‘To Be or Not to Be’ is not only Hamlet’s Question

The Rosh Hashanah davening is always a cause for pause. Every year during “Unetaneh Tokef” we hear the phrase, “How many will be born, and how many will die,” and we think abstractly about the weight of this phrase. Some years, though, we hear the same phrase wailed emotionally by the same chazzan as last year in exactly the same way, and it breaks our hearts because the esoteric has become actualized and we have seen the difference a year makes. For some, the loss of a neighbor or an acquaintance is not a reason to reflect; for many, on the other hand, the nearer loss strikes to one’s own person, the more poignant its effects. Many think of themselves or their nearest family during the “Unetaneh Tokef” and are moved by imagining a life without; sometimes, just the potential of their absence is enough to bring us to tears and propel our heartfelt t’shuva (repentance). The sad truth remains, however, year after year: though we cry and feel the weight of judgment during the Yomim Nora’im (Days of Awe), many of us falter and fall back into bad habits on the 11th or 12th of Tishrei and all of our atonement falls by the wayside like a forgotten New Year’s resolution.

It is for this reason, I believe, that the Rabbis famously debated the virtues and drawbacks of man’s creation. It is recorded in the Talmud, Eruvin 13B, in three lines of text that are easily overlooked: “Our Rabbis teach: for two and a half years there was a debate between the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel [about man’s creation]…They finally took a vote and decided it was better for man not to have been created than to have been created.” Imagining the ferocity of this debate that waged for two and a half years among the two premier scholarly bodies of ancient Israel provides for some fascinating legends; and each year, as I observe my freshly-inked atonement crack and crumble under the pressures of daily living, I imagine that fact being used among the scholars of the House of Shammai as evidence for the fault of man’s creation. The teaching ends on a curious note, though. Recognizing that, despite our flaws, humankind continues to exist, each of us is challenged to “Yi’pashpesh b’maasav… y’mashmesh b’maasav” “Reflect on our past deeds…[or]…contemplate our future actions.” Each time I pass these lines, I am revisited by similar feelings that I feel during “Unetaneh Tokef.”

The realities of life’s brevity and our mortal fragility are concepts I face daily in my work with the Chevra Kadisha. Often, despite the practiced nature of our work preparing bodies for burial according to Jewish tradition, I am driven to my knees by the sheer immensity of our task. But recently, as I’ve watched a long-time friend’s family deal with the sudden impact of his falling into a coma and watching children no older than my own say mourners’ kaddish for their father, my knees have lacked the strength to take me to my point of peace. This year, during Musaf, when the chazzan sang “V’anachnu Korim,” “And we kneel…” during Aleynu, my eyes watered as my face touched the ground. How, my mind screamed, how can we kneel and thank G-d when our friends and loved ones are near death?! It is little consolation to be told, “yi’pashpesh b’maasav…” “Reflect upon your past deeds.”

There is a Chassidic tale told of a tzaddik who was visited by an angel and given the “gift” of knowing when his time of death was near. After careful deliberation, the Chassid chose to remain—like the rest of us—unaware of when his life would end. The angel, shocked by this refusal, asked, “Why would you not want to know when your time of death will come?” The Chassid replied that if he knew when his death was near, he’d forget to focus on his life. The Talmud offers two options for man, whose existence was a mistake: we can ruminate on past ills or cogitate on our future achievements. Each of us has only one life; therefore, none of us should ignore opportunities that will make for an exceptional one. Seizing the day and making for ourselves the kinds of lives we would like to be remembered for, being “y’mashmesh b’maasav,” is the method through which both man’s creation and our own existences can be made meaningful. For some, the loss of a neighbor or an acquaintance is not a reason to reflect; for many, on the other hand, the nearer loss strikes to one’s own person, the more poignant its effects. Many think of themselves or their nearest family during the “Unetaneh Tokef” and are moved by imagining a life without; sometimes, just the potential of their absence is enough to bring us to tears and propel our heartfelt t’shuva (repentance). The sad truth remains, however, year after year: though we cry and feel the weight of judgment during the Yomim Nora’im (Days of Awe), many of us falter and fall back into bad habits on the 11th or 12th of Tishrei and all of our atonement falls by the wayside like a forgotten New Year’s resolution.

It is for this reason, I believe, that the Rabbis famously debated the virtues and drawbacks of man’s creation. It is recorded in the Talmud, Eruvin 13B, in three lines of text that are easily overlooked: “Our Rabbis teach: for two and a half years there was a debate between the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel [about man’s creation]…They finally took a vote and decided it was better for man not to have been created than to have been created.” Imagining the ferocity of this debate that waged for two and a half years among the two premier scholarly bodies of ancient Israel provides for some fascinating legends; and each year, as I observe my freshly-inked atonement crack and crumble under the pressures of daily living, I imagine that fact being used among the scholars of the House of Shammai as evidence for the fault of man’s creation. The teaching ends on a curious note, though. Recognizing that, despite our flaws, humankind continues to exist, each of us is challenged to “Yi’pashpesh b’maasav… y’mashmesh b’maasav” “Reflect on our past deeds…[or]…contemplate our future actions.” Each time I pass these lines, I am revisited by similar feelings that I feel during “Unetaneh Tokef.”

The realities of life’s brevity and our mortal fragility are concepts I face daily in my work with the Chevra Kadisha. Often, despite the practiced nature of our work preparing bodies for burial according to Jewish tradition, I am driven to my knees by the sheer immensity of our task. But recently, as I’ve watched a long-time friend’s family deal with the sudden impact of his falling into a coma and watching children no older than my own say mourners’ kaddish for their father, my knees have lacked the strength to take me to my point of peace. This year, during Musaf, when the chazzan sang “V’anachnu Korim,” “And we kneel…” during Aleynu, my eyes watered as my face touched the ground. How, my mind screamed, how can we kneel and thank G-d when our friends and loved ones are near death?! It is little consolation to be told, “yi’pashpesh b’maasav…” “Reflect upon your past deeds.”

There is a Chassidic tale told of a tzaddik who was visited by an angel and given the “gift” of knowing when his time of death was near. After careful deliberation, the Chassid chose to remain—like the rest of us—unaware of when his life would end. The angel, shocked by this refusal, asked, “Why would you not want to know when your time of death will come?” The Chassid replied that if he knew when his death was near, he’d forget to focus on his life. The Talmud offers two options for man, whose existence was a mistake: we can ruminate on past ills or cogitate on our future achievements. Each of us has only one life; therefore, none of us should ignore opportunities that will make for an exceptional one. Seizing the day and making for ourselves the kinds of lives we would like to be remembered for, being “y’mashmesh b’maasav,” is the method through which both man’s creation and our own existences can be made meaningful.