How We Will Live
Rabbi Ron Shulman
Yom Kippur 5771
One of my favorite novels is As A Driven Leaf by Milton Steinberg. You may be familiar with it. It tells the fictional story of a Talmudic rabbi, Elisha ben Abuyah, a young man in search of wisdom during a crisis of faith. Rabbi Steinberg was a prominent scholar and author who served as rabbi of the Park Avenue Synagogue in New York City.
This past year, Milton Steinberg’s second novel was published, posthumously. The Prophet’s Wife imagines the life of the Hebrew prophet Hosea and his troubled marriage to a harlot named Gomer. It is an unfinished story, published incomplete, as left behind by an author whose life also ended incomplete. In 1950, Rabbi Milton Steinberg passed away at the age of 46. I mention this for the following reason.
The forward to The Prophet’s Wife, written by Ari Goldman, tells us this. “Steinberg’s magnificent tale remains open-ended, as he left it. There is one thing, however, that the reader needs to know. The last page of the story…was written by Steinberg on the night before his death.”
Let me read to you the story’s last line. Steinberg wrote, “You may thank the Lord God of Israel that He gave me sharp eyes, sharp enough to see the angel of death on his way.”
On Rosh HaShanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed, “Who shall live and who shall die?” Imposing words. They get our attention. Each and every year during these holy days we stop. We focus. We wonder.
In 1950 did Milton Steinberg intuit his fate when writing that last line about the angel of death on his way? In 1968 did Martin Luther King, Jr. sense his destiny when he spoke of being “to the mountaintop” and “not fearing any man” the day before his murder? This past year did any of us anticipate on one day what surprised us on the next?
Legend tells us that this powerful poem, Unetaneh Tokef was written in the 12th century by a man named Kalonymos ben Meshullam who believed that Rabbi Amnon of Mainz had appeared to him in a dream reciting these words before his death as a martyr.
The legend relates that the great and distinguished Rabbi Amnon was besieged with the requests of Mainz’ nobles to leave Judaism. He always refused. But one day, being badgered by a church bishop, in order to put him off the rabbi said, “I want to seek advice and think the matter through for three days.”
The minute he took leave of the bishop Rabbi Amnon’s heart sunk. He was unable to eat or drink. Everyone came to console him but all he could think was how. How could he have let an expression of doubt cross his lips, even as a ploy? “Because of what I said, I will go to my grave in grief.” Rabbi Amnon wept in sorrow.
Many days passed. Rabbi Amnon was ordered to appear before the bishop. Rabbi Amnon asked that his tongue be cut out as punishment for his indiscretion. The bishop would not consent, instead issuing the even more gruesome order that the rabbi’s limbs be hacked off his body “because you did not come to me as you promised.”
The legend concludes with Rabbi Amnon’s family carrying him into synagogue on Rosh HaShanah so that he might pray for forgiveness before his death. “Let us acknowledge the power of this day’s holiness,” he declares, “Unetaneh tokef kedushat hayom,” and then he speaks the rest of the words we have before us in the Mahzor as written by Kalonymos to whom they were repeated in the dream.
The legend is just that, a legend. The actual poetry we read in the Mahzor was composed as early as the fifth or sixth century by a Byzantine Jew who created a morality tale about the faithful standing firm in the face of adversity. Never the less, the legend is disturbing, but not only because it’s gory. According to the legend, today is holy and significant because tomorrow we may die. I understand this.
We could say it about every day. We are always exposed and vulnerable to life’s fragility and brevity. Who of us experiencing illness or infirmity saw it coming? Who of us touched by love anticipated the sweetness we feel or the caring we know? Who of us hurt by love were ready for its pain? How many of us are involved now in activities we would never have predicted a few years ago? How many times have we been caught off guard by great beauty, genuine compassion, or true viciousness?
Everyday is a surprise. Everyday is a challenge. Everyday is complicated. Everyday is a gift. Every new day is a chance to begin again. To apologize for what went wrong, to anticipate what will be right. Each day can be meaningful in its unique way. Teshuvah – repentance, Tefillah - prayer, and Tzedakah - righteousness make a difference.
On more than one occasion I have been asked by someone living with a terminal illness, “What am I supposed to do while I wait to die?” Hear the answer. I always say, “Live.” Judaism uniquely teaches. We are never dying, but always living through every moment and circumstance of our days. Being human is both precious and precarious. In the face of adversity our efforts must be to live as well as possible, with loyalty and love.
When we hurt, when we yearn, when we confront the real issues of our marriages, our families, our careers, our health, our loneliness, and our existence we have to reorient ourselves. The ancient legend may be about our troubles and fears, about how we might die. Our lives have to be about our hopes, our stamina and strength, our courage and our choices. Let’s not ask if we will hurt, if we will die. We know that answer. Let’s ask ourselves instead how we will heal, how well we will live.
Let me tell you about George. When he learned of his serious illness, naturally, he was upset. Emotionally discouraged and angry, George set about understanding his treatment options and his prognosis. In his healthy days, George was an upbeat and busy individual. He loved his family. He enjoyed his close friends. He was responsible and successful in his career. Involved in his community and athletic, George couldn’t believe it was all going to end.
