Lashon Kodesh contains layers of nuance whereby various words translated similarly actually present subtle differences. In Sheimos HaNirdafin, Horav Shlomo Wertheimer, zl, devotes an entire sefer to distinguishing between these synonyms. With regard to friendship, the Torah breaks it down to three primary terms: chaver; rei’a; and yedid. Each expresses a different dimension of human connection which gives us an insight into the true meaning of friendship.
The most common term is chaver, which is a friend by chibur, attachment. This means that the relationship is not one of emotion, but rather, of commitment. A chavrusa is a study partner who pushes, challenges and stands beside you as the two of you build together – be it in Torah or any other endeavor in which two people work in tandem with one another.
A classic example are two businessmen who meet daily at 6:00 A.M.to study Daf Yomi. Together, they have, over the years, completed a considerable amount of Shas. Are they best friends? No. They have, however, built something together. They are chaveirim, with each one elevating the other’s spiritual horizon.
A rei’a is a companion with whom one shares more than a project, but is elaborately involved in his life’s journey – its peaks and valleys, its joys and struggles. A rei’a is aware of what his friend is going through and knows when to speak up and when to patiently wait by the sidelines for him to return to normal emotion. A rei’a shows up at all hours of the day and night just to be with his friend for support – in both positive and negative situations.
The highest form of friendship is yedidus. It is a reciprocal affection that flows both ways. A yedid is beloved. The bond is one of double devotion in which presence speaks louder than words. When a man sat shivah after losing his father, many visitors came and offered comforting words. One old friend came into the room, sat down next to the mourner, placed his hand on his arm – and remained silent. After a short while, he stood up and left. The mourner later said, “He did not come to comfort me. He came to be with me.” This is a yedid.
To be a yedid, Hashem means to allow our heart to rest in His Presence, to self-abnegate and give ourselves over to the Almighty. Binyamin ben Yaakov Avinu achieved yedid status. In what merit did he receive such accolades; a title reserved for only one whose relationship with Hashem bespeaks a deep bond of love? Binyamin had one unique character trait which he had inherited from his mother – a trait that does not garner much attention, but often reshapes destinies: silence. This is not a passive, obsequious silence, but the quiet of one who wants to scream, yet, instead, opts for restraint.
Binyamin was acutely aware of Yosef’s whereabouts and how he arrived there. He knew that if he would speak up, he could separate himself from his brothers’ ill-conceived decision and, possibly, save Yosef. He did not because he understood the fragility of the family dynamics, the challenges to its harmony and the danger of destroying his brothers’ spiritual future. Thus, he was silent, because it was the more prudent choice.
This sacred trait had been bequeathed to him from his mother, Rachel Imeinu, who watched her sister walk to the chuppah for which she had been designated, and marry the man who was to be her husband. She remained silent throughout. Certainly, her emotions must have been churning within, every fiber of her essence wanting to scream out, “This is a sham! My father is a swindler. Yaakov is being duped.” Her silence was not a surrender, but rather, transcendent. It was love for her sister without seeking accolade, loyalty without fanfare.
Silence of this nature is born of humility – an inner dimension in which self does not play a leading role, in which attention and recognition are not a way of life. When a person divests himself of the need to assert, to win, to always be right and on top, he grows into something far greater than himself. He is now able to merge with another to the point that their souls are keshurah b’nafsho, interwoven, becoming one.
Quiet, self-effacing giving creates the greatest and most enduring union between people and between man and Hashem. It has one drawback: It is not noisy and does not garner plaques and monuments. Hashem, however, hears beneath the surface and rewards the individual who is silent. Thus, Binyamin, who understood the value of silence, became the yedid Hashem. His stone, which is the last stone on the bottom/fourth row of the Choshen, Breastplate, is the yoshpeh, which is an acronym for yeish peh, “there is a mouth.” Binyamin had what to say, but he chose silence over articulation. Hashem loved him, not for the words he spoke, but for what he withheld, protecting the love he held dear by remaining silent.
