Korah (Psalms)

“And the Sons of Korah did not die”

An interesting anomaly: Korah is painted as one of the most negative figures in Torah, and his challenge to the Torah as taught by Moses was met with an immediate, dramatic and devastating punishment. Yet just a few chapters later, when the Torah summarizes the genealogies of the tribes, including the Reubenites Datan and Aviram who participated in Korah’s rebellion and were swallowed by the earth together with him, it takes pains to point out that “the sons of Korah did not die” (Num 26:11). And indeed, elsewhere in the Bible we find reference in a matter-of-fact way to a school of singers known as “the children of Korah” (2 Chr 20:19; cf. 1 Chr 6:16, 23), while their name appears in the Psalter in the heading of several groups of psalms.

Hence, Shabbat Korah seems an ideal opportunity to examine these psalms, several of which we have already discussed individually, a bit more closely, and try to see if they have any common denominator. Michael Goulder, whom we mentioned a few weeks ago, a kind of pioneer among modern Bible scholars in suggesting that the grouping and titles of the psalms are a vital key to their understanding, says in his book on the Korahite Psalms that they formed a liturgy for the days of the festival of Sukkot in the temple built by the northern tribes who constituted the kingdom of Israel. He bases this, among other things, on the absence of the name “Jerusalem” and the water imagery, characteristic of the far northern reaches of the country, in Psalm 42. While I find the northern attribution doubtful, given the harsh criticism of Jeroboam’s schism in the temples at Dan and Beth-el, the idea of these psalms’ festal use is intriguing.

Noted Jerusalem Torah teacher Aviva Zornberg has remarked that these psalms seem to plummet to particularly great psychological and philosophical depths, to reflect a certain intensity of experience and emotion, as if written by people who have undergone a near death or other transformative experience, as if its authors have been places most people have not been (interestingly, the final psalm in each of the two groups, Pss 49 and 88, both deal with death, albeit in different ways). The Talmud at Sanhedrin 110a, commenting on the above-mentioned verse, says that “a protected place was set aside for them [the sons of Korah] by the gates of Gehinnom, where they sat and recited song.” Rashi and others state that Korah’s children were originally part of the rebellion, but later repented and sang praises to the Almighty, an act seen as a sign of turning. To this, we might add that, with the exception of the very last psalm, these are not personal prayers, but are concerned with large subjects, of either national or philosophical import, or both.

The psalms of the sons of Korah appear in two groupings in the Book of Psalms: Pss 42-49, at the beginning of the Second Book; and Pss 84-85 and 87-88, near the end of the Third Book. A few words about each one:

42-43: “As a hart longs for streams of water, so does my soul long for You, O God.” A hymn of intense, almost mystical longing for the presence of God (see HY VI: Tetzaveh).

44: A kind of historical psalm, recalling God’s deeds of kindness to the Jewish people in past, contrasted with their present dispersion and trouble, concluding with a prayer for help.

45: A royal marriage hymn (see HY VI: Hayyei Sarah).

46: A psalm of collective confidence and trust in God, “our refuge and strength, very much present as help in times of trouble.”

47: A coronation hymn of God as king over the whole earth: “All the peoples clap their hands, shout out joyously to God.” This psalm is traditionally recited seven times on Rosh Hashanah prior to the blowing of the shofar (we will discuss it, with God’s help, at that time).

48: A celebration of Zion, the city of God, used liturgically as the song for Mondays (see HY VI: Vayigash).

49: A reflection on death and mortality, traditionally recited in a House of Mourning during shivah—to be discussed below.

84: an ode of love to the Temple, as the place where the psalmist feels at home (HY VI: Shemini).

85: a song of the relation between God and His people: “You have favored Your land, restored the captives of Jacob.”

87: A hymn celebrating the city of Zion, also as the metaphorical birthplace of everyman (HY VI: Bamidbar [=Yom Yerushalayim]).

88: A personal prayer, of a person who feels himself at the brink of death.

Psalm 49: A Meditation on Death

Psalm 49 presents itself as a “wisdom psalm,” devoting the first four verses (vv. 2-5) to an introduction in which the author calls upon all inhabitants of the earth, rich and poor, high and low, to listen to his words of wisdom, in which he will address a riddle of hoary antiquity. The presentation proper begins by showing the folly of those who trust in property and wealth to save them in the end, exposing this to be illusory: “No man can redeem his brother, or pay God a ransom”—no matter how much money he has (vv. 8-9). “He cannot live forever, and not see the Pit” (v. 10).

In short, no person can escape death. The notion that a human being can present “redemption money” to avoid death—like the ransom money one might give to kidnappers or bandits, or the various forms of “redemption money” that some people have given throughout the ages to priests, sacred and secular (“indulgences” in medieval Catholicism; “rebbe gelt” in the more degenerate forms of Hasidism; the psychiatrist’s hourly fee which, in Freudian theory, goes beyond professional payment to serve a therapeutic function)—is patently absurd. Death is universal: “for one sees that sages die, together with fools and ignorant people” (v. 11); even the wealthiest man cannot hold on to his luxurious home; the only place he can truly call home in light of eternity is the “hollow” or “innards” (qirbam) of his own (perishable) body; or, reading the opening word of v. 12 as a metathesis for qibram (thus both NJPS and RSV, following ancient readings and some medieval commentators), one’s true home is the grave. As the old American expression has it, “You can’t take it with you.” Man is no different from the beasts, who perish in silence (v 13).