He got through his first treatments, and actually began to feel better. To celebrate, George took his family away for a few days. Driving up the turnpike, they pulled off the road to take a break. Inside the rest stop George bought a snack, and went to sit down at a table and wait for the rest of his family to join him. Sitting next to him was a middle aged woman. She introduced herself as Joan.
After a couple of minutes, Joan asked George where he was going. He named his destination, and politely asked the same of Joan. Joan smiled and said she was going to her son’s graduation. George nodded politely, and then turned his attention to the television on the wall. But he could sense that Joan was looking for someone to talk to. So he turned toward her, and said, “You must be very proud of your son.” Joan nodded, and asked if she could explain why. “Sure,” answered George.
Joan explained. Years ago when her husband was killed in an accident, her whole world caved in. In addition to her own sense of loss, she was left to raise her son alone. She couldn’t imagine how to cope.
“For the longest time all I could do was worry. Then, one sleepless night, it came to me. I realized that all I had to do was get through one day at a time. For one day I could be strong enough, smart enough, tough enough, and even happy enough. Day after day added up. Days became weeks. Months became years. There were set backs. Some days were harder than others. But I did it. I raised my son. I rebuilt my life.”
Joan finished her story. She apologized for imposing it on George, thanked him for his polite interest, got up and walked away. By now George’s family had joined him. They asked who he was talking to. George briefly summarized Joan’s story. It had an impact on him. This was clear when George announced, “That’s my choice, too. I’m not going to look too far ahead, but try to live each day with confidence and as much quality as I can.”
George and his family are well this Yom Kippur. They are with us in this room. George and Joan actually did speak once upon a time. Today they represent each and every one of you who faces a personal burden and responds with your natural grace, dignity, energy, and resolve. It’s only natural to be afraid. But God’s gifts to each of us are the will and drive to cope as best as we can each and every day. On some days better than on others. Still, each day is precious and unique. Teshuvah – repentance, Tefillah - prayer, and Tzedakah - righteousness make a difference.
Today when we recite the poignant poetry of Unetaneh Tokef, don’t take its language literally. Take it seriously. No matter how many times we speak of life’s fragility and the simple risks of being, we are never as sensitive to that truth as we ought to be. No one of us knows tomorrow. Today is our challenge, our opportunity, and our purpose.
Therefore, I would like to suggest we reorient ourselves to what we are doing. Today is holy and significant because we seek to live, and to live well. On Yom Kippur we may rehearse our deaths through our abstinence and ritual, but even more important, we are observing Yom Kippur in order to renew our lives.
That is why I composed an interpretive English version of Unetaneh Tokef. We read it on Rosh HaShanah, and we will read it as our prayer again today. My purpose is not to replace the ancient words surrounded by legend and mystery. My goal is to refocus our vision for how we may live the next days and years of our lives.
Unetaneh Tokef…Questions For Life
On Rosh HaShanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed.
Who will live and who will die?
I will.
I will live, and I will die.
Who will live out the limit of his or her days, and who will not?
Like every human being, I will live out the limit of my days, and it will be too soon.
Who will rest content and who will wander?
Who will be at peace and who will be troubled?
I will.
Who will be poor and who will be rich?
Who will be humbled and who will be exalted?
I will.
Like every human being, I will live each day as I must before I die.
Therefore…
On Rosh HaShanah let’s consider and on Yom Kippur let’s decide.
How we will live, not how might we die.
Who will change and who will be stubborn?
Who will try and who will give up?
Who will hope and who will fear?
Who will dream and who will not?
Who will hear and who will listen?
Who will be open and who will be closed:
to someone else’s dignity, ideas, and reality?
Who will strive to do good and who will settle for being good?
Who will celebrate and who will grieve?
Who will learn and who will not ask?
On Rosh HaShanah let’s consider and on Yom Kippur let’s decide.
How we will live, not how we might die.
Who by love, and who by hate? Who with forgiveness, and who by holding a grudge? Who with family bonds, and who with family rivalries? Who by friendship, and who by loneliness? Who by inspiration, and who by cynicism? Who by honesty, and who by lies? Who by kindness, and who by callousness? Who by faith, and who by doubt? Who by giving help, and who by receiving help? Who by a generous attitude, and who by a stingy one? Who by confidence, and who by timidity? Who by humility, and who by arrogance?
On Rosh HaShanah let’s consider and on Yom Kippur let’s decide.
Not if we will die, but how we will live.
At the start of my sermon, I told you about Milton Steinberg’s posthumous novel, an unfinished story, The Prophet’s Wife. It seems that he left no notes behind, no outline or plan for the book. I imagine that’s because he didn’t think he wouldn’t finish it. In his mind, Rabbi Steinberg knew how he wanted the story to end. And that’s the point.
We may each think we know what will be the story of our lives. But we don’t. All we know for sure is what we do today, and did before. Everything else is a surprise. Every new day is a gift. Let’s resolve to live our days well, in the best way we can, so that when they end our lives tell stories of blessing and goodness.
On Rosh HaShanah let’s consider and on Yom Kippur let’s decide.
Not if we will die, but how we will live.
© 2010 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman
