Chodesh Tov Umevorach, the month of Kislev, the month of miracles, and we are anticipating them, B'ezrat Hashem, amen (so be it).
So we're in Ein Yaakov. If you're following in the English, it's on page 47: “Amar le-Rabbi Yirmiya le-Rabbi Zera.” Rabbi Yirmiya tells Rabbi Zera, “Come and teach me some halachot (Jewish law).” He says, “I feel weak. I'm unable.” It seems that when you want to discuss Jewish law, you need your faculties working at 100%. You need to be strong. Jewish law is very, very fragile; you can't make a mistake. So he said, “No, no, I'm too weak to give you a halachic discourse.” So he told him, “Fine, so give me an aggadic (non-halachic teaching), a chiddush (novel insight) on a pasuk (verse) or something.” He said, “Fine.” It's an amazing thing. These rabbis had a chiddush on the tip of their tongues. Usually, if somebody asks you to speak, you need two weeks' notice so you can prepare a five-minute talk that you heard from somebody else. Here, he tells him on the spot, “Say something.” He's not going to say something that he's regurgitating from somebody else. This is a novel item that he just spits off the tip of his tongue, and it becomes an instant classic. And this is the rabbi who was too tired to give over a halachic discourse. Boom, right away he says a chiddush. So you see that you always have to be ready. You never know when somebody's going to ask you for a Devar Torah (Torah thought).
“Amar (he said) Rabbi Chama bar Chanina: mai dikhtiv (what does it say) in the book of Devarim?” “Ki ha'adam etz hasadeh.” All right, that's a pasuk. The pasuk says, “For a person is a tree of the field.” Now, is that possible? There's a pasuk that says that, that “ki ha'adam etz hasadeh.” Rashi explains the verse as asking rhetorically: Is the tree of the field a person, that it should suffer like the people of the besieged city? Why should you destroy it? We understand that when you're besieging a city, you kill its inhabitants. But the Torah says don't chop the trees down, because the people need the trees to eat. So the pasuk asks a rhetorical question: Is man a tree? I understand why you have to kill the men of the besieged city, but that doesn't explain why you should kill the trees. A man is not a tree, so leave the trees alone. Trees are not the enemy, especially if it's a fruit tree. The Torah says you're not allowed to hack it down. On the contrary, leave it so the people can benefit. That's the simple way that Rashi learns the pasuk in the Torah.
Ibn Ezra and Ramban explain the verse as providing the reason not to destroy fruit-bearing trees: the tree of a field is the lifeline of a person. So they learn it literally: man sustains himself from the tree. What type of tree does man sustain himself from? A fruit tree, by the way.
So now, congratulations, we learned how to learn the pasuk of the Torah today. If somebody asks you in the street on the way out, “I'm reading Devarim, and I see a pasuk that says, ‘Ki ha'adam etz hasadeh.’ Can you explain simple pshat (simple meaning) to me?” Man is a tree. You have two interpretations. In one interpretation, Rashi learns that it's rhetorical: “Ki ha'adam etz hasadeh.” You're in a war. I understand you want to kill people, the enemy. But is the tree the enemy? Is the tree a person? He's not a combatant. Leave the trees alone.
The second interpretation is: Don't destroy fruit trees. You know why? Because man's lifeline is sustained by the tree. Beautiful.
However, the Gemara is going to say something different. The Gemara understood it literally, that man is a tree. So the Gemara says, “Is that so? Certain trees that have fruit, you should eat from them, and you should not cut them down. But we have another pasuk that says certain trees you should actually destroy and cut down. Those are trees that don't produce fruit.” So if it's a fruit-bearing tree, if it's a non-fruit-bearing tree, the Gemara says, “Beautiful interpretation. Who's the tree?” It depends. If the Talmid Chacham (Torah scholar) is hagun, what does hagun mean? If he's befitting, then we say you should eat from him, learn from him, study from him. Meaning, don't run away from him; don't deprive yourself of his learning. But if he's not considered befitting, if he doesn't behave properly, then you should keep away from him. So the etz hasadeh (tree of the field) is talking about the Talmid Chacham. Some Talmidei Chachamim you should embrace, and some you shouldn't.
