Yeridat Hadorot: Beleiving DOES Make It So.

All the precious things she had
In the days of old
Jerusalem recalled
In her days of woe and sorrow,
When her people fell by enemy hands
With none to help her;
When enemies looked on and gloated
Over her downfall. (Eichah)

Tho we are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are... (Tennyson)

We are a failing people, a springless autumn... We are become Middle Men, of the Twilight, but with memory of other things. (Faramir, Lord of the Rings)

The notion of yeridat hadorot (the decline of the generations) is one that permeates Orthodox though and attitudes. The idea that earlier rabbinical figures were inestimably greater than later rabbinical figures is a cornerstone of Orthodox Jewish life. Every Baal Habos and 4th grade-student can tell you that this is true without any reservations or conditions. Contemporary rabbinical figures, be they neighborhood rabbeim or the present gedolai hador, are in no way comparable to figures of generations past; the Chafetz Chaim, the Netziv, the Vilna Gaon. And yet those figures are likewise in no way comparable to earlier figures such as Rambam, Rashi, or R'Saadya, whose greatness is scarcely conceivable to us. And those figures are likewise incommensurable with earlier authorities, R'Akiva, R'Yehuda HaNasi, Hillel. And those individuals are finally in no way comparable to the prophets, Eliyahu, Shmuel, and ultimately Moses, Aaron, and the Patriarchs.

The idea that present generations are in some way but a pale shadow of former generations can be found broadly in both Jewish and non-Jewish culture. One might say that a first hint of this attitude in Judaism is already present in the exaggerated life spans reported in Genesis chapter 5, and then again in Genesis 6:4, where the Nephilim are referred to as "the heroes of old, the men of renown." Genesis chapter 11 suggests that the early civilization of Babylon was so advanced that "nothing that they propose to do will be out of their reach." Later, we have the Talmudic expressions of this idea, such as that from Shabbos 112b (Soncino): "R. Zera said in Raba b. Zimuna's name: If the earlier [scholars] were sons of angels, we are sons of men; and if the earlier [scholars] were sons of men, we are like asses..."

One can see in the mythology of many other culture (Greek, for example) also the idea that the men of former times had capacities far beyond those of contemporary men, and were capable of deeds which contemporary men can scarcely comprehend. Indeed, the accomplishments of those early men where of such a magnitude that even the gods were forced to take note. In modern storytelling, this idea has perhaps its most potent presentation in the fiction of Tolkien, where the Men of earlier ages had near-supernatural powers, exaggerated life spans, and were closely affiliated with the gods and other transnatural agents (e.g., Elves). In Tolkien's mythology, those early Men left behind majestic stone cities and monuments, silent testimony to a level of achievement and power at which the diminished men of the present age can only gape and marvel, and then weep at how far they have fallen.

But in the wearing of the swift years of Middle-earth the line of Meneldil son of Anárion failed, and the Tree withered, and the blood of the Númenoreans became mingled with that of lesser men. Then the watch upon the walls of Mordor slept, and dark things crept back to Gorgoroth. (Elrond, Lord of the Rings)

This belief in declining aptitudes and capacities can be found also in the regard of the medievals for the works of Greek philosophy and medicine. In encountering the works of Aristotle and other Greek thinkers, the intellectuals of the Middle Ages were awed by the products of an intellectual culture which seemingly surpassed their own in every conceivable way. Indeed, the profundity and scope of Greek thought made it seem almost a sacrilege for one to raise critical questions about received Greek wisdom. And therein lay the problem, of course. As it has been pointed out, the worship of Greek thought may well have delayed the dawn of the empirical method and with it modern science.

With regard to the current Jewish perspective on this idea, it is difficult to say in exactly what way later generations are supposed to be inferior to previous generations. Is it in brute intelligence? Is it in creativity? Is it in spirituality? Is it in access to some mystical divine knowledge — ruach hakodesh? There is a recent book by Menachem Kellner which explores how Rambam understood this idea, but it's a pretty safe bet that Rambam's interpretation is not the popular understanding. I would suggest that the popular understanding is rather a loose fusion of all of the above. Thus, earlier generations were incomparably greater in intelligence, knowledge, wisdom, spirituality, creativity, and any other desirable attribute we can think of. I suspect that a poll of Orthodox people would probably reveal such an understanding to be the dominant one.

