There is a remarkable exchange between the rabbis of the Mishnah and those of the Gemara at the end of Tractate Sotah in the the Babylonian Talmud. I am reminded of it each year as we approach the High Holy Days; for it invokes in me a sense of passing time which is frequently associated with this time of year. In part, the mishnah reads:
When Rabbi Meir died, the composers of parables ceased. When Ben Azzai died, diligent disciples ceased. When Ben Zoma died, expounders [of Torah] ceased. When Rabbi Joshua died goodness departed from the world. When Rabban Simeon Ben Gamaliel died, the locusts came and troubles multiplied. When Rabbi Eleazar Ben Azariah died, wealth departed from the sages. When Rabbi Akiba died, the glory of the torah ceased. When Rabbi Hanina Ben Dosa died, men of good deeds ceased. When Rabbi Jose Ketanta died, pious men ceased… When Rabbi Johanan Ben Zakkai died, the splendor of wisdom ceased. When Rabban Gamaliel the elder died, the glory of the torah ceased, purity and abstinence perished. When Rabbi Ishmael Ben Piabi died, the luster of the priesthood ceased. When Rabbi [Judah HaNassi] died, humility and fear of sin ceased. Rabbi Phineas Ben Jair says: when the [2nd] Temple was destroyed, scholars and noblemen were ashamed and covered their head…
This passage certainly hints that things were better in the good old days, an opinion that the book of Kohelet (7:10) ascribes not to wisdom. Yet we may begrudge our sages the opportunity to eulogize those whom they admire, even to the point of hyperbole.
In his essay, The Ever-Dying People, Simon Rawidowicz interprets this mishnah as another example of Israel’s oft prophesied doom. He states that from Moses to Bialik the mentors and seers of our people always held out the scepter of annihilation. The student of Jewish history “will readily discover that there was hardly a generation in the Diaspora that did not consider itself the final link in Israel’s chain.” Many a rabbi has felt that his generation was the last to teach Torah; the future held no hope. I must confess that I, too, from time to time have despaired of such thoughts, describing myself to others as that rabbi who will close the lights, lock the door, and catch the last flight out for Israel. Rawidowicz understands this mishnah as the last generation of tanna’itic rabbis expressing that sentiment.
What is of far greater interest, though, is the reply of two amora’im, rabbis of a later time. The Gemara states: When Rabbi [Judah HaNassi] died, humility and fear of sin ceased: Rav Joseph said to him, to the tanna [who taught this], “Don’t teach humility, for I am here.” Rav Nachman said to him, to the tanna [who taught this], “Don’t teach fear of sin, for I am here.” The humorous proclamation in which Rav Joseph “humbly” declares his great humility aside, Jews of our day can identify with the amora’im. We have seen the rebirth of Israel, we watch as it defies the odds, and its detractors time and again. We display long lists of Jews on the internet whose contribution to modern society is far out of proportion to Jewish numbers. We, to some degree, have become secure with our place in the world and have convinced ourselves that we have secured some sort of insurance that we are not the last generation.
However, we should not dismiss this mishnah so lightly. We have paid a heavy price for this security. Many Jewish communities cannot read Hebrew, let alone understand it. They have lost touch with the past and are, therefore, unable to pass on the traditions. Many of us have given up on kashrut, fast days, and various holiday observances that bind us to our past and, in so doing, created a gaping segue to lower birth rates, higher rates of assimilation, less interest in affiliating with Jewish organizations, in short - all of the problems and issues that acculturation engenders. Many books and articles, covering everything from reimagining the synagogue to the demise of American Jewry, have been written, dissected, and analyzed. Perhaps we are the “ever dying people” after all.
In our High Holy day liturgy, we find a remarkable centuries-old composition called Unetanneh Tokef. This poem states that: “On Rosh Hashanah it will be inscribed and on the fast of Yom Kippur it will be sealed: how many shall pass away and how many shall be created, who will live and who will die, who will be cut short and who will not be cut short, who by water and who by fire, who by the sword and who by the beast, who by hunger and who by thirst…” What is true for individuals is true for communities also. We could ask as well, which communities by demographics and which by apathy, which by hatred and which by missile. (I know that the last one has nothing to do with us but just ask our innocent brothers and sisters in Sederot to explain what I mean.) How we approach our prayers and customs may, indeed, be up to us. But, the consequences of our choices are not.
So, the Mishnah and its eulogies teach us much if we are willing to invest the time to study and learn them. But, we cannot forget the hubris of later generations either; they, too, have a voice. I think this is what Simon Rawidowicz attempts to convey in his essay. Ironically, the best way to insure our survival, is to regard our own generations as the very last. As Rawidowicz concludes, “A people dying for thousands of years means a living people. Our incessant dying means uninterrupted living, rising, standing up, beginning anew. We, the last Jews! Yes, in many respects it seems to us as if we are the last links in a particular chain of tradition and development. But if we are the last—let us be the last as our fathers and forefathers were. Let us prepare the ground for the last Jews who will come after us, and for the last Jews who will rise after them, and so on until the end of days.”
The question, of course, is how is this achieved. Here, perhaps, the Mishnah should get the last word: “On whom can we rely? — on Our Father in Heaven.” May it be the will of the Holy One, Blessed be He, that each of us be inscribed and sealed in the book of life for a good and sweet year of 5775 - a year of life, a year of peace and a year of blessing. L’shanah tovah umetukah.
Shalom uverakha (peace and blessing),
Rabbi Ronald B. Kopelman
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