In this mockery of those who trust in wealth, one can imagine that the author might have had in mind the elaborate tombs of the wealthy and powerful of the ancient world: e.g. the Egyptian pharaohs who made an especial cult of death, building the pyramids as a means of preserving their mummies to eternity. A latter-day, futuristic form of this desperate attempt to escape death is found among those people, in California and elsewhere, who pay huge sums to deep-freeze their bodies, in the hope that one day science will find a way of resuscitating them and giving them eternal life.

I cannot go on with such bleak and somber thoughts without interjecting some humor, albeit of the macabre variety. A tourist to Israel once visited the place, not far from Zikhron Yaakov in the Carmel mountain range known as Yad ha-Nadiv, a beautifully landscaped, verdant park, filled with well-tended trees, plants and flowers. At the center of this idyllic site lies its raison d’être: the tomb of the 19th century philanthropist Edmund de Rothschild and his wife. Gazing at the natural beauty surrounding him, our tourist exclaimed, “Now that’s what I call living!”

The somber, despairing vision of the universality of death and the ultimate vanity of even the greatest wealth continues through the word “Selah” in verse 14. The second half of the psalm seems to offer a more positive vision for those who place their trust in God. While the foolish descend, sheep-like, to Sheol, “the upright shall rule over them at daybreak, while their form wastes away in Sheol” (v. 15; this verse has tortuous syntax, and its peshat is very difficult and obscure; not surprisingly, some scholars have suggested “emendations”—this time restoring what they see as the erroneous metathesis of qever to boqer, and fixing up the vocalization in strategic points). It continues, “But God will redeem my soul from the clutches of the Netherworld (Sheol), for He will take me, Selah” (v. 16). And again, the theme that one shouldn’t “fear” when a person is rich and accumulates much substance in his home—for he will take nothing after his death. Even though he pats himself on the back, and others say “you have done well” (v. 19; another difficult verse), in the end he will go to the same place as his ancestors, never to see the light of day again.

What does all this mean? Amos Hakham thinks that this psalm addresses the eternal enigma of what happens to a person after death, and how he can attain eternal life. He sees the psalm drawing a sharp contrast between the man who relies on wealth, which is a false hope—as repeated in the beginning, middle and end of the psalm—and one who places his trust in God.

Frankly, I find it hard to find any mention or even hint in this psalm of a doctrine of “life after death,” nor am I convinced that it is important. While Judaism through its long history has addressed this issue—indeed, it has developed several different, mutually exclusive, doctrines of what happens after life—it has never made the promise of eternal life its main focus. Most of the biblical books speak of Sheol, a vague, shadowy realm to which people descend after death—as I see this psalm doing as well. Hazal, the Talmudic Sages, spoke of the “World to Come,“ olam haba, a personal afterlife— but they also talk about bodily resurrection (already mentioned, albeit probably only as an allegory for national rebirth, in Ezekiel 37’s famous vision of the dry bones); while many Kabbalistic sources speak of transmigration or metempsychosis of souls into numerous bodily lives, and even explain this as a means of correcting sins committed in previous lives.

But it seems to me that the “bottom line” of this psalm is that a person ought not to rely upon vain things—specifically, wealth—but to know that no one can escape death. True, verse 16 (“God will redeem my soul from the clutches of the Netherworld, for He will take me”) does speak of an escape from the eternal silence and stillness of death, but it is so vaguely phrased that it is impossible to derive from it any clear, positive doctrine of an Afterlife. The main thrust with which one is left is that the righteous, God-trusting person, through living an upright life, prevents death from rendering life meaningless.

More on Theodicy, Death and the Human Condition

But there is more to this. I would like to connect this subject to our discussion a few weeks ago (HY VI: Behukotai) of theodicy. Some years ago I paid a condolence call to a friend whose mother had died in her 80s following a long illness. At a certain point during the visit I approached the aggrieved widower, who addressed me directly, almost bluntly, in two Hebrew words: tenahem oti. “Comfort me.” I had never been addressed this way in a house of mourning, and was at a loss as to what to say. I offered some conventional, pat answers: that he was surrounded by a loving family, numerous children and grandchildren; that his wife had done much good in her long life; that there is a God who is real and who loves him; that Torah and mitzvot continue to give deep meaning to life; etc. Yet even as I spoke I knew that my words sounded hollow, and that he was asking something else. Indeed, he responded, “I know all that, but it doesn’t help.” Evidently, they had been an unusually devoted and loving couple. Now he had lost the love of his life, the one person who made life worth living.

There is a strange passage in Hazal, at Ketubot 8b, giving the text of a blessing that R. Yehudah bar Nahmani used to recite in a house of mourning. “O, my brethren who are weary and distraught by your grief: Turn your hearts to search out this matter; it is something that has been since time immemorial, it is a path from the Six Days of Creation. Many have drunk from this cup, many will drink. Like the drinking of the former, so shall be the drinking of the latter. Dear brothers, may the Master of Consolation console you. Blessed is He who consoles the mourners.”

