restaurant menu discovered by a young woman in her family’s Connecticut home. A journey to a picturesque Italian village, one that hid Jews from the Nazis and from which the woman’s grandmother fled, never to return. A secret with grave consequences uncovered. This multigenerational story by a bestselling author offers fans of historical fiction a fast-paced tale filled with adventure, betrayal, courage, and even a bit of romance.

Barefoot in the Sand by Hava Deevon. As a young boy living in Romania, Saul dreamed of living in the Promised Land, as did Solomon, who lived in Yemen. Eventually they both make their way to Israel where they chance to meet on the beach. At first they seem to be different in every way, but something magical happens when Saul begins to chant the Hallel prayer (Psalm), “When the Jews left Egypt…” A powerful story for elementary ages about Jews’ deep connections to the Land of Israel and to each other.

To read the complete September 2025 Dayton Jewish Observer, click here.