I’m A Believer In Free Speech But This Morning I Censored Myself

It was a tough call until I received some inspiration from a Jewish tradition

I had a post this morning ready to go that addressed controversial topics including the war in Gaza and issues of free speech. In it I expressed views I knew would upset people.

I was proud of this post. I worked as hard on it as I have on any other post. Maybe more so.

The inciting incident that led me to decide against sending it happened last night as I realized just how angry people on Substack were getting at each other regarding the same issues I was writing about in my post.

The last thing I wanted to do was add to the anger.

I questioned whether my self-censorship meant I was being inauthentic, or not brave enough, or even cowardly.

What rescued me was a minor character in my unsent post, one of the lamedvavniks, the Yiddish word for the 36 hidden saints.

There’s a Jewish tradition or legend that there are a minimum of 36 hidden saints alive in the world at any one time. On the merit of these 36, the very existence of the world depends.

Further, the legend holds that the lamadvavniks were “plain folk,” humble in appearance and occupation, the point being that any Jew, even the most outwardly lowly, could be one of them. The lamadvavniks would themselves be unaware that they were one of the chosen 36.

Last Sunday, I attended the funeral of a great Jewish teacher and leader, Rabbi David Ellenson. One of the eulogists put forth the idea that Rabbi Ellenson might have been a lamedvavnik.

Having encountered the legend of the lamedvavnik in researching my post, I was confused.

Rabbi Ellenson had many wonderful qualities, including humility and generosity of spirit, but he was not “plain folk.” He was acknowledged at the funeral as one of the leading lights of Jewish scholarship and Jewish teaching of the past fifty years. How could such an accomplished man be a lamedvavnik?

So I emailed my own rabbi and asked him about this apparent contradiction. My rabbi had spoken at the funeral and had known Rabbi Ellenson well.

My rabbi told me that it was a Hasidic tradition for students to believe their rebbe to be a lamedvavnik only to find out that it wasn’t possible given the high status of rebbes. Because the lamedvavniks came from the vast pool of laborers and peddlers and tailors, people you wouldn’t suspect of being saints and sages.

However, my rabbi told me about a characteristically Jewish workaround, somewhat mystical. When the greatest of rebbes denied, categorically, that it was possible for them to be a lamedvavnik, they displayed such a high degree of humility that their denial actually then qualified them for potential lamedvavnik status.

In any case, the overall brilliance of this tradition is that any of us could be one of the 36 on whose behavior the fate of the world depends, and not know it. That means all of us have to behave well. Or else.

Maybe we’re down to 35 or 34 chosen, and that’s why things in the world seem lately to have gone awry. Or maybe a few of the chosen 36 have been less than saintly. Anything’s possible.

To be clear, I’m not claiming to be a lamedvavnik (such a thought would disqualify me!) But then again, I can’t be 100% certain that I am not.

And so my takeaway is that I need to behave as if I were a lamedvavnik, just in case the world depends on the merit of my behavior. Thirty-six out out of 15 million Jews is a long shot, but not an impossibility.

And since I know that a lamedvavnik would not send out the post I had written, because it would add to the anger of an already angry world, I didn’t send it.

Better to act as if and be safe rather than sorry.

Question for the Comments

Have you ever decided at the last minute not to send a piece of writing, whether an essay, letter, email,