As usual, it is not my intention (nor within my capacity) to do a scholarly exercise in the concept of yeridat hadorot. I suppose you should read Kellner's book if you want that. Rather, here I just want to make the following simple suggestion:

"Yeridat Hadorot" is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It's very simple: If the contemporary intellectual community collectively believes that its faculties and capabilities are far inferior to those of previous generations, then it will be loathe to amend, revise, or replace any of the ideas and rulings of earlier generations. One can see this effect in the reluctance of the medievals to revise Aristotelian accounts of the cosmos, and one can see it in the resistance of Orthodox Jews to modify halachic practices or to permit hashkafic innovation. Under an attitude of yeridat hadorot, one cannot propose any idea that might run contrary to the position of an earlier luminary, because — in virtue of yeridat hadorot — the earlier luminary must be correct, and thus the later innovation must be inferior, if not heretical.

Thus every potential expression of a halachic and hashkafic idea must be carefully censored by its author to make sure that it does not run contrary to the sanctified expression of a previous generation. If a new idea in fact does present the appearance of conflict with earlier ideas, then it is necessarily wrong and must never see the light of day. One can observe this self-censorship even within Orthodox music, which is so fearful of saying something hashkafically incorrect that it resorts to endlessly repeating passages from Tehillim, which are very old and therefore very safe.

The contemporary intellectual community is therefore constrained by their idolization of earlier generations to work "between the cracks," filling the small gaps in earlier ideas or tentatively extending them to modern situations, but never truly challenging, defending, constructing, deconstructing, revising, or replacing.

By embracing the attitude of yeridat hadorot, the present generation thus guarantees that it IS in fact far diminished in all senses from previous generations.

By fearfully restricting themselves to a much narrower set of allowable halachic and hashkafic positions than was allowed to their predecessors, our present-day Jewish intellectuals ensure that their creative output, their intellectual productivity, and their spiritual expression, cannot be anything but a pale and unflattering imitation of what previous generations had been able to achieve. There is thus no doubt that future generations will lament the depravity of our own generation in comparison to former ones, because by embracing the yeridat hadorot attitude we have already ensured that it is so.

I don't mean to suggest that our esteemed predecessors weren't indeed exceptional people. There was only one Vilna Gaon. Only one Newton. Only one Maimonides. But their greatness was a product of both their intrinsic intellectual/motivational capacities and the times and circumstances in which they lived. There are certainly people alive today who have intrinsic intellectual/motivational capacities comparable to these larger-than-life figures. There are Newtons and Rambams growing up among us. However, if these individuals are taught from the start that they need to censor all their ideas and insights to conform with sacred prior doctrine (and so as not to disturb anyone's fragile religiosity), then they will certainly never develop their full potential for intellectual achievement. They won't become the next Rambam or the next Newton because they have been taught that this path is not permitted to them.

Yeridat Hadorot, true or false? True, but only when we make it so.

You are not required to complete the task, yet you are not free to withdraw from it. (Avos)

Don't say, "How has it happened that former times were better than these?" For it is not wise of you to ask that question. (Kohelet)

Other evils there are that may come; for Sauron is himself but a servant or emissary. Yet it is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succor of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule. (Gandalf, Lord of the Rings)

Fin

Moral Lessons from Haibane Renmei and the Book of Ruth

Oy. This blog is getting really off-topic (it was intended to be about epistemology), but now I decided I want to write a post about Megillat Ruth in the light of the anime Haibane Renmei that I watched recently. I previously wrote about the existential aspects of Haibane Renmei which got my brain going, but I was equally moved by the emotional and humanistic aspect of this series. (The characters in Haibane Renmei are not technically human but it is still a tale of humanism.) And because I saw this anime just shortly before Shavuoth, certain similarities between the humanistic aspects of Haibane Renmei and the Book of Ruth became very apparent. Both feature an interaction between two female characters, where the older character has lovingly nurtured the younger character, and the younger character is then forced to decide what sacrifice they must make in order to repay this kindness when the older character falls into distress. On reflection, while Haibane Renmei is in no sense a "modernization" of the Book of Ruth, I would not be surprised if the Japanese director had been exposed to Ruth, and had seen a glimmer of something in that story which he indirectly re-expressed in Haibane Renmei.