Now, if you look at the Hebrew side, we'll read the Rashi here, the way he explains it. Rashi says, “Ve'chi ha'adam etz hasadeh? Ela makish adam le'etz hasadeh. Mah etz hasadeh, im etz ma'achal...” It's comparing the man to the etz hasadeh. “Mah etz hasadeh, im etz ma'achal”—if he's a fruit tree, “mimenu tochal.” “Av Talmid Chacham, im hagun hu, mimenu tochal, mimenu tilmod.” Study from him. “Ve'im lav, oto tashchit.” But if he's not a proper Talmid Chacham, if he doesn't have the right behavior, then Rashi says, “Sur me'alav”—run away.
Now Tosafot has a question. Go to the right. That's exactly his question. Tosafot says, “Perush lemod lefanav ve-netol mimenu (Interpretation: learn before him and take from him),” meaning, “Lo tipared mimenu (Do not separate from him).” You don't have to find another rabbi if you've found a properly behaving Talmid Chacham who acts the right way. That means not only does he learn, but he practices what he learns and he's ethical. So there's no need to shop around. You found a guy. But if he's not such a person, then Tosafot has a question. We learn that you learn from a Talmid Chacham even if he's not befitting. As long as he's got the goods, he's got the wisdom, learn. And where do we understand that from? Rabbi Meir.
There was a great rabbi called Rabbi Meir. His rabbi was called Acher, Elisha ben Abuya. We know that Elisha ben Abuya, while he was a great rabbi—meaning he had the brains and he had the goods—was actually a Tanna (Mishnah-era sage) of the Mishnah. But he wasn't the most, what should I say, observant. The Gemara says that one day he went with his zonah (prostitute). I mean, some rabbi. But Rabbi Meir learned by him. So that goes against this Gemara. Tosafot says this Gemara is saying that if he's not hagun, run away and cut him down. Rabbi Meir said, “No, I found my rabbi.” Even though he wasn't the most, let's say, well-behaved fellow, he learned from him nonetheless. So Tosafot asks, how? Only a scholar who is already a scholar can learn from those types of guys, because they can sift. They're able to take the good and leave the bad. Rabbi Meir actually said about himself, when they questioned him, “How did you learn by this guy? He's not a good guy?” He said, “I ate the fruit and threw away the peel.”
The problem with a regular novice is that he's not going to know what the peel is and what the fruit is. He might eat the fruit with the peel, or he might spit out the fruit and eat the peel. So when it comes to a novice, you have to learn by a Talmid Chacham where you can accept everything from him without having to filter and sift. Meir was an exception, Tosafot says. He was already a Talmid Chacham. So it seems he didn't start learning with Elisha when he was young. It seems that after he was already a veteran, he started to learn with Elisha, so he trusted himself to be able to protect himself from Elisha's negative influences. So that's Tosafot.
Now let's go to Ein Yaakov. Ein Yaakov says, “Beautiful explanation, beautiful explanation.” Look at Ein Yaakov: “Mimenu tochal ve'oto tichrot...” The Gemara says, “Where the tree falls...” But you still have the fruit in the place where the tree falls. For example, when the tree falls, what happens? All the fruits fall off the tree, so the fruits are found where the tree falls. Similarly, when the Talmid Chacham passes away, the fruits are still there, because the students have already heard all of his statements. And what do the students do when the rabbi passes away? They say, “I heard this from my rabbi.” So the rabbi never dies, because the Gemara says that whenever you quote your rabbi by name, you give him a zechut (merit) in the afterlife. The Talmid Chacham lives on through his students, who are always quoting him.
