(Invited talk--Yom Kippur with Rabbi Donald J. Pollock, October 2, 2006)
Some 25 years ago, my then teenage stepdaughter, Claire, came into our bedroom at one o’clock in the morning crying. What exactly is the point, she asked, if we’re all going to die? Claire had been something of a hellion through her adolescence, but at that moment I suddenly felt achingly attached to her.
The problem was: how was I to respond when I had exactly the same doubts myself? “To be truthful, Claire, I don’t know what the point is?” Luckily, Hildy was there, and as you might guess, she’s a very positive person. She quickly comforted Claire, took her back to bed, and in the morning, sure enough, the hellion was back.
People who don’t know, or aren’t sure what the point is, are either pitied or they make others uncomfortable. We are indeed strangers in a strange land. Of course we continue to search for a point, sometimes obsessively—and just when we think we’ve found one, we sleep on it and the next day we realize we were wrong. Over time I’ve found my personal answer. But before I tell you, let me say what hasn’t worked for me.
For many people, religion provides the answer. The point is found in the afterlife, one’s relationship with God, or both. While this answer has provided comfort to many, it also has brought down skyscrapers—and may, if you believe Sam Harris in The End of Faith, destroy civilization as we know it. Still, moderated faith seems to me to be a wonderful thing. People who believe are generally happier than those who don’t, and with faith, the existential concerns that are constantly nipping at our heels during our life journey can be easily swatted away. So, believe—you’ll feel better. If only I could. I take some solace in the fact that it’s not my fault. Recent evidence suggests that capacity for faith has a significant genetic component. Most can find God, but some, because of the presence or absence of unspecified genes, cannot. Of course, the drug companies are all over this. If they have their way, atheism will soon be classified as a psychiatric disorder. The cure: 20 milligrams of an SFRI (selective faith re-uptake inhibitor). Agnostics only need take 10 milligrams.
Money hasn’t worked for me as the point of life—although I haven’t made enough of it to do an adequate test from personal experience. Money, however politically incorrect, does have one advantage: after you die you can pass it on to your heirs……who are going to die. Recently, I spoke to Dave, my best friend from high school. Dave is a commercial real estate broker in Manhattan and has made a lot of money. For the first time since we have been adults, he sounded a little uneasy. He said what he has accomplished professionally has no meaning. He was wondering whether he should be volunteering his services somewhere. I trust Dave. Money is not the answer.
Perhaps our Founding Fathers had it right: the point of life is the pursuit of happiness. If this answer were viable, it would be wonderful. Not only would it be good for the human psyche, the economy would keep rolling along—because all of us try to increase our happiness by buying things. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. Research reveals that people are born with a set happiness point. Events such as winning the lottery, getting married, and buying the new BMW may increase happiness—but only for a short while. Very quickly we return to our set happiness point. That’s why I’m in favor of amending the Declaration of Independence to read “life, liberty, and the pursuit of meaning”. Why should generation after generation waste their time pursuing happiness if we’re as happy as we’re ever going to be?
There’s a final answer, popular among evolutionary biologists. The point of life is to spread one’s genes. That’s what evolution has designed us to do. While I agree in principle, the answer doesn’t deeply satisfy, and it’s not exactly what one wants to tell a teenage hellion.
O.K. So how would I answer Claire’s question now? What is the point, if we’re all going to die? 6 weeks ago, my brother was called up to serve in Israeli military intelligence. He was escorting a CNN reporter to the northern border, when he spotted two Katyushas heading directly towards him on the highway. He stopped the car, threw it into reverse, and floored it. One of the missiles exploded a hundred yards in front of him. Those missiles and the nearness of my brother’s death reminded me once again what the point of life is: it’s our aching attachments to those dearest to us—family, friends, and pets. When I experience those attachments, the existential question disappears: it no longer begs to be answered. And when I feel alone, I suffer the question the most. That’s what I would have told Claire if I had understood, and she could have listened to me.
