The Talmud, in Tractate Taanit, recounts a powerful and deeply unsettling episode – one that challenges not only our understanding of greatness, but also how we choose to present that greatness to the next generation.
Rabbi Eliezer, one of the towering sages of his time, was once returning home after a day immersed in Torah study. His mind was elevated, his spirit uplifted and, perhaps, touched with a trace of pride. Along the road, he encountered a man whose appearance was exceedingly unattractive. Without thinking, he remarked, “How ugly you are! Are all the people in your town as ugly as you?”
The words were harsh, cutting, and immediate in their impact.
The man, clearly hurt, responded with a quiet but profound rebuke: “I do not know. But go and speak to the Craftsman who created me.”
In that moment, Rabbi Eliezer recognized the severity of his mistake. He had not merely insulted another person; he had, in effect, cast doubt on the Creator Himself. Stricken with remorse, he immediately begged for forgiveness. Yet the man refused. The pain was too deep to be dismissed so easily.
They continued walking until they reached a nearby town, where the townspeople came out to greet Rabbi Eliezer with great honor. Seeing this, the insulted man inquired as to his identity. When he was told that this was the great Rabbi Eliezer, revered by all, his reaction was swift and startling: “If this is a great man, may there be no more like him in Israel.”
The townspeople were shaken. They implored him to forgive the Rabbi, emphasizing his stature and scholarship. Only after persistent appeals did the man finally relent and grant forgiveness, but the lesson of that encounter lingered long after.
I was reminded of this passage while sitting in a beit hamedrash with a thoughtful young man who found himself deeply troubled by this very story. He could not resolve the image of a great sage engaging in the behavior described.
“How could Rabbi Eliezer say such a thing?” he asked. “If he was truly great, such a remark should have been impossible. Our chachamim are not like us. They don’t make these kinds of mistakes.”
There was sincerity in his confusion, even a sense of protectiveness toward the honor of our sages. But there was also something else: an assumption that greatness and humanity cannot coexist.
“What is so difficult to understand?” I responded. “Rabbi Eliezer made a mistake. A painful, human mistake. Even great people can falter. Is it so hard to accept that?”
“You don’t understand,” he insisted. “They were like angels. If something appears wrong, it must be because we are misunderstanding it. There has to be a deeper explanation. They cannot simply have erred.”
Our conversation continued, and I offered example after example from our own tradition – instances where even the greatest figures faced moments of misjudgment: Moshe striking the rock, Yiftach’s tragic vow, Eli the Kohen misjudging Chana, King David’s relationship with Bat-Sheva, the transformation of Elisha ben Avuyah into Acher… These are not hidden in ambiguous texts – they are openly recorded in the Torah and our sacred writings.
Yet the young man remained unconvinced. For him, these could not be understood at face value. They had to be reinterpreted and elevated beyond the realm of ordinary human failing.
And in that moment, it became clear that this was not simply a question about one passage in the Talmud. It was a much larger question, one that goes to the heart of how we educate and inspire our children.
How do we present our leaders? Do we portray them as flawless beings, untouched by error, existing on a plane so elevated that they bear little resemblance to the people we are raising? Or do we present them as the Torah itself does: as extraordinary individuals who nevertheless grappled with very human struggles?
Too often, in our desire to honor our leaders, we inadvertently distance them from ourselves. We elevate them to such an extent that they become unreachable, their greatness seeming almost preordained rather than achieved. And while this may inspire awe, it can also discourage, and create an unintended consequence.
A child who believes that greatness requires perfection will inevitably feel unworthy the moment they stumble. When mistakes occur – and they always do – that child may conclude that the path of Torah is not meant for them. The gap between who they are and who they believe they must be becomes too wide to bridge.
But when we allow our children to see the humanity of our leaders, something remarkable happens. The greatness of our leaders becomes not a barrier but an invitation.
Our children begin to understand that failure is not a detriment. That even those who reached the highest levels of spiritual and moral achievement did so not in spite of their struggles, but often through them. Rabbi Eliezer’s moment of failure does not diminish his greatness – it deepens it. His immediate remorse, his pursuit of forgiveness, his recognition of wrongdoing – these are the very traits that define a truly great individual.
Greatness is not the absence of error. It is the ability to confront error with honesty and grow from it.
I have often observed that when leaders are placed on impossibly high pedestals, the result is not always admiration. Sometimes, it leads to quiet withdrawal. The standard feels unattainable, and rather than striving toward it, some choose to step back altogether.
Perfection, in this sense, can be paralyzing.
But humanity – honest, striving, imperfect humanity – is deeply motivating. When a young person learns that Moshe Rabbeinu could falter and yet remain the greatest of prophets, that King David could err and yet compose Tehillim, that even a sage like Rabbi Eliezer could stumble and still be revered, they begin to see a path forward for themselves.
They realize that greatness is not reserved for the flawless. It is accessible to those who are willing to grow.
This is why I find it so troubling when we attempt to alter the lives of our leaders. Years ago, when a book sought to portray the early life of a great rabbi, including some less-than-flattering moments, it was met with fierce opposition. The idea that a Gadol could be depicted as anything other than perfect was deemed unacceptable, and the book was withdrawn.
But one must ask: What is gained by such an approach? And more importantly, what is lost?
When we erase the struggles, we also erase the journey. When we hide the imperfections, we obscure the process of growth that made these individuals truly great. In doing so, we risk presenting a version of greatness that is not only unrealistic, but ultimately unattainable.
When I study the Torah, I do not find these accounts discouraging. On the contrary, I find them profoundly comforting. They remind me that even the greatest among us were human beings capable of error, yet committed to growth.
They teach me that stumbling is not the end of the story. It is often where the story truly begins.
And that is the message we must pass on to our children.
Not that our leaders were perfect, but that they were real. That they struggled, that they erred, that they rose – and that through that process, they achieved greatness.
If we can instill that understanding, we will not diminish our leaders. We will bring them closer. And in doing so, we will give our children something far more valuable than an image of perfection.
We will give them the courage to strive.