And that's what it means: a Talmid Chacham that has perot, fruits. What does it mean that he has perot? It means he taught. If you're a Talmid Chacham who taught, he has perot; he didn't keep the Torah to himself. So the fruits will outlive him when the students quote him, and that will be a zechut for him in the next world. And so the pasuk is saying that the rabbi will never be cut off. His teachings, especially if he wrote a book, will continue; every time somebody reads the book, the Gemara says, the lips of the Chacham (sage) move in the grave whenever you quote him. So it really gives the Chacham life.
But watch: Let's say the Talmid Chacham was a scholar, but he had a bad reputation and bad behavior. The Rav says, “Don't quote him. Don't quote the guy,” because you don't want to give this guy any afterlife. So if he's a Talmid Chacham hagun (a worthy Torah scholar), quote him. But if he's not a Talmid Chacham hagun, cut him down. How do you cut him down? Don't quote his name in his past. So that's the first interpretation of today.
Now we get to the second one. What does it mean in the pasuk? What does it mean in the pasuk? Before we go to the next one, I'm seeing here in Likuteem. It caught my eye. Look at the bottom on page Dalet Sheen, all the way on the right margin. You see Likuteem? All the way down: “even the idle chatter of you can't take it lightly.” Why? Wow, you can learn fear of God and wisdom. The tzaddik (righteous person) never talks idle chatter. The tzaddik, even when it sounds like he's talking regular stuff, there's chiddushim, there's secrets, there's kavanot (intentions). And therefore it says, if he's a Talmid Chacham hagun, meaning, eat from the tree. When you have a tree, the fruits are the Divrei Torah (words of Torah), that's the fruit, and the bark is the mundane stuff. So they're saying, if he's a Talmid Chacham hagun, eat from the tree. Even the bark is valuable. Even the non-Torah stuff, the fruit for sure you'd eat; that's the main item. But even the bark of the Talmid Chacham, which represents the stuff that normally you would call, “He's just shooting the breeze, idle chatter.” No, I believe that's what the Ben Ish Chai says. And therefore, a Talmid Chacham hagun—what does hagun mean? Hagun means he's befitting. Everything about the Talmid Chacham hagun is bright. Not only is his Torah bright, but even his regular talk.
When you catch the Talmid Chacham in the hallway and he's talking about politics and other stuff, don't discount that and say, “I can listen with half an ear because we're not in front of an Ein Yaakov.” No, anything that comes out of the Talmid Chacham's mouth is bright.
Now, how do you say bright in Hebrew? You can say or. You want to be a little more sophisticated; the $10 word would be Nogah. What is Nogah? Bright. What is the word hagun backwards? Nogah. So the Ben Ish Chai says that's why we call the Talmid Chacham hagun, because everything that comes out of his mouth is bright and illuminating and inspiring. Therefore: hagun, otiyot (letters), Nogah.
Now, I'll give you an example. Jaime, can you bring me a Chumash, Ramban, and Bereshit? I'll tell you a story. The Ramban in our parasha says a big chiddush. Chayei Sarah. I didn't say it over on Shabbat, but I'll say it over now. Remember when Rivka came back on the camels, and what did she see? She saw Yitzchak. What was Yitzchak doing? That's what you say the Torah says. What was he doing? He was having a conversation. You guys are so religious, so you say, “Oh, conversation. Somebody doesn't have conversations.” So you follow Rashi. Rashi says, “So what was he doing?” He was praying. From here the rabbis learned that Yitzchak was establishing the prayer of Mincha (afternoon prayer). Good, lasuach, he was praying. Then, when Rivka saw Yitzchak, it says she fell off the camel.
I once said, “Why did she fall off the camel?” Because this was the first time somebody ever prayed Mincha before. She thought he was praying Shacharit (morning prayer) at 5 o'clock in the afternoon. She's all, “Uli, this is my shidduch (match). Pull up the camel.” She didn't know that it was Mincha. She thought he was a lazy guy who gets up late and prays Mincha at 5 o'clock in the afternoon. “No, no, no, he just made up Mincha.” “Oh, Mincha, okay, he's okay.” Anyway, that's Rashi.
