The People Who Get the Worst of Us

Some time ago, I helped a relative look for a job. When they found a position, they seemed very pleased with it, and particularly with their new boss. The other day, I met them at a family gathering and asked how things were going.

"You know," they said, "my boss isn't half as nice to me as they used to be. He gets testy and raises his voice quite often. But I don't think it's hostile. It's just that he has come to depend on me so much that he now sees me as sort of family."

I found this explanation rather interesting. Was it possible that the boss had, in a sense, promoted the new employee into his family, and, by doing so, bestowed on them the privilege of being treated with less consideration?

The boss's behavior, to be sure, seems quite unusual. Most managers, as much as they appreciate their employees, don't really think of them as junior family members. But my relative's boss does seem to be an exception, and while treating employees as family comes with some real benefits, according to my relative, it also comes with worse manners and more testiness.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered whether the phenomenon was familiar enough to deserve a closer look. How often do we behave as though closeness entitles us to a certain carelessness? How readily does the person who once received our most attentive consideration become the person on whom we vent our irritation and whom we forget to thank?

It is a curious feature of human nature that we can be exquisitely considerate toward people whose good opinion we would like to win, and remarkably inconsiderate toward those whose affection or closeness we already possess. We smile at the stranger who holds up a queue. We apologize to a colleague for interrupting them. We choose our words carefully when addressing a new acquaintance, a guest, or someone whose respect we hope to earn. Then we come home, where nobody needs to be impressed, and discover that our patience has mysteriously run out.

The moral test of the home

Jewish tradition has an uncompromising way of approaching this problem. It does not regard kindness toward strangers as sufficient evidence of a person's good character. The obligations of decency begin much closer to home.

The prophet Isaiah, rebuking those who observe religious practices while neglecting the demands of justice and compassion, includes among the requirements of proper conduct the words: "And that you do not hide yourself from your own flesh" (Isaiah 58:7). Whatever the wider application of the verse, its language makes an important point: religious devotion cannot be separated from our obligations to the people with whom we share a family.

The Talmud makes the practical implications explicit. In Bava Metzia 71a, the Sages establish an order of priority in charitable assistance: the poor of one's household come before the poor of one's city, who come before those of another city. The principle is not that strangers matter less as human beings. It is that an obligation does not become more virtuous merely because its recipient is distant. The people whose needs are most immediately ours cannot be displaced by the more visible or gratifying business of helping others.

Yet there is an important distinction between providing for one's family and treating its members with respect. A person may work hard to support a household, perform countless acts of service, and make genuine sacrifices for its members, yet still speak to them with impatience or contempt. Practical responsibility does not cancel the obligation to be considerate. Nor does a history of generosity entitle anyone to dispense with good manners.

The Talmud is alert to the danger of harshness within the home. In Gittin 6b, Rav Hisda warns that a person should never impose excessive fear on their household. The concern is not simply that anger makes domestic life unpleasant. A home in which people must continually anticipate another person's temper is failing in one of its most basic purposes: it should be a place in which they can live without fear of anger outbursts or humiliating words.

Marriage is not an exemption from courtesy

The Jewish sources become particularly pointed when they address marriage. If familiarity is most likely to erode respect where people are most intimately connected, then the relationship between husband and wife is exactly where the obligation needs to be stated most clearly.

In Bava Metzia 59a, the Sages warn a person to be especially careful not to cause their wife distress, and teach that a man must be scrupulous about honouring his wife. The passage links the blessing of a household to the honour accorded to her.

Maimonides makes the requirement more explicit in Mishneh Torah, Laws of Marriage 15:19:

"Our Sages commanded that a man honour his wife more than his own person, and love her as he loves his own person."

He then specifies what this honour is supposed to look like in practice. A husband should not make his wife fear him, and he should speak to her gently, without anger. Of course, the wife should also treat her husband with respect. Jewish law lets none of them get away with: ‘but we are married, why should we be so careful with our words?’

There is something almost counterintuitive about that standard. We tend to think that love should make courtesy unnecessary: surely the person who knows our intentions and understands our character should be able to overlook a sharp tone or an unkind remark. But this reverses the relationship between love and respect. The fact that someone knows us well does not make our words less hurtful. It may make them more so, because they come from the person whose opinion matters most.

Back to the boss

Which brings me back to my relative's boss. His short temper may well be, as my relative generously suggested, a sign of trust: he raises his voice because he no longer feels the need to win his employee's good opinion. Jewish tradition, however, would still frown at him. In this tradition, to be treated as family is to be owed more consideration, not less. The home is where courtesy is easiest to abandon, which is exactly why it is where courtesy matters most.

If the boss truly sees my relative as a member of his family, the proof lies not in how much he relies on them, but in how he speaks to them when he is tired, pressed, and sure that no one will object to his tone. For both their sakes, I hope he will learn to provide that proof.