One caveat on what follows: I use the term "salvation" a lot below. I do not mean big-S "Salvation" in the Christian sense that a person is (or needs to be) saved from the damnation they incur simply in virtue of being flesh-and-blood. Rather I mean small-s "salvation" in the psychological sense that many people experience an inner turmoil and strife — often resulting in a pattern of self-destructive behavior — from which they find themselves unable to escape, and from which they therefore require salvation. Like struggling swimmers being swept out to sea on a powerful current, there are many people in this world (and in our communities) who for whatever reason are in a psychological state that interferes with their ability to direct their lives, to effect positive changes, and ultimately to grow. The kind of salvation that I refer to below is the small-s salvation which is needed by such individuals, and which is provided through the concerned intervention of their fellow human beings. Likewise, if I mention something about "sin" here and there, it should be obvious that I am not referring to the commission of crimes nor the transgression of religious observances. Rather, what I am referring to are the sins that one commits against themselves by embracing despair, conceding defeat, and ultimately forfeiting hope for themselves. Thus, the sin and salvation which I talk about below are psychological concepts.

Ah well, I'm afraid this post will end up sounding very Christian anyway, but read to the bottom, and you'll see that it's ultimately all about psychology! (I may be turning Japanese, but I'm not turning Christian. After this post, I will return you to your regularly-scheduled epistemology.)

For one mitzvah leads to another mitzvah, and one sin leads to another sin; for the consequence of a mitzvah is a mitzvah, and the consequence of a sin is a sin. (Avos)

Sometimes a sin is its own punishment. (Wise Rabbi)

"One who recognizes their own sin, has no sin." That is a riddle called the Circle of Sin... Perhaps that is what it means to be bound by sin: To keep going around in the same circle looking to find where the sin lies, and at some point losing sight of the way out. (Haibane Renmei)

You are not required to complete the task, yet you are not free to withdraw from it. (Avos)

When I read the Book of Ruth this year after having recently watched Haibane Renmei, Ruth really came across to me in a different light than it ever has previously. Certainly, there are many ways to read Ruth. One might read it as kind of a historical record, perhaps as a "back-story" for the epic of the Davidic dynasty. One might read it as an polemic in favor of sweeping acts of kindness, or as a lofty vision of how devotion and commitment may be manifested in their purest and most unselfish forms.

I had previously read Ruth in all these ways, and I can't say that any of them are right or wrong. But when I started reading it this year, it occurred to me that the Book of Ruth is perhaps most profoundly a tale of humanistic salvation. That is, Ruth is not just a story of people helping each other. Rather the Book of Ruth offers a vision of how one human being is delivered from utter annihilation — not by God — but by the selfless intervention of a fellow human being. This is humanistic salvation, and I believe that this is the theme of the Book of Ruth. The essential salvation story is densely compressed within the first chapter, while the rest of the book unfolds the consequences.

The Book of Ruth begins, of course, not with Ruth but with Naomi. And indeed, the story is as much about Naomi as it is about Ruth, perhaps even more so. Such a duality, such a collaboration, is required in any example of humanistic salvation. As in Haibane Renmei, salvation does not ultimately come from the "self-actualization" of a suffering individual, nor does it come from their heartfelt pleadings to an unknowable God. Instead, salvation ultimately comes from the willingness of a suffering human being to accept the helping hand that is offered to them, and the willingness of another human being to offer it. This is the necessary human partnership that is so eloquently captured in Ruth.

In a story of humanistic salvation, it is not necessarily the case that God is absent, callous, or indifferent. There is certainly a Providential component in both the Book of Ruth and in Haibane Renmei. However, in these stories God appears to only bestow his blessing for salvation on parties who have demonstrated their readiness to receive it. Crucially, this readiness cannot be demonstrated by anything that the suffering individual can do in isolation, whether by prayer or by deed. Likewise, this readiness cannot be demonstrated by anything the benevolent individual can do in isolation, whether by prayer or by deed. The requisite demonstration occurs only when the two human beings connect with each other, the one to offer assistance and the other to accept it. It is as though God stands back and says, "I want to see what you are willing to do for yourselves and for each other."