Look at the Ramban. The Ramban says, “He's taking a walk. He's taking a walk.” Talking to some friends. He's talking. Having an afternoon chat. Walking with some of the boys. Unbelievable. She's lofty. And then the Ramban—no, let's have a conversation. Who was he having a conversation with? The fellas. Unbelievable. Talk about disparate interpretations. Rashi makes Yitzchak Avinu into who he is, one of the Avot. And the Ramban says, you know, the pasuk doesn't say he prayed Mincha. He says he went to be lasuach. An afternoon walk, a nice day outside, shooting the breeze a little. The only question according to the Ramban is, why would I need to know that? I would need to know that he was making up Mincha; that's an important fact to know. But how Yitzchak spends his afternoons on a spring day or fall day, when he just walks out and has a conversation, we don't need to know that.
So I'm going to tell you. There was a rabbi called the Admor (Hasidic rebbes) from Ropshitz. He was one of the great Admorim and the great Hasidic rabbis. One day, he's in the kitchen, and the students hear him saying, “I need milk. Where's the milk? There's no milk. I need milk.” So they run around and bring him the milk. The students were a little shocked. The rabbi is so particular. He needs milk. Where's the milk? “I can't live without my milk. Where's my milk?”
Shortly thereafter, a lady came to him and said that she had just given birth, her milk wasn't coming in, and she didn't know what to do with the baby. The rabbi said, “B'ezrat Hashem, everything will be okay.” The students realized that when the rabbi was asking for milk, it sounded like he was asking his wife for milk for his Cheerios. But actually, he already knew this lady needed the milk, so he couched his request, he couched his prayer, in a regular mundane request.
When they brought him the milk, he said, “You call this milk? It's green. What kind of milk is it? How am I supposed to drink this milk?” After he said that, the lady came back and said, “My milk is coming in, but it's green, not coming in fresh.” The rabbi said, “Don't worry, I took care of that already for you.” The rabbi was actually praying for the lady, but he made it a regular conversation. Why? Because the Zohar HaKadosh says that sometimes, when a person makes his prayer explicit, Satan is able to grab onto it. But if the tzaddik sometimes just talks regularly, Satan doesn't realize that he's actually making a prayer. So he says, “Ah, Rabbi, they're asking for milk,” while his kavanot are, “I'm asking for milk because this lady needs the milk.” But Satan lets him go.
So based on this, we can explain what the Ramban is saying: this is the day that he's going to get his shidduch, and he knows that Satan is going to jeopardize it and sabotage it. So what does the pasuk say? He's having a conversation. To me and you, it looks like he's having a conversation, but who knows what type of tefillot (prayers) were couched in that conversation he was having, to the extent that I can even say he established tefillat Mincha there. They're both right. It was tefillat Mincha, but he made it like it was a conversation. And, by the way, the Ramban then quotes the Mincha in the next line, almost as if to say we can say both. What does that mean? Sometimes even the sichah (conversation), even the regular conversation of the tzaddik, has value, and on purpose they keep it in a conversational way just in order not to reveal it.
Now I'll give you another example. Again, if you're dealing with Talmidei Chachamim, they're always up to something. It's always up to something. You walk away and say the guy's a glutton, all he cares about is yelling at his wife about the milk. He doesn't care about the milk. He's praying for this lady over here who needs milk in order to nurse her baby.
Go to Parashat Vayishlach. You can't go to it because you don't have a book. I have a book, so I'm going to go to it for you. Remember when Yaakov Avinu meets up with Esav after many years of exile? What does the pasuk say when he meets up with him? The pasuk says—pasuk Gimel in Perek Lamed Gimel (chapter thirty-three): “Ve'hu avar lefnehem (And he passed on before them).” It says Yaakov goes in front of all of his family. “Vayeshtach hu artzah sheva pe'amim,” and he bows seven times. So it sounds like he's bowing to his brother, and the Gemara actually has a question: “What is he bowing to his brother?” You don't bow to people. But the Zohar HaKadosh says no, he was bowing—it looked like he was bowing to his brother, but meanwhile, in the seven bowings, he was actually having kavanot that he was bowing in front of HaKadosh Baruch Hu.
