Death does not defile, neither does water purify.

            This morning I attended a wonderful virtual talk hosted by Hadar and given by one of my favorite former classmates, Dena Weiss. She spoke about this week’s Torah portion Hukkat, through the lens of commentary from the Pesikta derav Kahana 36a (to learn more about this book, ask someone else please!). One line from the commentary has stuck with me all day and, well, I’m enjoying a wild insight I’m having about it.

            First, about the parsha and the commentary: In Hukkat, we read the law of the red heifer, an animal which is sacrificed, burned to ashes, and then those ashes are used to purify those who have been made ritually impure by contact with the dead. It’s a famously bizarre law, and in the commentary, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai is asked about it. First he gives an answer that normalizes the ritual but when pressed further by his students he says:

            “Death does not defile, nor does water purify, but it is the decree of the Holy One, blessed be He, who declared, ‘I have issued an ordinance and enacted a decree, and you are not permitted to question my decree.” 

Death does not defile nor does water purify.

            What a line! I’m obsessed with this line! It’s been in my head all day. So here are some levels of significance I find in it (with my advance apologies both to Dena Weiss and Rabbi Yochanan, as I am sure that my own thoughts will be spiraling further and further away from the intentions and meanings of Rabbinic thought).

Ok, here we go:

1) On the intended level, I believe (and Dena explained to us this morning) Rabbi Yochanan is saying that ritual purity is an arbitrary thing, something that exists by decree rather than in any natural sense. Ritual purity and impurity are symbolic at best, and so if it doesn’t make sense, don’t worry, it wasn’t logical in the first place.

2) Now then, let’s approach this text more loosely. When I read “defile,” I think “ruins.” And in that sense, yeah, death defiles! It totally defiles. Closeness with death leaves an impact on us. It can certainly kill a mood, or an appetite. In a physical-experiential sense, contact with death defiles, and can leave us seeking some way to remove that feeling. And similarly, water totally purifies! In a literal sense, it cleanses, but again in a physical-experiential sense, it refreshes. I take a shower, and I feel new. So, even without “God’s” proclamations about ritual purity and impurity, I think there’s an instinctive human sense that death does defile, and water does purify. 

3) Follow me as I really co-opt this text for my own purposes. Now that we’ve established that death does defile and water does purify, what would it mean to insist that they don’t? Here’s where I go all atheist-misanthropic on you-- death doesn’t ruin life; it’s f**king built into life! Death ruins life the way that dish-washing ruins a good meal-- it’s like, sure, it ruins you if you’re spoiled. Gonna bring this rant up a notch-- death is a big deal because we make it a big deal, because, well, we are meaning-making animals, so making things into big deals is what we do. But, in terms of life as a whole, death’s a piece of it, and it doesn’t defile. The same goes for water-- it only has meaning in a human world; otherwise, it’s just another element that does its thing, and sometimes does its things with other things. Tl;dr: Death doesn’t defile because defilement is a human construct; water doesn’t purify because purity is a human construct. 

4) And now let’s return to these practices around ritual purity and impurity. If death doesn’t defile and water doesn’t purify, then why do them? If everything is meaningless, then why do meaningful acts? Well, I’ll refer you to #2 above-- whether or not there’s meaning in the universe, we seem to see/carry it anyhow! Death doesn’t defile, but it sure feels like it does. Water doesn’t purify, etc. And that’s why “God” decrees all of this.

5) Ok, one last step-- there is no God, just like there is no ultimate meaning. In that case, “God” represents our passionate attempt/insistence that life has meaning, because that’s how we work; it’s how we get by. The decrees of “God” (our projections of meaning) matter because we need meaning, whether it’s “out there” or not (it isn’t). We can navigate life better when we have narratives of defilement and purification (or your choice of two more updated terms related to downfall and redemption, etc). 

Death defiles -- death does not defile -- death defiles.

Water purifies -- water does not purify -- water purifies.

Or to put it another way: First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.

On the Self as a Collection

            I’ve been reading some biology that reminds me that my body is a collection of things that once existed on their own— mostly bacteria, but also various cells that, before they became specialized, could themselves be thought of as individuals, rather than as parts. So I am forced to recognize that what I call “I” is also something that a group of life-forms could be calling “We,” if they had a voice—which they don’t. I have a voice and I can say “I,” but it doesn’t change the fact that I am just as much a location of symbiosis as I am an individual in my own standing.

            Thinking about myself as a conglomeration compels me to consider my own mortality, to consider what death will do to me as an individual. As I have said a few times before, I see death as a severe withering of the personality. At death, the truth about myself as a temporary gathering-place of smaller life-forms is revealed. After “I” am gone, they slowly dissipate. And that’s that.