Within the first few verses of Ruth, we learn of a woman named Naomi who loses her husband and two sons in rapid succession. The text, while a model of brevity, here does us a disservice by introducing this tragedy so early and so quickly. We don't know who Naomi is, and we don't know anything about her husband or sons, so it's difficult to identify with any of these characters. In a sense, it feels like we're missing the first half of the book, which would have provided the essential character development. Because of this odd structure, I think it's easy for the modern reader to overlook what is the essential fact presented in the beginning of this first chapter.

The essential fact is that Naomi regards herself as having been annihilated. Within a short period of time, the entire meaning of her existence has been utterly erased. She says to her daughters-in-law, "My lot is far more bitter than yours, for the hand of the Lord has struck out against me," and when arriving in Bethlehem, she tells the townsfolk, "Do not call me Naomi. Call me Mara, for Shaddai has made my lot very bitter. I went away full, and the lord has brought me back empty." It's not just that Naomi is a sad individual, but that Naomi has utterly given up hope for herself.

As in Haibane Renmei, in the Book of Ruth a person's name symbolizes the meaning of their existence, their true identity, their unique narrative, the essential characteristics that makes them an irreplaceable individual. By changing her name from "Pleasantness" to "Bitterness," Naomi indicates that she has fundamentally altered her personal narrative, her essential meaning. She has changed her personal epic from the "story of Naomi, the woman who showed pleasantness to everyone" to the "story of Naomi, an unfortunate woman who was consumed by bitterness."

Naomi believes that her life is now irredeemable, that her doom has been assured. She will go on living, but without direction, purpose, or meaning. She has come to deeply believe that the "Story of Naomi" has reached its bitter conclusion, and she has already composed in her mind the final chapter: Naomi died and was forgotten, and it was as though she had never lived. Naomi prepares to utterly abandon herself.

But something happens on the way to oblivion. As Naomi falls ever further away from life, another human being unexpectedly reaches out to grab her. Wait, says Ruth, I will not let you go.

Naomi is surprised by Ruth's attitude: What could Ruth possibly see worth saving in an old, empty, defeated woman? Naomi's story is finished, and so she pushes Ruth away. She urges Ruth to leave her, to pursue a marriage amongst her own people, to secure her own future, to start rebuilding the Story of Ruth. In all her words to Ruth, Naomi is in essence saying, Build your own life, for my life is ended. Craft your own story, for my story has concluded. Forget about me, as I have forgotten about myself. I am not deserving of any kindness. I will quietly disappear. Moreover, by saying "the Lord has struck out against me," Naomi is arguing, as many despairing individuals do, that external events — indeed, God himself — have certified her worthlessness. She sees the tragedies that have befallen her as proof that she is indeed an intrinsically tragic figure, the kind of person who is — and always was — simply destined for tragedy. She is telling Ruth, "Can't you see that I am a doomed figure? Can't you see that there is no possible hope for me?"

It is easy to recognize — as everyone does — that what follows in verses 16-17 is a key moment in the story. Ruth determinedly deflects Naomi's attempts to distance herself, resists Naomi's efforts to convince Ruth that the failure of the woman Naomi is absolute and irreversible. Ruth refuses to participate in Naomi's exercise of self-condemnation, and will not be persuaded either that Naomi's cause is lost, or that Naomi is an intrinsically doomed person. Ruth dedicates herself to saving Naomi:

Do not urge me to leave you, to turn back and not follow you. For wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die and there I will be buried..."

Thus Ruth extends her hand for Naomi to grab. But, as eloquent as it is, Ruth's decision to offer her support regardless of external circumstances and Naomi's protestations is not the pivotal moment of the story, because Naomi's salvation is not something over which Ruth has control. Rather, at this point Naomi's salvation hangs on Naomi's own response to Ruth's intervention. Naomi faces a decision, a decision which is as crucial as Ruth's own decision to persist in attempting to aid Naomi. Naomi must decide whether she will amplify her efforts to resist Ruth's aid and thus persist in attempting to sabotage Ruth's devotion, or whether she will acquiesce to accept the help that Ruth is offering.

While Naomi's choice may seem an obvious one to the reader, such matters are not necessarily clear to an individual in distress. Naomi has already rewritten her own narrative as the story of a failed human being, and by doing so has spared herself from any further pain or uncertainty. Future misfortunes may come to her, but since she has already conceded that she is the kind of person who deserves such misfortune, much of the sting will have been diminished. She has resigned herself to accept things as they come, greeting them with the attitude of "I am the kind of person who experiences misfortune." In accepting Ruth's offer, there is therefore the threat that Naomi may have to let go this new narrative, and once again face the possibility of pain and uncertainty.

