There is a certain scenario that’s often used in comedy shows, or at least it used to be. A person of importance—a boss, a mayor, a president—finds himself incognito, unrecognized by those around him. Someone interacts with this disguised dignitary, treating him with casual disrespect, oblivious to his true stature. The audience watches as that hapless individual digs himself deeper and deeper into trouble, until the moment of revelation, when the “nobody” turns out to be somebody.
As a child, I remember thinking: I should probably prepare for that scenario. Perhaps someday, I reasoned, I might be distinguished or important, and someone would treat me disrespectfully, failing to appreciate just how notable I had become. When they discovered their error and came to apologize, what would I say? It’s not such a simple question. On the one hand, the instinct is to be gracious: “It’s fine. Really. You didn’t know.” But such easy forgiveness carries an uncomfortable implication—that mistreating ordinary people is acceptable, that only the revelation of hidden importance makes the offense matter. Is that really the message one wishes to send?
Fortunately, a story about the Beit HaLevi provided some guidance. The great Rav Yosef Ber Soloveitchik was traveling by train—where these things tend to happen—when a fellow passenger, failing to recognize him, treated him with contempt. When someone finally informed the offender of his victim's identity, the man was mortified and rushed to apologize. The Beit HaLevi's response was unexpected: "I cannot forgive you. I am not the victim. You treated me this way because you thought I was a simple poor person on the train. You never would have spoken to me that way had you known I was a prominent rabbi. So now you must find another simple poor person and ask him for forgiveness; he is the one you were actually disrespecting."
This insight aligns with a comment the Beit HaLevi offers on this week’s Torah reading. After the attack on Dinah, her brothers Simon and Levi express their outrage: "Ki nevala asa b'Yisrael lishkav et bat Yaakov, v'chein lo ye'aseh"—"For he has done a disgraceful thing in Israel, to lie with the daughter of Jacob, and such a thing is not done (Gen. 34:7)." The Beit HaLevinotes an apparent tonal shift within this single statement. The first clause thunders with condemnation—"a disgraceful thing," a terrible crime. But then the verse seems to deflate: "and such a thing is not done." It almost reads like a secondary, social critique appended to a moral horror: “This is monstrous—and also, we don’t do that sort of thing.”
The Beit HaLevi suggests that the phrases are not two separate thoughts, but one unified argument. The Talmud (Bava Kama 62a) describes one who is about to travel, and who wishes to entrust a bag of gold coins to his neighbor for safekeeping. Not fully trusting her, he tells her they are silver coins, hoping to limit his exposure. The Talmud rules that if she is merely negligent and the coins are lost, her liability is limited to silver—she accepted responsibility only for what she believed she was guarding. But if she actively destroys the coins, she is liable for their full value as gold. Why the distinction? In both cases she didn't know they were gold. The answer is telling: when she acted destructively, she was doing something inherently wrong. One cannot plead ignorance of aggravating circumstances when the underlying act itself was impermissible.
This, says the Beit HaLevi, is precisely what the brothers were conveying. Yes, this was a terrible thing—an attack on a family of such prominence, the household of Jacob himself. But perhaps the perpetrators might offer an excuse; they weren’t aware of that. The brothers' response anticipates this defense: "V'chein lo ye'aseh"—this is something one does not do to anyone. The behavior was wrong regardless of the victim's identity. This is not a question of status; this isn’t about accidentally insulting a dignitary one failed to recognize. This is behavior that violates basic human dignity, and once it violates that, “I didn’t know who she was” is not an excuse. When one acts in such a fashion, one cannot claim mitigation by pleading ignorance of the victim's importance. The full gravity of the offense attaches to the perpetrator. (See the extensive analysis of his words in Uri V’Yishi, Gen.. #44).
Later in the book of Genesis, we will indeed read the story of one who is incognito prior to a dramatic revelation of his identity. When Joseph identifies himself to his brothers, who are not aware that it is he who is the viceroy of Egypt, his first words are: "I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?" The brothers are stunned into silence. The Midrash comments: "Oy lanu mi'yom ha'din, oy lanu mi'yom ha'tochacha"—"Woe to us on the day of judgment, woe to us on the day of rebuke." Yet Joseph’s words seem to contain no rebuke at all. He doesn’t deliver a speech or list their sins; he merely identifies himself and asks about their father.