            To be honest, I am bringing this topic up not because I am concerned at all about my own fate, but rather, this question: What will become of my books?

After a recent trip to Maryland, my entire book collection is under one roof for the first time since high school. My entire library, which I would estimate at about 500 or so books, is with me. As a bibliophile, who I am is intensely tied up with this library. I have lovingly organized them into their sections: fiction, profound fiction, philosophy, philosophical theology, Judaism, Christianity, non-Judeo-Christianity, politics, environmentalism, psychology, and fan literature (Simpsons, Grateful Dead, Marx Brothers). I have read a lot of these books, but I would still venture to guess that I have not read around half of the pages I own. I probably own 10x more Heidegger or Buber than I have ever read. I collect books at a faster rate than I read them. Looking at my collection, one can see who I am, but this “I” is both what I’ve read and also what I would like to have read. My book collection is a curious symbol, composed of 500 or so signs that, individually and collectively, speak about me as their owner.

            I hope that the analogy is clear by now. These books are a part of me. But, when I die, what will become of my books? Since I plan to continue reading throughout my life, I like to imagine that they will serve as a partial record of the intellectual content I have consumed. But, I wonder, what is the meaning of all this intellectual consumption? I read a lot of books, which means that some make a profound impression, some leave traces, and some leave nothing. A lot of book-reading is more like an experience than like gaining possession—once I’m done reading, I do not “have” these books any more than I “have” a concert after it’s over (for more, see my upcoming piece, “What will become of my ticket stubs?”). Even if I utterly absorb the contents of a book, what then? What does it mean? What difference does it make?

            I find explanation (though I’m not sure how much solace) in Richard Dawkins’ account of the meme, the intellectual equivalent of the gene. What I call “I” is just as much a gathering-place of memes as it is a gathering-place of genes. Perhaps “intersection” is a better word, as it signifies that I am a location at which things both gather and dissipate. My reading of my books lives on as far as the bits of conversation (and pieces of writing) I pass on about them are themselves passed on.

            And what about the books themselves—what is their life after my death? Looking at my library, I am struck by a creeping realization that they will outlive me. They existed before they were mine, and they will exist after they are mine. They are ultimately not my library; they are just books. The only remaining meaning in my having possessed them is that their new owners are likely to be people geographically close to me, and who very well might be my descendants (or their cousins). I think of how I picked through my late grandfather’s books after my grandmother finally moved out of their large house in New City into a smaller apartment in New Jersey. His collection of memes, like his collection of genes, became a part of me, became a part of my experiences and my identity. It’s a beautiful thing—although, at the same time, I have to recognize that I received his books by picking through them, rather than receiving them as a library. My books will last and might be passed on meaningfully through me. My library, my beloved collection that speaks volumes about who I am, is as temporary as “I” am.

           

P.S. Jesper Hoffmeyer’s “Signs of Meaning in the Universe” was the immediate inspiration for this piece.

The Spirituality of Utter Silence

Atheists like me need to have a positive relationship with the concept of "nothingness." The Humanist movement intelligently turns attention away from the fantastical 'other-world' of God and heaven, and towards the very real 'this-world' where life actually happens. Meaning and redemption have to happen in this life, because everything beyond this life is "nothingness." (Ecclesiastes 9:10) But I think that this nothingness still deserves our attention.

As someone who loves words, I often equate human life with speech. When I imagine the world before humans evolved, I always imagine it as 'silent'-- anyone who's spent any time in nature knows I do not mean this literally. But still-- can you imagine the world without its current cacophony of inner monologues, all that thinking and feeling and scheming-- doesn't it seem quieter? An ego-less world-- seems quiet. Outside the realm of human thoughts, a deafening silence.

These thoughts about silence come to me when I think of the expanse of time in which my very short life occurs. There is a noise that's been going on for the last 27 years, and hopefully for another 100, and I call that noise "me"-- in fact "me" is the sound it usually makes. But before and after my life, there's a silence where this "me" will be and will once have been. I emerge from and return to nothingness, in between briefly participating in physical and conscious life. But, in either direction in time, a vast nothingness surrounds me.

I attempt to find peace in this experience of silence. It takes some of the burden off my existence, as I remember once again that non-existence is my more common state. I find it sobering and strengthening-- sobering because all of my cares and concerns are seen in its light (or rather, darkness), and strengthening because my time, and the ideals I might promote in that time, becomes that much more precious. In little silences during my day, and in the middle of the night, I am reminded of that greater silence, and I take comfort in its constancy. I am here for now, and that is enough, because it must be enough.