The conversation started innocently, a casual chat with a friend that quickly veered into the deep waters of parental expectations. My friend, a genuinely pure soul, confessed that he’d felt inadequate his entire life, a wound inflicted by a father who seemed to measure masculinity in touchdowns and a wake of heartbroken women. This topic sparked thoughts about society still clinging to the outdated myth of the "tough guy"—the man who never cries, is completely independent, and certainly never watches musicals.
I recounted a story to my friend. It’s often attributed to the Talmudic era, around 200 C.E. This wasn't just a quaint historical anecdote; it’s a profound illustration of how much our values have changed in two millennia. Wise men back then understood that true strength shouldn’t be reflected in the size of someone’s biceps but rather in the size of their character.
Just elaborating on this story made me smile. I could almost see it: the scene of a bustling building, filled with the scent of aged parchment and bright oil lamps. The protagonist is a revered rabbi, known as the greatest theologian of his time. He has a reputation for turning away even the most brilliant minds if they lack qualities he found most impressive….
Anyway, a young man appeared at the rabbi’s door one afternoon. Let's call him Dave. Despite his scant years on earth, Dave had already conquered everything that came his way. He stood so physically powerful that he could push a boulder up an entire mountain! His mind remained equally formidable, and the young man could’ve excelled in any high-ranking position, from rich merchant to military strategist.
Yet, here he stood, hands scrubbed clean, clothes meticulously neat, with only one request: “Please, rabbi, let me be your student. I seek wisdom.”
The older man looked beyond Dave’s strong arms and clever eyes, and after a long moment, with a twinkle of mischief, the rabbi said, “If you truly want to learn from me, you must pass a test.” He paused. “So, tell me, Dave: What makes a man?”
Dave’s mind, usually swift and logical, seized up. He thought of strength, loyalty, wealth, piety, and courage. He could easily recite the traditional virtues. Yet, something told him the great rabbi wanted something more.
He thought for a long time, the silence stretching into uncomfortable minutes. Finally, he shook his head, a gesture of intellectual defeat rare for him. “I can’t do that, rabbi,” he admitted. “If I were to show you what makes a real man, it would defeat the entire purpose of what I embody and who I try to be.”
The rabbi’s eyes widened with intrigue. “Come back tomorrow at sunset,” he said. So, the young man bowed and left, shoulders slumped in frustration.
But Dave didn’t realize that the rabbi, a surprisingly spry ol’ fellow, followed him that night. The older man had no intention of waiting for more pleas; he wanted to see what this seemingly perfect young man would do when he thought no one was watching.
The following morning, well before dawn, Dave woke up. He didn't head to flirt with women, waste his money on trivialities, or boast about his exploits. Instead, Dave quietly, almost furtively slipped coins into the pockets of the destitute—not bothering to wait for a "thank you." He anonymously left a basket of fresh fruit and bread at the door of a widow who was too proud to ask for help. He spent an hour fixing a broken door for an elderly neighbor whose back had become frail and brittle.
In short, he performed countless acts of kindness selflessly and altruistically. Dave appeared driven by a profound, internal sense of duty and compassion. He was just genuinely…good.
As requested, the young man met with the rabbi at sunset.
“Why couldn’t you show me what makes a man?” the rabbi asked, his expression unreadable.
Dave’s authentic answer came out boldly: “Because the type of person I want to be is kind, gentle, and thoughtful. I should be that way without demanding recognition or asking for anything in return—not even the approval of the world’s greatest scholar. It’s not something you do for an audience. It’s simply a way of being.”
Dave understood that the moment he demonstrated kindness as proof of his masculinity, it would cease to be genuine and become a performance—a selfish egotistical act.
A knowing smile spread across the rabbi’s wrinkled face because he now saw a man not defined by societal expectations but by humility and self-control. He immediately took Dave as his student, knowing he’d found a young man who would retain the lessons he wanted to teach.
Whether this story is historically accurate or just a fable (that I’ve definitely taken liberties with), its lesson is timeless. The moral shows that strength lies in kindness. We often mistake gentleness for weakness, forgetting that it takes incredible internal fortitude to remain compassionate when it could be much easier to turn cynical, bitter, or aggressive. It takes immense self-mastery to choose goodness when succumbing to our animalistic, self-serving impulses could be our natural reaction.
For my friend and anyone struggling with the burden of toxic expectations, the message is clear. What makes a man is not how tough or manly he can appear. What makes a man is the kindness he practices when no one is watching. Ultimately, gentle, thoughtful power makes any person exceptional, regardless of gender. I truly believe that kindness is the secret ingredient that makes every truly good person an incredible human being.
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