The Middle Path: A Strategy for Healing Gratuitous Hatred

Every year on Tisha B’Av, we sit on the ground, recite elegies, fast, and mourn the destruction of the Temple—reminded once again of the reason it fell: “Sinat Hinam” or what I translate as “Gratuitous Hatred”. Paradoxically, the more we invoke this phrase, the more polarization seems to intensify. Our internal intolerance grows deeper. What should serve as a warning has somehow become a rallying cry for the very discord it was meant to prevent.

The problem, I believe, lies in the vagueness of the term itself. What exactly is baseless hatred? It’s not always clear. And the frequently proposed antidote—“Ahavat Hinam” (Gratuitous love) feels just as fuzzy. Of course it initially comes off as “noble”, but quickly falters when confronted with the complex realities of human passions and clashing interests.

Today in Israel, each side in our ferocious societal debates is convinced that it is the victim. Each believes its animosity is righteous; its fury justified. When ideological disagreements morph into moral absolutism and demonization, “gratuitous hatred” stops being an aberration—it becomes the default tone of Israeli discourse.

But our sages were not about “slogans” and vague aspirations. They prefered proscriptions and prescriptions for behavioral change. And they didn’t just warn against gratuitous hatred—they proposed a concrete strategy to avoid it: opting for the “Middle Path” – a deliberate rejection of extremism.

Ecclesiastes already points in that direction:

“Do not be overly righteous, and do not make yourself too wise—why destroy yourself?… Grasp the one and do not let go of the other; the one who fears God will follow both.” (Ecclesiastes 7:16–18)

Of course, identifying the middle path isn’t always easy. My friend Yam Erez often shares the experience of driving on the roads here. We curse the sluggish driver ahead who seems paralyzed or glued to his phone—“Must be 100 years old. They should pull him over and take away his license!” But then we rage at the woman who just zoomed past us—“She’s crazy reckless! Where’s the police when you need them to take away her license?”

The one constant: I am the only one driving at the correct speed.

Such is human nature. Finding the true middle road requires humility.

That’s the wisdom our tradition chooses: a grounded, realistic sense of balance. Righteous indignation—if unchecked—quickly becomes destructive. The rabbis of the Talmud lived through the ideological and religious extremism that tore apart the Second Temple era. They knew the danger of unbounded idealism.

Rabbi David Golinkin, the leading halachic authority of the Conservative/Masorti movement, often cites a striking passage from the Tosefta (Hagigah 2:5):

“To what is this like? To a path that runs between two roads —one of fire and one of snow. Lean too far this way, and you are burned by the fire. Lean too far that way, and you are frozen by the snow. What is a person to do? Walk straight in the middle, and avoid swaying to either side.”

The dynamic in his view is reminiscent of the well-known rabbinic parable of the four who entered the mystical orchard. Only Rabbi Akiva entered in peace and emerged in peace. The others—Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, and Elisha ben Avuyah—were overwhelmed: one died, one lost his mind, one abandoned the faith. What made Rabbi Akiva different? The sages suggest he knew how to approach truth without being consumed by zealotry. He understood limits. He respected the boundaries that preserve spiritual integrity. He remained centered.

The menorah offers another apt image. Six branches extend outward, but at the center stands a single, elevated light—the middle candle. According to Nachmanides, this central flame represents balance, unity, and grounding. The key point? The outer branches bend toward the center—not the other way around. Extremes have their place, but only when they are anchored in the core.

Maimonides built his entire moral philosophy on this idea, calling it the golden mean. In Hilchot De’ot (Laws of Character), chapter 1, he teaches that a person should walk the “straight path”—the balanced middle way between personality extremes. When imbalance occurs, he says, it may be necessary to lean briefly to the opposite extreme—but ultimately, the goal is always to return to equilibrium. For Maimonides, this isn’t just personal ethics—it’s the foundation of a healthy society.

The sages did not romanticize zealots and had little appetite for fanaticism. And they weren’t alone. In my own synagogue, every year, whoever has the burden of rationalizing Parashat Pinchas as part of the annual Torah cycle tends to squirm. Pinchas, ultimately is granted divine approval for an act of zealotry, impaling Zimri, an Israelite who strayed with a foreign woman. Yet that endorsement always provokes discomfort. Not only in liberal communities. The Talmud itself openly criticizes Pinchas. It imagines that had he not received explicit instruction from God, his act would have been a capital crime: unsanctioned zealotry, unmoderated, is a dangerous, slippery slope.

Although it runs counter to the bombastic rhetoric rewarded by social media, in public and political life, the middle path should not be perceived as weakness. It’s a courageous commitment to peace, to cohesion, to the resilience of community. “Seek peace and pursue it,” says the Psalmist. More recently, Professor Gil Troy calls it “the muscular middle”.  A centrist strategy requires the courage to yield, the willingness to see the human behind an opposing viewpoint, and the belief that truth may also dwell in those who disagree with us.

Perhaps this is the only strategy that can truly heal us from sinat chinam.

Not moral preaching.

Not more empty calls for “reconciliation.”

But a genuine, tenacious commitment to steer away from the edges, and to seek that middle candle in the menorah—the moral center, the communal core, the identity that binds.

This Tisha B’Av, let us not settle for mourning the destruction. Let us ask:

Can we listen—truly listen—even to those we think are wrong?

Do we have the courage to move toward the center—where everyone’s voice can be heard?

That, perhaps, is the only real hope for rebuilding.

Not just a Temple—but a people.

(The author acknowledges the influence of David Golinkin’s essay “”How to strengthen the ‘Middle Path’ in Israel and Diaspora” during the preparation of this blog.)