Rabbeinu Bachya (commentary Shemos 28:15) shows how each tribe’s color and stone highlighted a unique attribute and strength of the tribe’s progenitor. It is noteworthy that the color of Binyamin’s flag was a fusion of the colors of all the other tribes — almost as if he embodied all of them. Horav Chaim Zaitchik, zl (Toras HaNefesh p. 552), attributes this to Binyamin’s hallmark silence. As the youngest of his siblings, he listened, he did not contribute. Thus, he absorbed what they articulated and the positive aspects of their individual attributes. As a young man growing into adulthood, he evaluated and amalgamated these qualities to better himself by gaining from others. His stone was yeish peh; he could speak, but he did not. Thus, his color was the fusion of the hues of all the tribes, allowing him to become a synthesis of their multifaceted greatness.
The Tanna in Pirkei Avos 1:17 declares, “I have found nothing better for myself than silence.” This certainly does not promote a person not to speak at all, but rather, to utilize the power of speech properly. When Horav Shlomo Wolbe, zl, would pass the Monastery of the Silent (Latrun, Eretz Yisrael), he would point out that Yiddishkeit does not encourage such behavior. (Established in 1890 by Trappist Monks from France, its members adopted a vow of silence, speaking only when necessary.) While many types of speech should be avoided, this certainly does not mean that one should refrain from speaking altogether. The Chafetz Chaim spoke a lot, but always about avodas hakodesh, middos and acts of chesed. Hashem created us with the faculty of speech, which is to be used in the manner that Hashem intended.
Three weeks after his wedding, a young kollel fellow, a talmid chacham of note, decided to meet his wife during lunchbreak at her parents’ home. He arrived before his wife and, as soon as he opened the door, he was welcomed by his mother-in-law spewing a torrent of abuse. She screamed at him, calling him every negative adjective she could think of. He did not respond. He just stood there respectfully, as she continued dumping her vitriol on him. Clearly, something was wrong with her that day. He was not going to fight with her. On the other hand, lunch was on the table; he was hungry and needed nourishment to learn. He sat down quickly, ate lunch and left before his wife arrived.
He could not reconcile himself to what had just occurred. Who knew if it would happen again? If his mother-in-law was unhinged, it could happen again in public. He decided that this marriage was not for him. Since he was, after all, a ben Torah, he decided to discuss his decision with his Rebbe, one of the tzadikim of Yerushalayim (second half of the twentieth century) to inform him of his decision. HoRav Elya Roth, zl, listened, then asked, “Who else was in the house at the time?” “No one,” replied the fellow. “No one at all?” reiterated Rav Elya. “Absolutely not a soul.”
“If that is the case,” said Rav Elya, “the entire incident was a dream, a figment of your imagination. Forget about it. It never happened.”
The fellow returned home and did not divulge anything that had occurred that day to his wife. It was just “another day.” Two weeks later, he had occasion to return to his in-laws’ home, and the only one at home was his mother-in-law. He imagined that he would now have a repeat performance of his “dream.” He was wrong. His mother-in-law was apologetic, saying that she did not know what had gotten into her that day. How could she speak so negatively and abuse a gifted talmid chacham? “I have no idea what you are talking about. You must have dreamt this all, because I am certain that it never happened.” The mother-in-law believed him and said, “You are correct. It must have been a dream. Something so bizarre could never have occurred.”
Sometimes it is best that we transform reality into a dream. It is healthier that way. At the bris of this “young” fellow’s great, great-grandson, the now elderly Jew related this story. He was now a grandfather to hundreds of grandchildren, great-grandchildren and had even lived to see a fourth generation. All because he had listened and did not speak, so that he transformed reality into a dream. That dream transformed his life.
It is related that, whenever Horav Moshe Sassover, zl, was a victim of bizyonos, humiliation, he would render a seudas hodaah, thanksgiving meal, to thank Hashem. He was acutely aware that bizyonos spare one from serious illness and trouble. It is all about listening –not speaking.
