Judaism is a religion that doesn’t just encourage respect but mandates it as a religious obligation and duty—respect for one’s parents, elders, spouse, siblings, employees, even adversaries.

Yet, once you step into the study hall, all reverence is left at the door.

While there are many laws concerning the proper reverence accorded to one’s teachers,1 when it comes to the actual process of learning, students are encouraged to put all inhibiting etiquette aside. In fact, polite manners and common courtesy were sometimes suspended altogether for the sake of Torah study. For example,2 “Members of the house of R. Gamliel would not say ‘in good health’ (the equivalent of ‘bless you’) when someone sneezed in the study hall, so as not to disrupt their study.”

Shockingly, we even find instances of Sages hiding in their teacher’s bathroom or bedroom to learn firsthand about the spiritual approach to the private and intimate matters of life. When caught, the excuse they gave was always the same: “This too is Torah, and I must learn.”3

Certainly, respect for one’s teacher is a core value in Judaism, because teachers are a repository of learning, even considered to be akin to a “walking Torah scroll,” as the Talmud states, “How foolish are those who stand up for a Torah scroll but not for a great man [teacher].”4 However, when deference stands in the way of truth, such formalities must be discarded.5

This is because, at its root, learning is a journey of truth-seeking that requires a degree of ruthlessness. One Talmudic passage6 even makes this approach to study personal:

“What is the meaning of the phrase ‘enemies in the gate’ with regard to Torah study? R. Chiya bar Aba says: Even a father and his son, or a teacher and his student, who are engaged in Torah together in one gate become (temporary) enemies with each other due to the intensity of their studies.”

The Talmud7 even goes so far as to characterize Torah study as a kind of war, repeatedly referring to it as “the war of Torah.” This is because Torah study involves a combative dance of shakla v’tarya (Aramaic for give and take), a constant back and forth, a choreographed dialectical process intent on deconstructing old ideas and introducing new realizations.

This approach to learning is powerfully captured by the Hebrew word for teacher, rav, which is etymologically linked to the word riv, meaning battle. The function of a teacher is thus defined as creating and curating a constructive space for cognitive conflict and dissent, which is how we learn best.

Homeostasis, the natural tendency to seek out a stable equilibrium, is a deep-seated human trait. As such, we crave the comfort of closure and thus often settle for the most readily available answer. But such “closure” does just that—it closes us off from further questions as well as the curiosity behind them. This, in turn, makes it difficult to discover new insights, since an exploratory process requires us to first uproot our attachments to any previous understanding in order to consider new viewpoints and possibilities. In other words, to learn, we need to open our mind, the very opposite of “closure.”

Instead of quietly accepting what they are told, a good student should be taught to think critically and independently. Only after one has honestly grappled with an issue can they truly absorb it and make it their own. A good teacher is therefore not one who allows the student to remain comfortable, but one who proactively engages them in constructive provocation, inspiring them to question their assumptions and not take anything for granted.

Education expert James Nottingham describes the education process as “a learning pit,” where the teacher’s objective is to push the student into a proverbial pit by challenging them to confront and grapple with issues outside of their comfort zone that don’t necessarily fit neatly into their worldview. This is achieved by asking questions that shake up and poke holes in a student’s perception of reality. Such perspectival disorientation makes a person productively puzzled and unsettled, provoking them to actively wonder and wander outside their own box. Only once the student realizes how their thinking is stuck or has reached its limits does the teacher gently guide them out of the pit by providing the tools to help them arrive at a new realization—a eureka moment of sorts—which enables them to entertain a more nuanced and expansive picture of reality.

In many ways, traditional Torah study stands in stark contrast to the “safe space” environment that our modern culture now expects teachers and schools to provide. Of course, no student should ever feel like they are in any physical or emotional danger in the classroom. Indeed, the verse states: The words of the wise are heard when they are spoken gently,8 and the Sages teach that “an impatient person is not one who can teach.”9 However, they also add that “a timid person cannot learn.” Over-emphasizing a cognitive “safe space” and reinforcing a student’s dependence on a so-called comfort zone can engender intellectual laziness and overregulation, which are the enemies of learning.

