Demystifying the “Deathbed Scene:” The Many Moments that Move Us Forward
and How to Create More of Them
Erev Rosh Hashanah 5775
Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg, Beth Am Synagogue
There’s a story in the Talmud (Berachot 28b) that when Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai, the
leader of his generation, was dying, his students gathered around him and requested a final
blessing. His reply? “May your fear of heaven be as profound as your fear of flesh and
blood.” The same sentiment is often found gracing ark doors in synagogues the world over:
Da lifneh mi atah omed, “know before whom you stand.” Know that there is a greater power
in the universe, a God of justice who smiles when we do well, and is saddened when we
don’t. All in all, a good final lesson worthy of a great teacher.
I learned this text for the first time during rabbinical school. Our professor confronted us
with the question, “What would you say on your deathbed?” What would you say, having
lived a life, to those who would wish to benefit from your wisdom? I thought long and hard
about this passage. It was something fresh in my mind – my father had been on his
deathbed just a few weeks before.
On November 12, 2004, the 28th of Heshvan, after five months of chemo, radiation and
finally hospice care, my dad succumbed to cancer. It had been difficult to watch: a fiftyfour-year-old man, who had always been so much larger than life, losing hair and weight and,
eventually, the will to live. Illness is awful, cancer insidious, but strangely it can also be an
opportunity of sorts. Of all the characters in the Bible, Jacob was the first to get sick. The
Midrash tells us this was, in fact, his choice. He decided that since he would die anyway, he
should be able to draw his family near and say goodbye. God agreed, illness was born and
generations since have endured this painful opportunity. My family did have time to say
goodbye, and as difficult as it was to witness his last days, I’m grateful for that time.
But the story of Rabban Yohanan and his students haunted me: Though Dad had knowingly
and unknowingly imparted countless lessons throughout my life, there had been no “death
bed moment.” You know what I’m talking about: the scene in so many movies when the
character looks deeply into the eyes of another and imparts some great wisdom. Why hadn’t
he drawn me and my sister close and whispered the secrets of the universe in our ears? The
truth is, and you can confirm this from hospice nurses or others who work in palliative care,
those moments are almost entirely fictitious. Death, like life, isn’t linear, nor even in this era
of modern medicine is it all that predictable, even to the dying. The rare one, who says
something both reflective and germane to the moment, is more likely to echo the thoughts
of physicist Richard Feynman [FINE-man] who quipped, “I'd hate to die twice. It's so
boring.” Or, occasionally, someone proves that denial is alive and well even in death, as
Douglas Fairbanks did, whose last words were, “I've never felt better.” Or Civil War Union
Commander General John Sedgwick, who is said to have proclaimed, “They couldn't hit an
elephant at this dist-.”
So, when we were given the writing assignment: “what would you say on your deathbed?” I
was, understandably, at a loss. But then I heard the words of my rabbinic classmate,
Miriyam Glazer, who was also chair of the literature department:
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“When my students come in and I am lying on what may well be my deathbed, will
they first ask something for themselves or will they ask if I am comfortable?
Hungry? Thirsty? Warm? Cold? If they first ask something for themselves –
something first about their journey, their blessing, my message for their lives, then I
shall know all my teachings have failed.
But let’s say they do first bring me water… turn aside the curtain to let beams of
sunlight illuminate the space and they then sit oh so quietly, perhaps only a soft
niggun learned long ago in our shiur, gliding on the waves of light and silence in the
room.
And out of my own silence I think to say, I would like to teach you what might be
our last lesson. But I see: In the way they set up the chairs for one another… hold
each other’s hand, murmur words of Torah softly to one another- I have already
taught what I have been put on earth to teach. And I can close my eyes and take the
hand of the Shekhina… and go with her…”
When I heard these words, I understood. My Dad, like most decent people, was a man who
lived each day, learned each day, and taught others, in some manner, each and every day of
his life – there was no need for that great “deathbed” scene. To be worthy of my father’s
final teaching could only mean the absence of such a thing.
Which brings me to this moment here with you in shul. We gather in the shadow of the
setting sun on the eve of Rosh Hashanah. Here we congregate to sing together praise to the
Holy One for bringing us, yet again, into the New Year. Here we come to hear the call of
the shofar. Here we sit and ask ourselves, have we learned the lessons of the year that has
passed? Just as the sum total of a person and all he has to teach cannot possibly be
encapsulated in a single line, we know that no great revelation lingers on the final gasp of last
year’s breath. Rather, we look back on the totality of the year, as we look back on the
totality of any life, and ferret out its wisdom. We pray that we have learned and grown more
this year than last. The hope of Rosh Hashanah is, ironically, not to be found on the High
Holy days, but during the year that preceded them.
