May We All Contribute a Verse
This Shabbat in our Torah cycle, Jewish communities around the world read Parashat Haazinu. Most of that Torah portion -- 43 verses -- are a poetic song of both praise and warning that Moses recites to the Israelites. But then, in its final verses, the parasha shifts gears. Haazinu's maftir aliyah (the very last section) reads (Deut 32: 48-52):
On that very day, GOD spoke to Moses: "Ascend these heights of Abarim to Mount Nebo, which is in the land of Moab facing Jericho, and view the land of Canaan, which I am giving the Israelites as their holding. You shall die on the mountain that you are about to ascend, and shall be gathered to your kin, as your brother Aaron died on Mount Hor and was gathered to his kin; for you both broke faith with Me among the Israelite people, at the Waters of Meribat-Kadesh in the wilderness of Zin, by failing to uphold My sanctity among the Israelite people. You may view the land from a distance, but you shall not enter it—the land that I am giving to the Israelite people."
This, of course, is exactly what will come to pass: that Moses will die before we reach the end of Deuteronomy, on Mount Nebo, with a kiss from God (according to our midrashic tradition). Moses -- the great leader and prophet who answered God's call with "Hineini" at the burning bush, who said "Let my people go" to Pharaoh and led the Israelites out of Egypt, who has shepherded the Israelites through their 40-year journey in the wilderness -- this Moses will not be permitted to enter the Promised Land. Moses's story will end in incompleteness.
Each year, we read this section of Torah -- about Moses learning of his pending death and considering the unfinished nature of his life -- between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, during the period of intense reflection and introspection, in which we too carefully examine the meaning of our own lives. These verses contain within them several powerful messages that apparently we need to be reminded of time and time again, particularly at this time of year.
First, through Moses's mortality, we are reminded that as human beings we are all mortal. Life is inherently unpredictable, and for most of us, the "day of our death" is out of our hands.
And yet, our Jewish tradition offers us Pirkei Avot 2:10, in which Rabbi Eliezer teaches: "v'shuv yom echad lifnei mitatcha," "Repent one day before your death." On this line, the Bartenura -- that is, Ovadia ben Avraham of Bertinoro, a 15th century Italian rabbi and scholar best known for writing a definitive commentary on the Mishnah -- famously comments: "'repent one day before your death': Since a person does not know when he will die, he should repent today, lest he will die tomorrow." This teaching lies behind the urgency of our teshuva process in this season. Through the liturgy of the High Holidays -- from the Unetaneh Tokef prayer ("who shall live and who shall die") to the symbolic rituals of self-denial on Yom Kippur -- we force ourselves to confront the frightening thought of our own mortality head-on, and also consider our uncertainty about the timing of our deaths, in order to encourage ourselves to tackle with seriousness and immediacy the question of what we want to do with the time we have.
Additionally, within these verses about Moses's pending death, there is some degree of comfort to be found, and that too can serve as a model for us. Here at the end of Haazinu, Moses is reassured by the knowledge that, although he will die on Mount Nebo, the rest of the Israelite people will continue on in their journey. The Torah's final message is that the personal death of one individual -- even one as great as Moses -- is never the end of the story.
So too, on these High Holidays, do we link ourselves up with the collective story of the Jewish people -- one that has survived for thousands of years already and will continue far beyond any of our lifetimes. Poet Walt Whitman expressed a similar sentiment quite eloquently at the end of his poem "O Me! O Life!":
"Answer.
That you are here -- that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."
The "powerful play" will go on, Whitman asserts, outlasting each one of us. All we can do in our lifetimes -- and it is a privilege to do so -- is to strive to contribute our own verse to the larger play. In a similar vein, American civil rights activist and statesman John Lewis reflected in his book: "Ours is not the struggle of one day, one week, or one year. Ours is not the struggle of one appointment, or presidential term. Ours is the struggle of a lifetime, or maybe even many lifetimes. And each of us in every generation must do our part." Within our families, within our communities, within our country, within our people, and within the context of the world, we each have a part to play during our time here on earth.
Herein lies the central work of the season: We reflect on our temporal nature -- acknowledging that as human beings, we are limited both by time and physicality. Moses's life will end before he reaches the Promised Land, and so will each of ours. Confronting this idea helps us consider more urgently and acutely the question of how we can best "do our part" and "contribute our verse" to the ongoing story.
May our lives be rich with meaning and purpose. Knowing that we are mortal, may we each make a difference in the time we do have here on earth. Given that the powerful play will go on, may we each contribute our verse in such a way as to ensure our spiritual survival for all eternity.
G'mar chatima tova -- and may we all be sealed for a good New Year,
Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum
