The book of Ecclesiastes, or Kohelet, grapples with these very human feelings. It observes, "With the increase of good, those who consume it increase; what use is there for its owner, other than the sight of his eyes?” (Ecclesiastes 5:10). It's a sentiment that resonates, isn't it?
But what does that REALLY mean? Kohelet Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations on Ecclesiastes, dives into that verse. Let's explore what it unearths.
The Rabbis Ḥananya and Yonatan, or perhaps Menaḥem the confectioner – depending on which tradition you follow – asked a pointed question. According to Rabbi Berekhya, in the name of Rabbi Yosei ben Ḥananya, Menaḥem asked, "Was the manna (the miraculous food from heaven) that the Holy One blessed be He gave to the Israelites food of starvation?" It seems like a paradox, doesn't it? Divine sustenance, yet associated with suffering?
To illustrate, Menaḥem presented two cucumbers. One was whole, the other broken. The whole cucumber, they agreed, was worth two maneh (an ancient unit of currency). The broken one? Only one maneh. "But," Menaḥem pointed out, "won't the whole one eventually become like the broken one when you eat it? Why the difference in value?" The answer? "They are not comparable, for just as one enjoys the taste, so too he enjoys the appearance."
Rabbi Elazar, citing Rabbi Yosei bar Zimra, beautifully connects this to the story of the Tree of Knowledge. The fig tree, he says, is good for eating, attractive to the eyes, and adds wisdom. We see this echoed in Genesis 3:6: "The woman saw that the tree was good for eating… and that it was an enticement to the eyes… and that it was desirable for wisdom [lehaskil]." The word maskil, meaning "contemplation," even appears in the title of Psalm 89: “A contemplation [maskil] of Eitan HaEzraḥi.” It's all interconnected.
The idea is that initially, appearance matters. But as we experience things, the initial allure fades, and we're left with the core essence – the taste, the wisdom. Isaac, whose eyesight was failing, embodies this shift. He asks for "tasty food," acknowledging that he now values only the taste, not the visual presentation.
Then comes a fascinating debate between a Samaritan and Rabbi Meir about resurrection. The Samaritan challenges the idea of the dead coming back to life. Rabbi Meir, unable to cite chapter and verse in that moment, cleverly uses logic and analogy.
"Will the dead [yet] live?" the Samaritan asks. Rabbi Meir affirms, "Yes," and insists it will be a public event. The Samaritan demands proof. Rabbi Meir replies, "It is not from the Bible, and not from the Mishna, but rather, from the way of the world that I respond to you."
He paints a picture: In their city, there's a trustworthy person who returns private deposits publicly. So, wouldn't a public deposit be returned publicly? Similarly, people "deposit" a tiny seed with their wives in private, and God returns it publicly as a complete person. The dead, who depart with public mourning, will surely return publicly.
Rabbi Yonatan, quoting Rabbi Yonatan of Beit Guvrin, adds a poignant image: a child emerging from a barren womb with loud cries. Just so, the dead will emerge from the grave with loud cries.
The Samaritan persists: Will they be clothed? Again, Rabbi Meir relies on analogy. He asks if the Samaritan has ever sown beans. Unclothed, he admits. And how do they emerge? Clothed, of course! Therefore, the dead, who are buried in shrouds, will surely return with garments. Rabbi Aivu, or Rabbi Natan, even cites Job 38:14: “It will be transformed like clay under the seal; and they stand like a garment.” The garment buried with a person will be there upon resurrection.
Finally, the Samaritan asks: Who will feed them? Rabbi Meir asks if he's ever been to Ḥamat Gader, a place known for its hot springs. Whether "in season" or "out of season," food is always available because of the crowds. Rabbi Meir concludes, "So too, the One who brings the crowds brings their food."
The Samaritan, seemingly cornered, then poses the ultimate question: If they come back alive, clothed, and sustained, why do you cry over them when they die? Rabbi Meir, perhaps frustrated, responds with a harsh rebuke, essentially cursing the questioner. He argues that loss is painful, and mourning is a natural response. Just as they entered the world with cries, they leave with cries.
What do we take away from this? Perhaps it’s a reminder that appearances can be deceiving, that true value lies beyond the surface. Or maybe it's a testament to the enduring human need for hope and comfort in the face of loss. The Rabbis, through their interpretations, remind us that even in the face of life's ephemerality, there's a deeper, more enduring reality to be found. A reality that even death cannot extinguish.