The hardest lesson in life is learning that we have an expiration date.
We laugh about it so as not to become morbid. A perfect example is Winston Churchill’s quip: “I am prepared to meet my maker. Whether my maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.” The father of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud, rationalized the inevitable by saying: “Perhaps the gods are kind to us, by making life more disagreeable as we grow older. In the end, death seems less intolerable than the manifold burdens we carry.”
Other than humour and resignation, are there any other ways to approach the thorniest of subjects? E. M. Forster, the British novelist, wrote that “Death destroys a man: the idea of death saves him.” But how does this insistence on mortality “save” us?
The Bible has countless reminders of man’s finite existence. From the very beginning, the story of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden signals that we do not live in a perfect garden of eternal life, but rather a temporary life in an imperfect world. In the Torah, Moses, the greatest prophet, is called “Moses the man,” a stark reminder that even he was a mere mortal.
In tractate Taanit (23a) in the Talmud, there is a story that addresses the importance of understanding and accepting our mortality:
“One day, [Honi] was walking along the road when he saw a certain man planting a carob tree. Honi said to him: ‘This tree, after how many years will it bear fruit?’ The man said to him: ‘It will not produce fruit until seventy years have passed.’ Honi said to him: I’s it obvious to you that you will live seventy years, that you will benefit from your tree?’ He said to him: ‘[We] entered a world full of carob trees. Just as my ancestors planted for me, I too am planting for my descendants.'”
The anonymous person, representing all human beings, plants a carob tree in full knowledge that he will not live to eat its fruit. Not only does he accept his own finite existence, but also he embraces the fact that he has a vital role to play in the perpetuation of life. As his ancestors provided for him, so will he plant for his descendants. The Talmud views mortality in context as life renewed from generation to generation. In this story, transcending death means continuity in the form of doing something positive for those who will follow in the future.
In “A Letter in the Scroll,” Rabbi Jonathan Sacks also emphasises the link between the generations as a key part of life’s meaning: “I did not come from nowhere; I have a past, and if any past commands me, this past commands me. I am a Jew because only if I remain a Jew will the story of a hundred generations live on in me … I cannot be the missing letter in the scroll.” According to Rabbi Sacks, one transcends death by making his individual, mortal life part of a larger story of significance.
As in Taanit, the accent with Rabbis Sacks is on continuity: The letter in the scroll is the contribution of one letter that makes the whole Torah complete just as a single person makes possible the continuation of a people from generation to generation.
In the film “Mr. Holland’s Opus,” a man who dreams of becoming a great composer ends up teaching high school music. Life brings him many disappointments but, on his retirement, he is overwhelmed by the great assembly convened in his honor. A full auditorium of students praises him for his impact on their lives, and one of his former students addresses the crowd and declares: “Mr. Holland, we are your symphony.” When we dedicate our lives to a story that is larger than our own, frail mortals become contributors to the lives of others and thereby leave a powerful legacy. Mr. Holland had intended to create a symphony that would live on, only to find that his legacy was the students he taught. They were his symphony.
Brown suggests that the idea of death saves us precisely because it highlights the preciousness of life and the need to think of future generations, to leave our imprint on the world beyond death.
Erica Brown wrote in “Return: Daily Inspiration for the Days of Awe” that on Yom Kippur “we mime death, the ultimate statement that we have no control over our mortality. The confrontation with death prompts us to reconsider what we have been living for.” Much like Forster, Brown suggests that the idea of death saves us precisely because it highlights the preciousness of life and the need to think of future generations, to leave our imprint on the world beyond death.
The issue, then, is not “Why do we have to die?” but rather “What are we living for?” Planting a carob tree is a metaphor for a project that will benefit future generations; the letter in the scroll is the individual in Jewish history ensuring its continuity; creating a symphony of people means adding meaning and beauty to their lives as one’s gift to the future.
Death is life renewed if it is part of an eternal link between generations, leaving its mark on the world beyond death.
Dr. Paul Socken is Distinguished Professor Emeritus and founder of the Jewish Studies Program at the University of Waterloo.
