Dancing With Death

Parshas Ki Setzei: Making the most of mortality

We all grapple with death's haunting spectre - that murmuring reminder of human finitude lurking among our consciousness's shadows. Our lives are blossoms clinging precariously to branches, so easily scattered by the winds. The inner voice grimly grumbles that it’s only a matter of time before your ticket gets punched. And because overthinking it causes paralysis, we typically muffle death with action, distraction and tech-induced satisfaction. Man thus relegates existential thoughts to the margins. Yet there is no denying mortality's burden, for it goes wherever we go. An unseen looming presence masked namelessly in our everyday background.

“ Our lives are blossoms clinging precariously to branches, so easily scattered by the winds.”

To be contingent implies that one's being hinges on something outside oneself. Contingency means that in every moment, at each step, we teeter on the edge of existence. Life could end without regard for our plans. We wander as mortals in a world where death is the one sure thing and where every second of the journey is a gift from God. Consider, for example, figures like John F. Kennedy and Julius Caesar—the most powerful men of their day, leaders of colossal world powers. And yet, in the blink of an eye, they were both ripped from existence.

Random events, like the unexpected loss of a relation or friend, jolt us from our day-to-day preoccupations by forcing us to confront life's fleeting impermanence. In an instant, the life we knew was shattered. And there's this brutal realisation that all our aspirations rely on a continuously beating heart and functioning mind - things over which we ultimately have no control. It becomes impossible to ignore our contingent existence as temporary inhabitants of a world that will continue spinning long after our brief animation expires. The delusion of absolute autonomy is stripped away as we feel our grasp on life's reins loosen beyond our sway.

And yet, some glib intellectuals maintain we need not fret about our demise, for until man's arrival on the scene, he comfortably dwelled in non-existence. Were you unhappy being not born? They smugly ask. So, too, at death, you will fade back into the pre-natal night you emerged from. But their claim seeks in vain to craft comfort from oblivion. For while there was no "I" to be neglected before birth, isn't our entire experience of purpose bound up in our present personality? Death deprives us of all we cherish in this fleeting God-granted moment. To relinquish Being is not a loss we can shake off like a stiff leg. That burning sting remains - the profound ache of unfulfilled potentials, unfinished relationships, and unaccomplished goals we each carry. Reducing mortality to "a mere return to nothing" is a poor panacea. Yet these philosophers contort death into a benign childhood companion, wishing desperately to expunge its terror.

Childhood companion Winnie-the-Pooh was always going to be a left-field option for the grim reaper position.

Anthropologist Ernest Becker's morbid book, 'The Denial Of Death', argues that humans hardwired fear of personal extinction drives them to pursue permanence. People do so by embarking on endeavours, which Becker dubbed "immortality projects", as ways of transcending physical limitations by achieving symbolic eternity.

Accordingly, no less than the believer, secular man seems possessed with ensuring that "I shall not wholly die"¹. We see this mindset manifest in endless ways. Atheist philanthropists fund Ivy League universities. Cultural icons project plastic images of eternal youth. Politicians sweat over how the coming generations will regard their 'legacy'. Some Silicon Valley types even commit to deep-freeze their remains in liquid nitrogen, hoping future scientists will restore them to life. Each, it seems reasonable to infer, nourishes some nagging need to defy death's finality, to project some avatar of self into the future. Pursuing fame or achievement becomes a desperate dance with death, a struggle against human decay.

President Joe Biden was cryogenically frozen in liquid nitrogen to keep him fresh for the 2024 election.

There is no doubt that man yearns for immortality, yet this doesn't mean he is not immortal. Man indeed flees oblivion, yet this is not to say that oblivion is his ultimate fate.² Judaism affirms that while physical lives inevitably end, the soul - the locus of our humanity, dignity and relationship with God - endures. Becker was an atheist, but how should we, as believers, understand the human drive for eternal life? The Malach Hamaves, the Angel of Death, ironically reveals the answer.

