THE ROAD TO HELL

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“The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.” It’s one of those sayings we hear so often that it risks sounding trite. But history—and human nature—suggest that it may be one of the most important truths we ignore at our peril.

Because the people who cause the most damage are rarely those with bad intentions. They are the ones who believe, with complete sincerity, that they are doing something necessary—righteous, even—something only they have the courage to do.

In the early decades of the twentieth century, in the crowded, combustible world of London’s East End, there lived a rabbi named Joseph Shapotshnick. He was not a marginal figure. Quite the opposite. Charismatic, energetic, creative, exceptionally talented, brilliantly articulate, and a serious scholar, after arriving in London in 1913, he quickly built a following among immigrant Jews who felt mistreated and overlooked by the communal establishment. He spoke their language—literally and figuratively—and positioned himself as their champion as they struggled to acclimate to the harsh realities of their new home.

And in many ways, he was. Shapotshnick saw—and actively addressed—problems others preferred to ignore. He challenged entrenched institutions. He launched newspapers, organizations, and ambitious publishing projects. He believed Judaism needed to be accessible, dynamic, and responsive to the realities of modern life. These were not the instincts of a cynic. They were the instincts of someone who cared deeply—perhaps too deeply.

Because there was another layer. Behind the activism, behind the creativity, behind the undeniable passion, there was a pattern. Shapotshnick’s projects were grand—often breathtakingly so—but frequently untethered from practical reality.

His grand-sounding “Rabbinical Association” was, in essence, a one-man enterprise. His publishing ambitions stretched into the realm of the fantastical. Time and again, he demonstrated what can only be described as a profound inability to recognize the limits of his own authority and expertise. And then came the moment that would define him.

In the aftermath of the First World War, Jewish communities across Europe were grappling with a heartbreaking and complex crisis: agunot—women whose husbands had disappeared, possibly dead but possibly not, leaving them unable to remarry under Jewish law. It was a real and deeply painful problem, one that demanded not just compassion, but immense halachic skill and sensitivity to resolve.

And so, Shapotshnick stepped in. But he did not approach the issue as a careful halachic authority would—working case by case, building consensus, navigating the intricate web of precedent and responsibility. Instead, he sought something far more sweeping.

Shapotshnick envisioned systemic solutions—bold, far-reaching changes that would release every agunah, freeing them all to remarry. He issued rulings, claimed support from rabbinic colleagues he had barely—or never—consulted, publicized his conclusions, and positioned himself squarely at the center of the effort.

From his perspective, he was doing something heroic. After all, who could argue with the goal? Who wouldn’t want to alleviate suffering? Who wouldn’t want to free trapped women from impossible situations?

But that is precisely where the danger lay. Because what he failed to recognize was that, notwithstanding his good intentions, the very scale and sensitivity of the problem demanded restraint, not audacity. More than anything, it demanded a deep awareness of one’s own limitations.

Instead, what emerged was something else entirely: a man so convinced of the righteousness of his cause that he no longer saw the boundaries that should have governed his actions.

And then another layer began to surface—one far less noble. Alongside his passion for justice came an increasingly strident tone, particularly in his attacks on the leading rabbinic authorities of his day. Instead of engaging with them, debating them, or even deferring to their vastly greater experience, Shapotshnick dismissed them. Worse than that, he mocked them, positioning himself not merely as a challenger to the establishment, but as its superior.

What may have begun as a sincere attempt to solve a painful communal problem now revealed a deeper undercurrent: an ego that could not tolerate opposition, that interpreted disagreement as obstruction, and that saw itself as uniquely qualified to succeed where others had failed. In doing so, he didn’t just alienate the very people whose support he needed—he undermined the legitimacy of his own cause.

The tragedy is that his good intentions were real. But they were ultimately eclipsed by an inflated sense of self that turned a worthy cause into a personal crusade—and, in the process, weakened the very thing he was trying to achieve.

And of course, none of this was new. It is a pattern that has been repeated throughout history, and it already appears at the dawn of Jewish history, in Parshat Shemini. At the height of one of the most sacred moments in Jewish history—the inauguration of the Mishkan—two towering figures, Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aharon, step forward to bring a special offering.

It was an act of devotion, an expression of spiritual longing. And then, in an instant, they are gone, felled in a moment of divine judgment. The Torah’s explanation is both simple and devastating: they offered a foreign fire, which they had not been commanded to bring.

It is one of the most perplexing episodes in the Torah. Nadav and Avihu were clearly great people, and the commentaries struggle to come to terms with their misstep. One opinion is that they acted in the presence of Moshe without consulting him, even though he was clearly their senior in wisdom and authority.

Their spiritual enthusiasm is not in doubt, but the underlying critique is simple: they allowed their inflated sense of themselves to override the boundaries that should have constrained them. They were drawing close to God, but entirely on their own terms—an example of ego overriding submission to a higher authority.

If you begin to believe your own PR—that your intentions are so pure, and your insights so refined, that the usual constraints no longer apply—you are already in dangerous territory. Because in that moment, good intentions turn into self-assertion. And self-assertion, in a sacred space, becomes hubris.

The tragedy of Nadav and Avihu is not a story of bad intentions. It is a story of good intentions untethered from humility. And that is precisely what makes it so unsettling—because it is so easy to see ourselves in it.

Rabbi Joseph Shapotshnick fell into that same trap. He cared deeply, and he acted boldly. But in doing so, he inserted himself into a space that demanded something else—not less passion, but more restraint. He was not lacking in courage; he was lacking in humility.

We should admire people who challenge systems and push boundaries—sometimes, that instinct is exactly what is needed. But there is a caveat: never let ego overtake the process. The most dangerous moment is not when someone acts maliciously. It is when someone becomes so convinced of the purity of their intentions that they no longer consider the possibility that they might be wrong. That is when even the noblest cause becomes distorted. You have to know where you end, and the system begins—and understand that conviction is not a license to act without limits.

Joseph Shapotshnick wanted to fix a broken world. In that, he was not alone—and he was not wrong. But in the story of Nadav and Avihu, the Torah reminds us, in the most dramatic way possible, that wanting to do something good does not justify the way it is done. Good intentions matter. But without humility, they are not enough.

Image: Rabbi Joseph Shapotshnick in London, c.1927, from the collection of Rabbi Pini Dunner.