In this spirit, R. Chaim of Volozhin suggests a novel interpretation of the passage in Ethics of Our Fathers10 that refers to a student’s regard for their teachers: “Vehevei mitavek baafar ragleihem,” which is usually translated as “sit at the dust of their feet.” However, the word mitavek more literally means “to wrestle.” Students are wrestlers, and study is a form of battle. Students are thus discouraged from blindly accepting the words of a teacher. If they have a valid question, it must be raised. Sometimes, it even turns out that the truth lies with the student, not with the teacher. In the words of R. Chanina in the Talmud, “I have learned much from my teachers, more from my colleagues, but most from my students.”11

This horizontally structured, battle-like approach to learning extends beyond the teacher/student relationship and applies to interactions between students as well. For almost three thousand years, from the Babylonian Talmudic academies of old to modern-day yeshivot, pairs of students, or chavrutot as they are called, engage in a dynamic process of collaborative learning, with each party challenging their partner’s thinking to break down previous assumptions in order to arrive at new and innovative ways to understand the subject matter. To someone who is unfamiliar with this style of learning, the chavruta system can appear to be competitive and combative. The seeming chaos and ruckus of multiple pairs of students yelling across a pile of open books can be unsettling to the uninitiated. However, as those who have experienced the intellectual urgency and spiritual camaraderie of chavruta learning know, it is also electrifying and extremely effective. Notably, the word chavruta shares a root with the Hebrew word for friend, chaver. This alludes to the crucial fact that such intellectual sparring stems from a place of fellowship. Just as in martial arts, where one’s sparring partner is a trusted companion, meant to help them learn, grow, and acquire new skills.

As it says in the Talmud12: “A prisoner cannot free themselves from prison.” We are each prisoners of our own perceptions. We need other people to help break us out of our limiting paradigms in order to glimpse a new horizon. Left to our own devices, we will forever return to our old ways of thinking and rigidified patterns of understanding. As R. Yosei son of R. Chanina teaches13: “Those who study alone grow foolish.”

As individuals, even if we may be willing to consider a new or different perspective, it is usually only within very specific parameters of association with which we already feel comfortable. To truly break out of an old paradigm and embrace a completely new reality, we need another person—a teacher, a sparring partner, a friend—someone who is unafraid to question our premises at their foundations and help us open our eyes to a whole new way of understanding Torah, ourselves, and the world. The war of Torah thus yields a love of learning in which all sides are victorious.

The Big Idea

The role of a teacher is not to teach his students what to think, but how to think

It Happened Once

The Talmud relates14 that R. Eliezer was once debating a matter of Jewish law with his colleagues:

..R. Eliezer cited all sorts of proofs [that his view was correct], but they were rejected. He said to them: “If the law is as I say, may the carob tree prove it.” The carob tree was uprooted from its place a distance of one hundred cubits. Others say it was four hundred cubits. They replied: “One cannot prove anything from a carob tree.”

[R. Eliezer] then said to them: “If the law is as I say, the stream will prove it.” The water in the stream began to flow backwards. Again they replied: “One cannot prove anything from a stream.”

He then said to them: “If the law is as I say, may the walls of the house of study prove it.” The walls of the house of study began to cave in. R. Yehoshua rebuked them [the walls] saying, “If Torah scholars are debating a point of Jewish law, what are your qualifications to intervene?” The walls did not fall, in deference to R. Yehoshua, nor did they straighten up, in deference to R. Eliezer. They still stand there at a slant.

[R. Eliezer] said to them: “If the law is as I say, may it be proven from heaven!” A heavenly voice then proclaimed: “What do you want of R. Eliezer? The law is as he says...”

R. Yehoshua stood up and cited the verse: “The Torah is not in heaven!15...We take no notice of heavenly voices, since You, G‑d, have already, at Sinai, written in the Torah to follow the majority.”16

R. Nattan subsequently met Elijah the Prophet and asked him: “What did G‑d do at that moment?” [Elijah] replied: “He smiled and said: ‘My children have triumphed over Me; My children have triumphed over Me.’”