Those deficiencies we see in others are really there in ourselves

“If a person has a wound of tzaraas, he should be brought to the Kohein.” (Vayikra 13:9)

Chazal say the words, “he should be brought to a Kohein,” to teach that even a Kohein himself must go to another Kohein to determine the status of his own nega’im. Why? Says the Gemara (Negaim 2:5), “A person can see all afflictions besides his own” (Rav Yaakov Neiman, Darchei Mussar).

I faced my grandson determinedly, feeling slightly ridiculous with this standoff. “No, Savta doesn’t let you bring the tricycle inside. You can ride it outside.”

“Uh-uh,” he said, his chin set stubbornly as he stood his ground. “I want to ride inside.”

“If you want to ride inside you can take the small plastic car. But not the tricycle. Tricycles are for outside.”

Looking down at his adorable little face, I wanted to laugh, but kept my expression carefully stern. I was the adult here and needed to enforce my rules. But I couldn’t help inwardly laughing at this battle of wills. It takes one to know one.

It’s human nature to recognize faults in a friend, but not in yourself. Mishlei (4:25) says: “Let your eyes look forward, and let your eyelids look straight ahead of you.” Why does the pasuk mention both eyes and eyelids?

A person is accustomed to looking at his friend’s deficiencies. He notices the slightest fault. But when it comes to himself, he won’t see even a huge deficiency.

Therefore, the pasuk is saying, it’s good for our eyes to look toward our friend, seeing his faults, as long as we care to help him improve. But we must also look immediately straight ahead at ourselves, and we’ll notice that we’re afflicted with the same middah.

Family lore has it that I was an extremely obstinate toddler. (Notice I didn’t use the word stubborn. I just held to my beliefs.) I didn’t throw tantrums; I just stood my ground. Or rather, didn’t stand. At two years old, I refused to walk. Sure, I knew how to walk. If you held my hand, I walked perfectly well. If you even held my little finger, I continued to walk well. But if you let go completely, I immediately dropped down on all fours to crawl. It was the principle of the matter. Don’t argue with a two-year-old’s perspective.

Rav Yisrael Salanter told the story of a chazzan, a real yerei Shamayim, who was a shaliach tzibbur for the Yamim Noraim. The chazzan stood before the aron and davened, but then thoughts of gaavah started sneaking into his heart:  Surely all are praising me for the pleasantness of my davening.

While he was thinking these proud thoughts, the yetzer tov tried to get him back on track and screamed: How can you be so proud on the Day of Judgment?

He managed to continue davening properly, but again these proud thoughts entered his heart.

How can he control these thoughts? Says Rav Yisrael Salanter, he should think to himself that if he were to remove his tallis, he’d see that the congregation wasn’t enjoying his tefillah at all. Rather, he should imagine that they are mocking him. He’s sitting there in his own world, covered by a tallis, but he’s missing what’s really going on. Picturing such a scenario will cure him immediately of proud thoughts.

So, too, with all middos. A person’s imagination roams free. Our yetzer hara is sitting at the portals of our heart, ready to point out the faults of others. But we need to remove our “tallis,” our covering of reality, and let ourselves see straight in front of us — that those deficiencies we see in others are really there in ourselves.

I may have grown up (I haven’t crawled for years… probably can’t anymore!), but the personality hasn’t budged. Oh, I’m more diplomatic than I used to be. I try tact, persuasion, explanation — I have years of practice in this field. But when push comes to shove, I dig in, just like my grandson. Apparently, stubbornness genes are dominant.

“Savta said no,” I repeated, my chin set identically to his.

I was curious who’d win this one. For me it was a win-win situation. If I won — well, no-brainer. But if I’d capitulate, it would be fun, too, witnessing the next generation of obdurate offspring.  A chip off the ol’ stubborn block. May the best akshan win.

 (Originally featured in Family First, Issue 839)