Rav Shapiro offers an insightful perspective on the traditional concept of the "Angel of Death." There is a counterintuitive quality, as he notes, to the idea that an external force is necessary to end life rather than life simply running its natural course until energy depletion. Think about it. All machines need constant energy input to keep operating; their default state is stasis. When they stop, it is because of the degradation of their energy source rather than something that cuts them off. Likewise, we would expect man to have an angel of life to sustain him. When he passes away, it would be a sign that he 'ran out of energy'.

In Derech Hashem, the Ramchal explains how God designed Adam and Chava for perpetual vitality of body and soul. Their condition was only distorted after eating the forbidden fruit condemned them to mortality. Rav Moshe Shapiro explains that man's default state is perpetual life. The body's current need for death is unnatural. Thus, its existence must be cut off from an outside source. We are less like a battery-frazzled laptop and more like a nuclear fusion-fueled star. He successfully refocuses our lens through which to view this mystical concept. Instead of life's natural conclusion, death emerges as an abnormal introduction forced upon mankind by sin. Everwise, our Sages encoded this insight in the image of the divine messenger who claims our final breath.

Even J. Robert Oppenheimer looked impressed at the unlikely nuclear fusion-fueled technology.

In this week's parsha, we are instructed not to leave the corpse of a condemned man in the open overnight. The deceased must be buried. Rav Soloveitchik observes that from a purely mechanical perspective, the dead body needs nothing and requires no assistance. But we are not mere automatons! Man has an eternal soul and a legacy that transcends biology.

We are not obligated to perform acts of benevolence on account of animal economic needs or to fulfil some convoluted utilitarian formula. Instead, human dignity is demanded by his holy metaphysical reality. By not leaving the deceased exposed as if an abandoned object, we reject animal isolation and embrace our role as fellow travellers. Even in death, we continue supporting one another on the journey. This mitzvah reminds us that we never exist alone, cut off from divine purpose or human fellowship. Our deeds have meaning beyond pragmatic function. They ask us to see each person, living or departed, as the image of the enduring One who calls all into a relationship without end.

So, how must we view death? A victorious Roman general, adorned with triumphal laurels, would have a humble slave whisper the words "Memento Mori" ("remember you are mortal")  in his ear. Fortunately, modern societies don't enslave people to follow us around, muttering grim truths. But it can be tempting in our wired age, with its never-ending streams of information and entertainment, to numb the murmur of death amid the din. Like that triumphant Roman conqueror, surrounded in his moment of glory by adoring crowds, it is all too easy to feel impervious. When success holds us up, how easily do we forget our frailty? How willing are we to think of life not as a passing glimmer but as death denied?

While the fleeting nature of this mortal existence can stir feelings of futility, there is a more constructive takeaway. Our lives are a shimmering bubble floating weightlessly through the air, a fleeting gift to be appreciated for its fragile beauty. We are here today and leaving tomorrow. And yet, for that very reason, each moment must be seized and savoured as the precious gift it is. Each breath, each glance at the heavens, each act of kindness to our fellow travellers - these are what endure when our transient bodies return to dust. We must spread our leaves even as autumn descends and bear fruit even as winter creeps on the horizon. Our very contingency is a call to passion, Like a striking match that bursts into brilliant light, so we must kindle as much illumination as possible before plunging back into darkness. To live with God is to fill every heartbeat with meaning, every conversation with insight, every day with Torah study and every hour with Mitzvos done in joyful acknowledgement of the Author of all beings.

Good Shabbos, and Keep Pondering!

1. A famous line from the Roman poet Horace. Horace expresses his confidence that his poetry will grant him immortality and fame, even though his body will perish.

2. I make this point only because of a recent book called The God Desire by Dave Baddiel, a British comedian, writer, and atheist. I kid you not; the premise of the book is that humans have a natural and understandable desire for God to exist, and this desire, in fact, (somehow) suggests that God is a fantasy.