The Hardest Lesson
Paul Socken
The hardest lesson in life is learning that we have an expiration date.
We laugh about it so as not to become morbid. A perfect example is Winston Churchill’s quip: “I am prepared to meet my maker. Whether my maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.” The father of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud, rationalized the inevitable by saying: “Perhaps the gods are kind to us, by making life more disagreeable as we grow older. In the end, death seems less intolerable than the manifold burdens we carry.”
Other than humour and resignation, are there any other ways to approach the thorniest of subjects? E. M. Forster, the British novelist, wrote that “Death destroys a man: the idea of death saves him.” But how does this insistence on mortality “save” us?
The Bible has countless reminders of man’s finite existence. From the very beginning, the story of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden signals that we do not live in a perfect garden of eternal life, but rather a temporary life in an imperfect world. In the Torah, Moses, the greatest prophet, is called “Moses the man,” a stark reminder that even he was a mere mortal.
In tractate Taanit (23a) in the Talmud, there is a story that addresses the importance of understanding and accepting our mortality:
“One day, [Honi] was walking along the road when he saw a certain man planting a carob tree. Honi said to him: ‘This tree, after how many years will it bear fruit?’ The man said to him: ‘It will not produce fruit until seventy years have passed.’ Honi said to him: I’s it obvious to you that you will live seventy years, that you will benefit from your tree?’ He said to him: ‘[We] entered a world full of carob trees. Just as my ancestors planted for me, I too am planting for my descendants.'”
The anonymous person, representing all human beings, plants a carob tree in full knowledge that he will not live to eat its fruit. Not only does he accept his own finite existence, but also he embraces the fact that he has a vital role to play in the perpetuation of life. As his ancestors provided for him, so will he plant for his descendants. The Talmud views mortality in context as life renewed from generation to generation. In this story, transcending death means continuity in the form of doing something positive for those who will follow in the future.
In “A Letter in the Scroll,” Rabbi Jonathan Sacks also emphasises the link between the generations as a key part of life’s meaning: “I did not come from nowhere; I have a past, and if any past commands me, this past commands me. I am a Jew because only if I remain a Jew will the story of a hundred generations live on in me … I cannot be the missing letter in the scroll.” According to Rabbi Sacks, one transcends death by making his individual, mortal life part of a larger story of significance.
As in Taanit, the accent with Rabbis Sacks is on continuity: The letter in the scroll is the contribution of one letter that makes the whole Torah complete just as a single person makes possible the continuation of a people from generation to generation.
In the film “Mr. Holland’s Opus,” a man who dreams of becoming a great composer ends up teaching high school music. Life brings him many disappointments but, on his retirement, he is overwhelmed by the great assembly convened in his honor. A full auditorium of students praises him for his impact on their lives, and one of his former students addresses the crowd and declares: “Mr. Holland, we are your symphony.” When we dedicate our lives to a story that is larger than our own, frail mortals become contributors to the lives of others and thereby leave a powerful legacy. Mr. Holland had intended to create a symphony that would live on, only to find that his legacy was the students he taught. They were his symphony.
Erica Brown wrote in “Return: Daily Inspiration for the Days of Awe” that on Yom Kippur “we mime death, the ultimate statement that we have no control over our mortality. The confrontation with death prompts us to reconsider what we have been living for.” Much like Forster, Brown suggests that the idea of death saves us precisely because it highlights the preciousness of life and the need to think of future generations, to leave our imprint on the world beyond death.
The issue, then, is not “Why do we have to die?” but rather “What are we living for?” Planting a carob tree is a metaphor for a project that will benefit future generations; the letter in the scroll is the individual in Jewish history ensuring its continuity; creating a symphony of people means adding meaning and beauty to their lives as one’s gift to the future.
Death is life renewed if it is part of an eternal link between generations, leaving its mark on the world beyond death.
Dr. Paul Socken is Distinguished Professor Emeritus and founder of the Jewish Studies Program at the University of Waterloo.
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