Even though the news that night picked it up as Yaakov bowing to his brother seven times, he bowed down. But if you open up the news of the Bet El channel, they'll tell you, “If you only knew what these seven bowings did! These seven bowings were an Amidah (standing prayer), and he was chopping off the klipot (spiritual husks), and with each bowing he was able to weaken one of the forces of Esav.” And Yaakov Avinu, alav hashalom, his name is Yaakov, and how much does Yaakov equal? It equals 182. I know that number doesn't mean anything to you, but 182 is actually divisible by 26, the name of Hashem. How many 26s go into 182? That's called basic division. The way you would do that is 26 divided by 182 divided by 26. Do you have a calculator? Seven times, very good, Charles. So when it says he bowed seven times, each time he bowed was connected to another one of Yaakov Avinu's powers. Every time he bows, he's energizing himself and knocking down Esav, seven times 26. Yaakov—that's kavanot, although to the amateuristic eye it looks like he's just bowing down.
So that's many, many examples where you see tzaddikim, even their routine actions and regular behavior, actually have depth. That's the way the Ben Ish Chai learns it: with a Talmid Chacham hagun, not only should you eat from his fruits, but you should also eat from the tree. The tree that he has to offer is just as sweet.
Now let's go to the next piece. “Amar Rabbi Chama bar Chanina, mai dikhtiv: barzel bebarzel yachad.” Barzel bebarzel means iron sharpens iron. The end of the pasuk says, “Ve'ish yachad pene re'ehu (And one man sharpens another),” that just like iron sharpens iron, one scholar sharpens the other. “Ve'amar decha: mah barzel zeh, echad mechaded et chaveiro (As people say: one piece of iron sharpens another).” How do you sharpen a knife? You can only sharpen a knife with another knife. You take the other knife and start to sharpen it, and all of a sudden, together they're able to have a chidud (sharpening). Beautiful. So, two scholars, how do they sharpen themselves? They need to have a chavruta (study partner). When you have a chavruta, what happens? He says a statement. The other guy says, “What are you talking about?” “Oh yeah, it can't be like that; it has to be like this.” “No, it means this.” Then they go back and forth. That back-and-forth study with a partner is like two pieces of metal rubbing against each other, causing them both to become sharpened.
Now I'll explain it a little deeper. Let's say you have rust on a knife. The knife itself cannot de-rust itself. You need another knife to come along and scrape off the rust, make it sharp again, and take away the dullness. Similarly, when a person learns by himself, he's rusty. What does that mean? When you learn by yourself, you don't have a check on whether you're learning correctly or not. The person's learning alone, so his mind thinks a certain way, and there's nobody there to tell him that it's rusty. There's nobody there to say, “Your thinking is flawed. You didn't think it correctly.” So who's going to take the rust off a scholar's brain? Another scholar, who says, “Wait, you're making a mistake.” Oh, to the other bar. Watch, because you were here. If you weren't there, we wouldn't be able to come to the truth.
So when you see two scholars learning with each other, although it looks combative—and it is combative—when two scholars learn together, they're fighting with each other, no different from two knives rubbing against each other. Although it looks violent, it's actually not. Two knives scraping each other is actually productive. Both knives leave that ceremony sharper and cleaner. So too when they study. So therefore, it's—
Now if you look at some of the—let's look at the Maharsha. The Maharsha says, “What is this doing here?” We're talking here about what we learned in yesterday's daf (page). Yesterday's daf, what did we learn? If he's—then his Torah is like dew, but if he's not, it's like torrential rain, and he should be washed away. And when we say that you're learning for the sake of understanding, not for honor, not for glory, not to be a wise guy, not to criticize, the Maharsha says this Gemara is continuing that idea: when you see two Rabbis learning with each other and battling each other, don't think that that combativeness is bad. Don't think that that's not—because we said yesterday you can't learn the kanter. And what does the kanter mean? You can't learn if you're going to use your Torah to weaponize it.
