"I turned my heart to despair regarding all the toil that I toiled under the sun," it says (Ecclesiastes 2:20). It's a sentiment that resonates even today.
But Kohelet Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of Ecclesiastes, offers a powerful counterpoint to that despair. It suggests that even when we feel like throwing in the towel, we should remember that we're part of a chain, a legacy of effort that extends far beyond our own lives.
How, you ask? With a story, of course!
Imagine this: The Roman Emperor Hadrian – may his bones be crushed, as the text pointedly adds – is traveling near Tiberias when he sees an old man digging in the rocky soil, planting trees. Hadrian, ever the pragmatist, asks the man how old he is. "One hundred years old," comes the reply.
Hadrian is incredulous. "You, a hundred years old, are planting trees? Do you really think you'll live to eat their fruit?"
The old man's answer is profound. "If I merit it, I will eat. If not, then just as my ancestors toiled for me, so I toil for my children."
What a powerful statement about intergenerational responsibility! It's a concept deeply embedded in Jewish thought. We see it echoed throughout our texts, from the stories of our patriarchs and matriarchs to the laws concerning inheritance and legacy. We are, in essence, planting seeds for a future we may not see ourselves.
Hadrian, clearly intrigued, tells the old man, "If you do get to eat of them, let me know."
Time passes, and the trees bear fruit. The old man, true to his word, fills a basket with figs and goes to the palace to greet the emperor. Now, can you imagine this scene? An old Jewish man, approaching the most powerful ruler in the world with a basket of figs? The audacity!
Hadrian is impressed, perhaps even touched by the man's integrity. He orders the basket to be emptied and filled with dinars – gold coins! His servants are shocked. "Are you really going to give so much honor to this old Jewish man?" they ask.
Hadrian’s reply is telling: "His Creator honors him; will I not honor him?" He recognizes the inherent worthiness and dignity of this man, a man who embodies the spirit of perseverance and dedication to future generations.
But here's where the story takes a comedic, almost farcical turn. The old man's neighbor's wife, described as an "imbecile," gets wind of this transaction. She convinces her husband that the king loves figs and exchanges them for gold. So, the husband fills a container with figs and heads to the palace, hoping to strike it rich.
Of course, it doesn't go as planned. Hadrian, recognizing the man's greed and lack of genuine intention, orders him to be placed at the palace gates, where everyone entering and exiting throws figs at his face. Ouch!
The humiliated man returns home, complaining to his wife about the "honor" he received. Her sarcastic reply? "Go and boast to your mother that they were figs and they were not citrons, that they were ripe and were not unripe!" (Kohelet Rabbah 2:20). The implication, as the text explains, is that ripe figs are softer than citrons or unripe figs, making the experience all the more unpleasant.
What does this tale from Kohelet Rabbah ultimately tell us? It’s more than just a funny anecdote about figs and emperors. It's about the value of selfless work, about contributing to something larger than ourselves, and about the importance of intention. The first old man toiled with a vision for the future. The second just wanted a quick buck. Guess who got the gold?
As we go about our day, let’s remember the old man planting trees. Let's remember that even the smallest act of kindness, the most seemingly insignificant effort, can have a lasting impact on generations to come. And maybe, just maybe, we too will merit to taste the sweet fruits of our labor.