Occasionally, we hear of an act of self-sacrifice so sweeping and powerful that it commands the respect of all who encounter it: A mother and father who willingly undergo life-threatening surgery to try to save the life of a beloved child; a Rabbi, nun, or minister who works with people suffering from highly contagious illnesses without regard to the threat to their own lives, brave men and women who volunteer to serve as soldiers in dangerous missions or wars because the cause is just, civil rights volunteers who stand up to the prejudice and hatred of their own societies against racial minorities. Women, gays and lesbians, or the handicapped do it without regard to personal comfort or protection.
The very length of such a list is an antidote against despairing of humanity, and a challenge to the complacency and indolence of most of our lives. But does such sacrifice make sense? Even granting that only through that kind of self-abnegation can the world be made more just, compassionate and kind, is it reasonable to give up the only life a person will have in order to try to help the lives of others later on? After all, once we lose an arm, it will never grow back. Once some bigot kills us, our lives are over. We won't benefit from the improvements to the world which may result from our nobility of vision. Or will we?
In today's Torah portion, we come across an example of just such selflessness. God commands Moses to "avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites; then you shall be gathered to your kin."
In the past, I've taken for granted that, once having received that order, Moses immediately sets out to fulfill it. Naturally, Moses, the obedient servant of God, would hasten to do whatever God tells him.
But notice that God doesn't tell Moses that he must act immediately. In fact, Moses has every incentive in the world to postpone attending to this issue of justice. He's already been told that once it is completed, he will die. So a simple way to extend his own life would be to put off dealing with Midian for as long as possible.
The rabbis of Midrash Ba-Midbar Rabbah, always attentive readers of Torah, noticed the choice that God had placed before Moses. Rabbi Judah remarked, "If Moses had wanted to live many more years, he could have, for the Holy Blessed One told him, 'Avenge' and 'Then you shall be gathered,' thereby making his death dependent on the punishment of Midian."
But the Torah tells us of the excellence of Moses. He thought, "Shall Israel's vengeance be delayed merely that I may live?" Instantly, Moses spoke to the people, saying 'Let men be picked out from among you for a campaign, and let them attack Midian."
In fact, the Bible presents a Jewish leader who doesn't make the same selfless choice as Moses. Joshua, Moses' attendant and successor, was supposed to live 120 years, but only lived for 110. Why? Because God told him to fight promptly. He reasoned (according to the Midrash), "If I kill them at once, I shall die immediately, as Moses, our Rabbi, did." What did he do? He began to dally in wars against them.
As a result, God diminished his life by ten years. As much as we might admire Moses' choice, Joshua's is far more readily understandable. He enjoyed living, he knew little about death, and he knew that if he fulfilled his mission, he risked dying younger than if he delayed. So he made a decision reflecting his own desire to survive. Wouldn't we do the same?
Moses didn't. Moses chose to value his own life as less important than the well-being of the people at large and than the will of God. The only way such an evaluation makes sense is to identify one's own benefit and interests as extending beyond the well-being of one's own body and mind and soul. If our highest interest is only ourselves, then Moses's behavior (and Martin Luther King, and Rabbi Leo Baeck, and Mother Maria Theresa . . .) is the height of folly.
There is never a rational basis for letting any value take primacy over survival and personal interest. Yet, that is not the only way, nor is it the one conducive to a life of meaning and contentment. Only when we see ourselves as part of something that extends beyond our own self-interest can we become rooted in a transcendent purpose.
Linking our ancestors with our descendants, we are drops in a stream of living waters. What matters most is the flow, of which we are but a part. Our membership in the Jewish people, Am Olam, the Eternal people, is our taste of eternity and our source of purpose.
But ultimately, even the Jewish people are finite. What links us with a purpose that will survive the end of life on earth and the extinction of the sun is our reflection of that which was there before earth and sun, the One who will be there after they are gone.
By placing God's love and will at our core, by centering our identity on the Adon Olam, the Lord Eternal, we become ourselves everlasting. The paradox, then, is that the only way to discover our eternal worth is to discard it. Just like Moses.
Amen.
Shabbat Shalom!