Fine, but that's not what it means when you see two guys learning. Two guys learning is actually a positive thing. One time, Rabbi Dayan and I were in the kolel (Torah study hall), learning. An old man, Mr. Maris Bader, alav hashalom, used to live on East 9th Street, and he used to walk to the kolel. The old man was retired, and he would sit with us. Fine. In certain sessions, the rabbi and I would get heated, we'd get feisty. The rabbi would say, “What you're talking about? That's not the way you learn.” “No, this way,” back and forth. But we're the best of friends, and Mr. Bader didn't understand that that's the nature of learning. So he used to get all nervous: “Guys, guys, come on, can't you get along with each other? That's why the Beit HaMikdash was destroyed, the Beit HaMikdash was destroyed because we didn't have a day in the learning Torah.” I don't have no sinat chinam (baseless hatred) for this guy. I don't hate the guy at all. I'd have to love the guy. We'd go for lunch after. “But come on, this is Hashem. He's upset about this.” “You're not upset, Morris. This is what you do. We're sharpening each other, and it gets a little, you know, the volume gets a little turned on, but at the end we leave the Midrash in peace.” And that's the Gemara saying. And the Gemara comes along and says one more line.
Now, Divrei Torah is also compared to fire. We know, “Esh Torah (fire of Torah).” “Shene'emar (as it is said): halo koh devari ka'esh, ne'um Hashem (Is not My word like fire, says Hashem).” God, my word is like fire. What's the comparison that Torah is like fire? When you want to make a fire, you can't use one twig. You need to put a few twigs in order for it to light. Especially to start a fire, you need two twigs to get the spark. So just as a fire cannot be lit alone, Torah needs a group. When you study in a group, the fire is able to become manifest. And Rashi says on the second line that you need a friend. You need a friend. So that's a big item, and that's why it's considered like fire: when you take a knife and start to rub it against another knife, the friction causes heat. Therefore, they're comparing learning with your chavruta to friction between ideas that creates a fire between them. But not a destructive fire. An esh haTorah.
Now, if that's the case, we understand one more thing. We'll look at Likuteem in a minute. We learn that whenever you see scholars learning, if you ever saw them, they're always moving. You see them shaking back and forth. And the question is, why? When you go to the public library, you see everybody just sitting there like stone, and everybody's quiet. If somebody sneezes, the whole place—it's a very, very—it's a morgue, because they're studying death. They're studying a lifeless book. So when you study a lifeless book, there's no talking. It's like the quiet train, it's a quiet car. You can't make any noise, no nothing. If a guy burps, the whole place gets up and calls security on the guy. But you come to the Beit Midrash (study hall), a lively place. Why? Because there's fire. And you ever see fire? Fire is always moving. So when the Chacham is learning, he's arousing the inner fire inside of him. Therefore, he's like a fire; he's always moving. His body is always moving like a flame that's flickering and going up and down. But when you're learning secular material in the library, there's no life to it, so it just causes the guy to be a humdrum guy, a deadbeat guy sitting there like this, like an inanimate object, like a rock. And that's it. He learns, and that's as exciting as it gets.
Now, if you look over here in the Likuteem, let's first look at the Rif. He says in the Rif that the Torah is compared to three things: to ash, to fire. It's also compared to a midbar, which is a desert, and mayim, water. And what's the connection between the three? These three things are free. Today they figured out how to charge us for water, but in the olden days, let's say water was available; it was free. The midbar, anybody can walk in the midbar for free. It's not considered trespassing. And fire, fire is free. So Torah is also free. The Talmid Chacham should be offering services for free. If the Torah is compared to three things, why does the Navi (prophet) specifically choose to compare it to fire more than the other three? The comparison is because fire has a feature that the other ones don't: it does not light or ignite on its own. You need other twigs to help it, to fuel it. Similarly, when it comes to the Torah, you need to study in a chavura (study group), and that's the inyan (idea) of pilpul (dialectical analysis).