So, how do we ensure that we learn every day? How to guarantee next year we don’t wait
for this day to begin to find meaning and purpose in our lives?
One answer is intentionality, what some call mindfulness. Samuel Dresner puts it this way:
“When there is love and devotion between husband and wife,” he writes, “marriage is
hallowed; when we vote for the ability and integrity of a man and not the favors he may
grant us, we hallow our country; when we deal fairly with our employee, we hallow our
business. The duty of the Jew is to lift up all of life to God, to hallow the everyday, so that all of
life becomes holy” (The Jewish Dietary Laws, with Seymour Siegel Pg. 17, 1966). Dresner was
writing in 1966. Nearly 1600 years earlier, in the Talmud Yerushalmi (Kedushin 66b), we find
the following statement: “Rabbi Hezkiah and Rabbi Cohen said in the name of Rav: In the
future each person will have to give an accounting for everything that he has seen and not
eaten.” It’s a radical text, for we’re not a hedonistic community. But, to read this teaching
as a blanket endorsement of excess is to misread its intentions. Rather the Yerushalmi is
showing us the danger of missed opportunities. How many times in the past year have we
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said, “I would love to do that or try this, but it’s too much time, too expensive, too hard?”
To hold ourselves accountable for those things seen but not eaten is to mitigate future
regret. And Rosh Hashanah is a powerful reminder for us, not to give in to fear, apathy or
lethargy. How are we reminded? One way is a custom of beginning the year by trying a new
fruit. The tradition is didactic. It’s as if to say, “If you nibble on this weird-looking,
hexagon-shaped fuzzy thing from Peru, you’re more likely to push yourself toward new
accomplishments in your business or take important risks in relationships.” The logic may
be tenuous, but it’s a nice sentiment.
How do we tap that potential? How do we ensure that we learn consistently? That we take
productive risks? That we sanctify each and every day? The Psalmist petitions: Limnot
yameinu ken hodah, v’navi l’vav chochmah, “Teach us to number our days, that we may attain a
heart of wisdom.” Counting, taking note of each day, not allowing ourselves merely to slip
by as a stream in a forest but taking responsibility for our lives one day at a time. That’s how
we hallow the ordinary. One renowned early twentieth century rabbi put it this way: “Come,
then, good brother and sister – Rosh Hashanah calls unto you, and through the shrill blast of
the Shofar, which is sounded today, reminds you that there is yet hope, that your ship of life
may yet be saved. Aseh Atzmecha Kavarnit, Become the Captain of your ship!” (Israel
Levinthal. High Holiday address to the Brooklyn Jewish Center). We ask God to give us the
strength to navigate turbulent waters and the grace to sail through quiet ones. We ask for
the capacity to dedicate each day to preserving and increasing the light of Torah. And, in
counting, we hope to gain the wisdom of foresight and directionality.
When do we start? When do we begin to ensure the coming year will be different? The
same day the Orioles begin their next season – that is the day after this one ends, may it be
late in October! (Ken yehi ratzon!). But we begin today. Today is the first day of 5775. The
previous year has come and gone. Over the next ten days, we will make an accounting of
that year. We’ll examine our souls and right our wrongs. We’ll ask forgiveness and, Godwilling, find a way to forgive others. On Yom Kippur we will beat our breasts and ask God
to look within our hearts and see that they are broken and that we are sorry. And just as a
life’s purpose cannot be summarized in one Hollywood scene, 5774 is much more than its
final moments. But today is Rosh Hashanah. Today we can be intentional, we can plan for
the future. Today, on this anniversary of creation, we create ourselves anew. Today, we
begin to see opportunities as they present themselves and will not leave them unappreciated.
Right now, we begin to count each and every day. And when we reach the first of Tishrei
and it’s time for Rosh Hashanah 5776, we can look back on the totality of the year and know
that we have grown and learned, that we have been enriched and inspired. And in the final
moments of this year, as the sun kisses the horizon, we won’t search for sudden revelations
or last-ditch blessings. We will simply drink in the beauty of a year lived better than the last
and begin counting once more.
Shanah Tovah!
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