Our Gemara on Amud Aleph recounts how the sage Shmuel HaKattan took responsibility in order to spare a colleague from public embarrassment:

There was an incident involving Rabban Gamliel, who said to the Sages: “Bring me seven of the Sages early tomorrow morning to the loft designated for convening a court to intercalate the year.” He went to the loft early the next morning and found eight Sages there. Rabban Gamliel said: “Who is it who ascended to the loft without permission? He must descend immediately!”

Shmuel HaKattan stood up and said: “I am he who ascended without permission; and I did not ascend to participate and be one of those to intercalate the year, but rather I needed to observe in order to learn the practical halakha.” Rabban Gamliel said to him: “Sit, my son, sit. It would be fitting for all of the years to be intercalated by you, as you are truly worthy.” But the Sages said: “The year may be intercalated only by those who were invited for that purpose.”

The Gemara notes: And it was not actually Shmuel HaKattan who had come uninvited, but another person. And due to the embarrassment of the other, Shmuel HaKattan did this, so that no one would know who had come uninvited.

This is one of several stories in the Talmud where a sage took blame upon himself, even falsely confessing to spare another from humiliation.

The Maris Ayin quotes a commentary on Sefer Chasidim, which maintains that even in such cases, telling a direct lie is forbidden. This is why, in this story, Shmuel HaKattan said, “It is I who sinned,” without specifying what sin he had committed. Technically, this statement was not false, since everyone has some sin on their record, even a tzaddik. By making a vague admission, Shmuel HaKattan could technically speak truthfully while still shielding the actual offender.

However, Maris Ayin himself rejects this requirement. From the context of the story, as well as from other similar incidents quoted in the Gemara, it appears that the sages were sometimes willing to tell outright lies to protect another from embarrassment. He also notes the well-known tradition regarding Aharon HaKohen, who would make peace between disputing parties by telling each person that the other was seeking reconciliation, even if it was not strictly true (see Sanhedrin 6b). If this was permissible for the sake of shalom, then it is certainly permissible to protect someone from public humiliation, which the Talmud considers akin to murder (Bava Metzia 58b).

Even so, Maris Ayin introduces a remarkable and nuanced idea. He suggests that even if one were to falsely confess to another person’s sin, there would still be a kernel of truth to it. Why? Because of the principle of kol Yisrael areivim zeh bazeh — all Jews are responsible for one another. We even have teachings that hold a person liable as an accessory to a crime if they had the ability to object but failed to do so (Shabbos 54b). Maris Ayin takes this concept a step further. He asserts that even in situations where a person has no moral responsibility for the other person’s sin — for example, if he was unaware of the sin or had no ability to prevent it — he is still somehow spiritually implicated.

This profound insight reflects a deeper understanding of Jewish identity and collective responsibility. Legally speaking, a person is not liable for the sins of another if he had no ability to prevent them. But spiritually, it is a different matter. Just as pain in the pinky toe can be felt throughout the body, so too, all Jews are interconnected. The sin of one Jew affects the spiritual fabric of the whole.

This is famously captured in the words of Rav Yisrael Salanter, who said:

“If someone in Lithuania is lax in his sedarim for learning, then some baleboss in Paris is smoking on Shabbos.”

The spiritual connection between Jews means that each person’s actions reverberate across the entire system. If one limb of the body is weak, the whole body suffers. In this sense, even if Shmuel HaKattan did not literally commit the sin of entering the loft without permission, he could honestly say, “I have sinned,” because, on a spiritual level, he shared in the communal responsibility for the spiritual welfare of his fellow Jew.

Maris Ayin‘s insight challenges us to rethink what it means to bear responsibility for one another. We often assume that responsibility is limited to situations where we have some degree of control or influence. But if we are all part of one interconnected system, then every Jew’s action — or inaction — has broader consequences. This is not merely a call for moral responsibility but a recognition of the ties that bind the Jewish people together.

Translations Courtesy of Sefaria, except when, sometimes, I disagree with the translation

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