This sounds like a harsh, almost cruel answer. What kind of “blessing of consolation” is this meant to be? What is its wisdom? The answer is that there is no real answer: that any clever, pious, “deep” attempt to “explain” to the riddle of human suffering and death is, in the end, artificial. Even an old man, who has enjoyed the love of his wife for 50 or 55 years, does not accept such a death easily or “philosophically,” accepting it as the way of the world. The truth is that life is never long enough; we always want more. Hence, there is no real answer that can satisfy the human heart, but only a kind of acceptance that needs to take place. All that one can really say to a mourner is that he must know that this, too, is part of human life, and that he is not alone.

Hence our Rabbis understood the purpose of nihum avelim, not primarily in terms of words, of speech, of providing theological answers, but as simply being there for and with the person; sitting with him or her in supportive silence, comforting by a touch or an embrace, or merely by one’s presence. That is why Hazal ruled that one may only talk when the mourner is ready to speak. Indeed, I once visited a man whose wife had died of cancer in her early 50s: he simply sat on the floor, looking utterly destroyed, not uttering a word to any of the visitors—and I left after 15 minutes of silence.

But there is something else as well. Ultimately, the problem of theodicy is not only concerned with those cases where one feels a blatant contradiction to the idea of the justice of God’s decree—e.g., the Holocaust, the death of children, the excruciatingly painful martyrdom of the saintly Rabbi Akiva, etc.—but is a kind of protest against the human condition per se. That is why the Rabbis introduced the liturgy of Zidduk ha-Din—verses declaring acceptance of God’s judgment, that all God’s deeds are just and perfect, the recitation of Kaddish declaring His kingship, etc.—to be recited at every funeral, even of the centenarian who died peacefully in his sleep.

Rav Soloveitchik once wrote in a eulogy that death makes a mockery of all of man’s aspirations, all of his covert assumptions about himself, and the meaning of his life. How is it possible for a person to be an olam qatan, a microcosm of the universe, embracing in his mind distant worlds, in space and time—to study distant planets and galaxies; to know and understand cultures and events and peoples who lived thousands of years ago; to achieve profound knowledge of specialized areas, greater than any person before or after him; to create works of art, of music, of imagination, of thought, of science, of law; not to mention the memories and emotions of his/her own life, the intricate weave of relationships with the hundreds and thousands of people upon whose lives he may have touched over the years—and for all this to disappear in an instant, as if it had never been? Death may overtake a person peacefully, in old age, after a loving farewell from family and close friends; or it may come in an instant, unexpectedly, perhaps through a car accident or a bomb in a crowded place or a sudden medical event—but it always spells the end of a unique, irreplaceable “world and its fullness.”

Death brings to the fore the basic anomaly of the human condition: that man is a “thinking reed,” a bizarre hybrid of biological, natural being and conscious, spiritual being. We live this life with a certain cosmic sense, with no end of awareness and insight—such that we feel that we are eternal beings. Then someone dies, and makes the whole thing a macabre joke. In a strange sense, the fact of death bears a certain similarity to what was once coyly referred to as “the facts of life,” in that both throw into sharp relief the contrast between the human as a physical-biological and a spiritual-conscious being. Sex is at one and same time a grossly physical act, prima facie identical to the mating of animals, and yet carrying, at least in potential, profound emotional, spiritual, and psychological worlds, of being an act somehow engaging the entire lives of the two people involved.

It is this idea that is conveyed by Avot 3.1 (from this week’s reading) when it speaks of those things which one ought to contemplate “so as not to come to sin.” The first two—“from whence you come and where you are going”—are shared with the existentialist philosophies, which state that there is nothing in life beyond the period delimited by birth and death, and that the only meaning to an essentially meaningless existence is that which we ourselves give it, in a “sisyphistic” (to borrow a phrase from Camus) attempt to live lives of dignity and meaning. It is a madding absurdity that we come from “a tepid drop”—that the origin of each and every one of us is the sexual encounter of our parents (see Lev. Rabbah 14.5, in which David is driven half-mad thinking about the fact that he came into the world, not as the result of his father Jesse’s deliberate, mindful intent, but as a byproduct of the satisfaction of his raw carnal lust, and my discussion in HY III: Tazria-Mezora)—and that we go to “a place of worms and maggots”: that, in the end, our lives are lived within mortal, vulnerable bodies that are doomed to die, and therefore to rot and disintegrate. But to this Hazal add a third element: “know before whom you must render an account… before the King of Kings, the Holy One blessed be He”—that is, that in the final analysis there is a judge, that there are norms that are absolute.

I would suggest that, on a deep level, tzidduk ha-din means: acceptance of human condition. At every funeral there is always a sense (whether articulated or not) of anger, of absurdity; that life is somehow “unfair.” Our Korahite psalmist knew this, but he also knew (like Akaviah ben Mahallalel in the above mishnah, and like Kohelet in the final verse of his book) that life lived with a sense of the Divine Presence somehow transcends this—and that whatever comes after, that is in itself enough.