One of the most painful rabbinic duties is to try to offer comfort after a doctor has informed someone that he has a terminal illness.
What is there to say in the face of the unfairness of life, of the horror of the decree, and of the despotic way that illness ignores our most carefully conceived plans for the future? Recently, I was called to the hospital to attend to a recently relocated man who had just been informed of an advanced cancer that would probably take his life in the near future. Neither he nor his wife had any prior inkling that he was sick. A physical examination, prompted by a recurrent pain in his side, culminated in this awful prognosis. I sat with the man and his wife for several hours, listening to their anger, sorrow, and pain. Toward the end of my visit, his wife became especially angry, telling me that they had saved their money for years, denied themselves meals out or new clothes, postponed trips and vacations, all in anticipation of a "golden years" retirement. Now, their money still in the bank, they would never have the years or the health to enjoy their savings, never be able to luxuriate in some idyllic future.
"This cancer is cheating us of our retirement!" she stormed.
Her complaint fits far too many of us. How often do we postpone a legitimate pleasure--time with our loved ones, an afternoon walk by the beach, a weekend vacation--anticipating some time in the future when we will have the leisure we deprive ourselves of today.
In today's Torah portion, the rabbis of Midrash Devarim Rabbah comment on God's abrupt announcement to Moses, "Behold, your days approach that you must die." They relate a tragic tale of a father at his son's circumcision: The father takes some special wine that is being served at the simha, and puts it away to be used at the boy's wedding, unaware, in fact, that the child will die 30 days hence. Later that same evening, Rabbi Shimon ben Halafta meets death on the road, and notices that death looks strange. He inquires about the unusual appearance, and death responds that the strange look is "on account of the talk of human beings who say "This-and-that we will do,' while none of them know when they will be summoned to die."
None of us know the hour of our death, or the condition of our health in the future. Rabbi Shimon wisely observes that death is no respecter of personal status or wealth, "no one, when about to die, can say, 'I will send my slave in my stead.' No one has the power to say to death, 'wait for me until I have settled my accounts,' or 'until I have set my house in order." Without knowing our own future, lacking any ability to avoid death, we pretend to enjoy all the time in the world. The truth is, however, that we live in the present. All our pleasure, hope, love, and purpose is wrapped into this moment, this time. There may be no tomorrow, we may cherish memories, but we possess only today. Even one as great as Moses had to die, and so do we all. In the meantime, however, we have the ability to choose life--by making sure that we make time in the present for what is truly important, and truly gratifying, even should tomorrow never come.
Obviously, some planning, some saving, some denial is essential. The likelihood is great that tomorrow will come, and we must prepare for it today. But it is also possible to over-emphasize the importance of deferring pleasure. Moses, when told he would die, had no way to postpone the inevitable, nor do we.
Rather than putting off that vacation until retirement, take it now. Rather than working extra hours now in the hopes of spending time with your children a few years hence, luxuriate in their youth, already all too fleeting. Rather than postponing greater participation in your synagogue or growing in your Judaism, the time to act is now.
Hillel, a great mishnaic sage, taught us "Do not say 'when I have leisure, I will study,' for you may never have leisure." That wise advice applies to all areas of our lives. Don't put off letting your husband, or wife, or lover know that you care--they may not wait around for you to show them. Don't postpone calling a dear friend, or writing a letter to a beloved relative whom you haven't communicated with in years. Neither they nor you will be around forever.
Perhaps the best balance is to live each day as if it were our last, while at the same time preparing for tomorrow in a way that will leave our loved ones, our faith, and our world a little stronger, a little better, and a little more capable of facing the future.`
Whether or not we are there.