Moreover, because Naomi considers herself worthless in the aftermath of her tragedies, she must overcome a tremendous guilt barrier in accepting Ruth's help. In effect, she sees Ruth throwing away Ruth's own prospects of future happiness out of a misguided dedication to a worthless, unsalvageable corpse. The fear that — in addition to everything else — she might now also become guilty of dragging Ruth down into her own miserable world must have weighed very heavily on Naomi's mind. How can she justify keeping Ruth with her, when she, Naomi, is a figure destined for tragedy? In addition to the arguments she makes in the text, it seems Naomi must have had a hundred other reasons with which to push Ruth away. It is easy to push people away.

Therefore, it is verse 18, in which Naomi finally accepts the support that Ruth is offering, which may be the pivotal moment in the Book of Ruth:

When Naomi saw how determined she was to go with her, she ceased to argue with her.

In accepting Ruth's aid and companionship, Naomi is forced — perhaps unknowingly — to once again revisit the "Story of Naomi," and to begin to reconsider that last chapter. However, unlike the instant salvation achieved in Haibane Renmei, the Book of Ruth conveys the impression that Naomi's rehabilitation is far from rapid. In real life, a person's narrative cannot be rewritten in just a moment. However, the story does suggest that the ultimate resurrection of Naomi is the inevitable consequence of that first connection between herself and Ruth, the moment where Ruth selflessly offered her devotion and assistance to Naomi, and the moment where Naomi overcame her barriers to accept it.

Therefore, let me summarize what I see as the moral lessons contained in the Book of Ruth and Haibane Renmei:

Question: When is it permissible to finally give up hope on a struggling individual?

Answer: It is NEVER permissible to give up hope on a struggling individual. One must continuously seek to provide aid to a struggling person, even when that person vigorously resists assistance. It is difficult for us to see what barriers that person may be facing. Thus, even when a person seems completely intent on abandoning themselves, it is required that we continue to attempt to intervene. Although it may very well be beyond our control to pull that person back through our own efforts, the concern that we show for them in the process might very well be the one thing that keeps them hanging on. Perhaps when they see that someone else believes in them, that someone else thinks their existence has value, they might begin to see something of that value in themselves. When at some point the suffering individual comes to a place where they can attempt to look for a helping hand and a way out, someone must always be there to offer it to them. Never give up hope.


Question: When is it permissible to finally give up hope on yourself?

Answer: It is NEVER permissible to give up hope on yourself. There are many reasons that we may come to a point of despair, but we must always keep looking for a way to improve our situation. This is our obligation. Past failures are massively incriminating and continuously play on our mind, but dwelling on the past feeds the "cycle of sin" mentioned in the quotes above. People in despair are drawn to asking impossible metaphysical questions that have no answers:

Where did I go wrong?
Why was I chosen to suffer?
Why is the universe set against me?
Why didn't I ever get a chance?
Why am I the broken one?

Don't ask these questions. They only lead in circles. Instead, just look for the way forward. Look for the helping hands that are extended to you. Try something you haven't tried before. Tell a friend about your trouble. Tell your doctor, rabbi, priest. Don't give up. It is not your fate to suffer forever. You've paid your dues, and now it's time to find your way out.

When we have been suffering for a long period of time, it is easy to begin thinking that "it's just too late to fix matters at this point." One feels the weight of lost time pressing down upon one's shoulders, time that we know can never be recovered. And there is the sense that, as in a video game or sporting event, if we didn't play our best game from the start, then it is impossible for us to catch-up and get a good score in the end. There's a tendency to want to quit the game and give up trying. But life is not a video game, and no one knows how it is ultimately scored. Moreover, we often tend to inflate our own failures, and from an objective standpoint our life is not nearly the disaster that we perceive it to be.

And finally, as Victor Frankl points out, there is meaning in suffering. The suffering that we experienced was not wasted or empty. It was not for nothing. It deepened and enriched us. But nevertheless, we should not seek to suffer further. We should accept those experiences as part of ourselves, and then move forward. Never give up hope.