And the Gemara then says, and we continue, “There should be a sword on the necks of that study alone.” God doesn't want to be part of the yeshiva. He doesn't want to be part of the—he's making a mistake. Not only is he making a mistake, but lo od ela shemetapshim (Moreover, they become foolish), because he's going to make mistakes. Rashi says on the third line, “Shemosifim tepshut (They add foolishness).” They end up becoming tepshim (fools). They're coming with the wrong conclusions because they don't have a chavruta to tell them the emet (truth). “Shene'emar...” They become sinners because they're going to come out with the wrong conclusion. They're going to come and learn Hilchot Shabbat (laws of Shabbat) alone, without the rabbi, without the students, without their friends, and what's going to happen? They're going to come along and say, “Oh yeah, this should be permissible.” They go and tell their wives, “I learned that today; it's permissible,” and the next day everybody's turning on the item, whatever they're doing, and he thinks he's right. Had he learned it with a group, they might have told him, “No, you missed one point. There's Tosafot, there's a Rif, there's another opinion.” So the pasuk says that they become sinners.
Why is Torah compared to a tree? Yesterday we compared it to a tree because we said that they used to use trees for medicinal purposes, so the Torah, if administered correctly, can be medicinal; it can be an elixir of life. If it's put in a person who's not proper, it can actually have a negative effect on him. But here it says, just as you light a fire with a little twig, even if you have a big fireplace and giant pieces of wood, the little twig is the kindling, and that lights the big log. Similarly, who motivates the Talmid Chacham—or not motivates, who teaches the Talmid Chacham? The younger student. How can the younger student teach the Talmid Chacham? By his questions. A lot of times the Chacham is learning, and one guy asks a question. That forces the Talmid Chacham to crystallize his idea. It forces him to review it. “Ah, you have a good point. Let's say it this way.” So don't think that because you're not on the same aptitude level as the Chacham, you don't have a function. The function of the Talmid Chacham is to have students who are not embarrassed to ask, because they sharpen the Chacham.
And that's why the Gemara says, or Pirkei Avot says, “HaBayshan lamed (The shy one learns).” The shy student is not a good student. He's not good for himself, and he's not good for the rabbi. It's a two-pronged problem. The shy student is too embarrassed to ask questions, so he's not going to know. But if he's too embarrassed to ask, he's not going to show up in front of the rabbi. A lot of times the rabbi will say something, and the student's question allows him to say it a little better. And therefore it's the smaller wood that lights the big wood.
Exactly. And that's why it says in the name of Rabbi Hanina, “Harbeh lamadeti merabotai (I learned much from my teachers).” He said, “I learned a lot from my rabbis,” and from my—I learned even more from my rabbis, because my rabbis are teaching. When I'm learning from my—I'm sharpening myself. You know what I learned the most from? From my students. Why? Because of their questions, and because I had to repeat it, and I had to figure out how to say it in the clearest way. So the student actually makes his rabbi smart.
We once explained for the Ben Ish Chai, that's why, if you look at the letter Lamed, the letter Lamed represents teaching. How do I know? Lamed, Lamed. Lamed means to teach. Now the Lamed is actually made up of three parts. It has the high part, and then you have the horizontal part, and then you have the part that goes down. This comes and teaches me the three different people that you learn from. That's the top of the Lamed, that's the high part. The chaverai (my friends) is your equal. That's why it's the horizontal. It represents somebody that's higher than you, but somebody that's equal to you. But he says, which is lower than you. So the letter Lamed actually is—got it?
And the Holy Prophet said, “Dasha Kadosh Barukhul, Zekot Yisrael Fikach, Elba Elayim, Tzad Shofar Sema Tzidko, L'Yid Tora Mi Yadir...”