Rav Avraham Pam, Z”L, explained that the most powerful rebuke lies in the sudden recognition that positions can reverse. Those that one dismissed as unimportant, that one treated with disdain, may someday stand in a position of power. The Talmud suggests that in olam ha'emet, the World of Truth, such reversals will occur—those distinguished here may find themselves diminished there, and vice versa. To glimpse such a possibility is itself transformative rebuke.
There is, however, a deeper principle at work, even without a dramatic reversal. There exists a basic kavod habriyot, a fundamental human dignity, that constitutes an axiom of halacha. Without this foundation, no other form of honor can find ground upon which to build.
My father, Z”L, I had an unusual personal practice. In the days before cel phones and caller ID, when the phone rang and he didn't have time to talk, he would answer immediately and say, "Can I call you back?" before asking who was calling. He explained his reasoning: if he first asked "Who is this?" and only then said he couldn't talk, the caller might conclude that his availability depended on the caller's importance. By declining the call before learning the caller's identity, he made clear that his unavailability was not about who they were – or weren’t.
This recognition—that basic dignity must be extended to everyone, and that greater degrees of respect can only be built upon this foundation—is embedded in Jewish law itself. The Talmud states in five places that kavod habriyot, human dignity, is so fundamental that it can override various halachic principles. Humanity is created in God's image, and must be treated accordingly. This principle is so dominant that it prevails in conflicts with many other precepts.
More striking still, we find instances where kavod habriyot overrides even Torah law. When we have an opportunity to show direct honor to God, He sometimes steps aside and instructs to show honor to human beings instead. A Midrash teaches that Bilam's donkey—that miraculous creature who spoke in defense of Israel—might have been preserved as a testament to God's wonders. Yet God ensured the donkey did not survive, because its continued existence would have been an embarrassment to Bilam. The Midrash draws the implication: if God Himself worries about the dignity of an evildoer like Bilam, how much more must we concern ourselves with the dignity of others.
This seems counterproductive. If showing honor to God is our ultimate aim, why sacrifice a kiddush Hashem for the sake of someone as wicked as Bilam? Why not, as it were, cut out the middleman?
The key may lie in a paradox that exists within the concept of honor. The great ethicists (see, for example, Shevet Mussar ch. 43) point to an inconsistency in the behavior of vain individuals. With an exaggerated sense of self-worth, they feel little regard for the status of others. Nonetheless, if they really felt this way, the very honor and adulation they so prize would be worthless, for what value is the esteem of an insignificant person? Thus, they are forced to consider other individuals worthy, only to the extent necessary to accept their praise. Thus, receiving honor is only possible if it is first ceded somewhat to those from whom it is desired.
The answer reveals something profound about the nature of kavod itself. All honor is built upon a foundation of basic human dignity. God receives kavodthrough His creations because human beings are themselves honorable. The more dignity extended to the simplest person, the more solid the foundation upon which greater honor—ultimately directed toward God Himself—can be constructed. But if basic human dignity is not recognized, if human beings are not treated as dignified, then the entire edifice of honor directed toward God is itself compromised. This is why kavod habriyot can override even Torah obligations in certain circumstances: to affirm that humanity must be treated with foundational dignity, and God’s honor is built upon that.
It might be suggested that this is the message of the statement, “Who is honored? He who honors others” (Avot 4:1). Not only is someone who is respectful to others worthy of such treatment himself, as the mishnah states openly, but further it is only possible for a person to receive honor if he first accords it to others, deeming them appropriate sources of expressions of esteem. As Rabbenu Yonah comments, “All honor that one shows to people, he is showing to himself.”
There is no such thing as stature without basic human dignity. All of humanity is created in the image of God, and this fact commands recognition in everything we say and everything we do. If we fail to appreciate this, if we fail to embody it in how we treat others, then there is nowhere for any form of importance to build itself. The highest esteem possible can only emerge when we recognize the dignity in all of us.
R' Feldman
