Coming from America, it's only natural that I am a baseball fan. Often, when a player hits a home run, he will raise his arms heavenward as if thanking God for his success. But what about the poor pitcher from the opposing team who gave up the home run? Has God abandoned him? Well, that's life I tell myself; for every winner there is a loser.
This is a message a friend of mine successfully taught his son many years ago, a lesson I tried very hard to avoid teaching mine. We were both fathers of teenage sons, but our outlooks on life were so different.
My friend, a hard-driving and successful businessman, wanted his son to learn that the world is a tough place and only those with a drive to win succeed. I, on the other hand, wanted my son to feel good about himself, to feel self-confident. I measured success differently from my friend. That's why, when the four of us played ping pong in the basement of our house, my friend almost always beat his son, and I almost always let my son beat me.
Predictably, now many years later, my friend's son is a successful owner of an insurance agency; my son works at a Jewish foundation whose goal is "to repair and enrich the world through thriving Jewish life." It seems that both of us succeeded in passing along our differing philosophies of life to our sons.
What started out as a proclivity in me when raising my children has now become something of an eccentricity in my relationship with my grandchildren. Nowadays when my grandchildren suggest playing a board game where there are winners and losers, I demur. When my little grandson invites me to play "Goals" (in which whoever scores five goals first wins), I suggest we play "Kicks." I don't play checkers or chess with them - not that I have ever been asked - but I wouldn't even if asked. I have removed the competitive element from our relationship completely.
What applies to individuals may also apply to groups of people. Feeling special, feeling loved, is a wonderful thing. The Jewish people have always felt this way about ourselves. We know that we are a distinctive people, unique in many ways, and there's nothing wrong with that at all. However, too much of it may be a negative and harmful thing. In order to avoid even the appearance of this, Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionist Judaism, suggested a change in certain words of our liturgy. The Friday night Kiddush is a good example. Whereas, in the traditional blessing we say, "For You have chosen us and sanctified us from all the nations" (mi-kol ha-amim), Rabbi Kaplan suggested saying, "For You have chosen us and sanctified us along with all the nations" (im kol ha-amim).
Our rabbis of old were worldly men. They understood what makes the world go round, as they say. They believed that there is an impulse in us to gain power, control, and supremacy. They called it the inclination toward evil (ha-yetzer ha-rah). Without it, they said, no house would get built, no man would take a wife, no child would be born, no commerce would take place. In other words, it is a necessary evil.
On the other hand, they also believed that there is an impulse to generosity, cooperation, and reconciliation within us. They called this the inclination toward good (ha-yetzer ha-tov). In the Ethics of the Fathers (Pirkei Avot), they described what a person would be like if he had only one of these impulses: Whoever says, "What's mine is mine and what's yours is mine," is wicked; whoever says, "What's mine is yours and what's yours is yours," is saintly. They also described the person who has both impulses in him in equal measure: Whoever says, "What's mine is mine and what's yours is yours," is an average man.
Strikingly, they continue, some say that this is the characteristic of the residents of Sodom. Sodom is the Bible's prime example of a sinful society. How is it possible that it could be made up of average people? The rabbis are suggesting that average is not good enough, that societies become sinful when people are too self-centered and fail sufficiently to reach out to others. What purpose can there be for a religion other than to inspire its adherents, not to be better than others, but to better ourselves?