This week’s Torah commentary, written by Hebrew Seminary Rosh Yeshivah Rabbi Jonah Rank, has been sponsored by Peggy Bagley in honor of the new year of learning at Hebrew Seminary.
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In the introduction to his book How Not To Die, Dr. Michael Greger asserts, “There may be no such thing as dying from old age.” Dr. Greger, a physician, cites a medical study that examined the autopsies of more than 42,000 people who lived past the age of 100 and concluded that each person had died from a specific disease. In guiding readers on how to avoid disease, Dr. Greger advocates for a whole-plant-based diet, a few essential vaccines, and daily exercise. The specific food groups that Dr. Greger highlights allegedly lessen our risk of succumbing to heart, lung, brain, or liver diseases; infections; diabetes; high blood pressure; blood cancers; breast or prostate cancer; suicidal depression; Parkinson’s; and other threats to our wellbeing.
Can medicine lead us to immortality? As he concludes his book, Dr. Greger confesses, “How Not to Die may seem… a strange title for a book. After all, everyone is going to die eventually. It’s about how not to die prematurely.”
This ending could, of course, disappoint the customer who picks up a book called How Not To Die, a title that promises too much to us mere mortals. If we cannot avoid death, might we at least be able to live on longer than we would have otherwise predicted? The Torah thought that, through a specific diet of behaviors (not foods, exercise, or medicine), we could! In Parashat Ki Tetze, Moses’ rhetoric—presumably echoing God’s divine will—tucks into a law about the treatment of death a promise of longevity:
כִּ֣י יִקָּרֵ֣א קַן־צִפּ֣וֹר ׀ לְפָנֶ֡יךָ בַּדֶּ֜רֶךְ בְּכׇל־עֵ֣ץ ׀ א֣וֹ עַל־הָאָ֗רֶץ אֶפְרֹחִים֙ א֣וֹ בֵיצִ֔ים וְהָאֵ֤ם רֹבֶ֙צֶת֙ עַל־הָֽאֶפְרֹחִ֔ים א֖וֹ עַל־הַבֵּיצִ֑ים לֹא־תִקַּ֥ח הָאֵ֖ם עַל־הַבָּנִֽים׃
שַׁלֵּ֤חַ תְּשַׁלַּח֙ אֶת־הָאֵ֔ם וְאֶת־הַבָּנִ֖ים תִּֽקַּֽח־לָ֑ךְ לְמַ֙עַן֙ יִ֣יטַב לָ֔ךְ וְהַאֲרַכְתָּ֖ יָמִֽים׃
When you should chance upon the nest of a bird in any tree or on the land—with chicks or eggs and their mother crouching over those chicks or eggs—do not take the mother in front of the offspring.
Send forth the mother, and take the offspring for yourself. Thusly, this will be good for you, and you will lengthen days. (Deuteronomy 22:6–7.)
This law—shooing away a mother bird before taking any eggs (or chicks, for slaughtering)—stands out as being one of the very few laws in the Torah that, when followed, somehow can increase the length of our days. Deuteronomy itself frequently promises a long life to those who fear God and observe—not just one law—but the entirety of God’s instruction, the Torah itself (see Deuteronomy 4:26, 4:40, 5:30, 6:2, 11:8–9, 17:20, 30:18, 30:20, 32:47). Likewise, God’s voice remains steadfast in I Kings 3:14 when committing to lengthening King Solomon’s days so long as the monarch will observe God’s laws. Fortunately, the Bible records that the days of the people Israel were in fact lengthened for as long as they worshiped God under the rule of the elders who rose to leadership surrounding the death of Joshua (Joshua 24:31 and Judges 2:7).
But the practice of removing the mother bird from a scene in which her family will suffer a loss seems so much smaller than sticking to the entirety of the Torah or accepting upon one’s self fealty to God. Why should this one law be accompanied by the reward of lengthened days—the same reward granted to those who piously observe every detail of God’s laws? The clues to solving this mystery must lie in neither the gift of long life nor the practice of shillu’ach hakken (שִׁלּוּחַ הַקֵּן, “sending [the mother away from] the nest”); rather, the answer must rest among the Torah’s two only other laws that promise such longevity.
Shortly after the Israelites left Egypt, God revealed God’s self on Mount Sinai (Exodus ch. 19) and introduced a whole series of laws (ch. 20 and onward), the first ten of which English speakers usually call “the ten commandments.” In the fifth of these commandments (appearing in both Exodus 20:12 and Deuteronomy 5:16), God commands each Israelite to honor their father and mother so that the Israelite’s days may be lengthened. Writing in Alexandria, Egypt, around the turn from B.C.E. to C.E., the Jewish philosopher Philo believed that this particular commandment was of great import. As he wrote:
We see that parents by their nature stand on the border-line between the mortal and the immortal side of existence: the mortal because of their kinship with men and other animals through the perishableness of the body; the immortal because the act of generation assimilates them to God, the generator of the All. (The Decalogue, line 107; printed in Francis Henry Colson [trans.], Philo, vol. VII, p. 61.)
In other words, Philo believed that to honor one’s parents constitutes some practice of honoring the Divine; parents, after all, performed something rather godly in creating their progeny. Though Philo did not explicitly name the common denominator of the promise of long life that God links to both protecting baby birds and to honoring one’s parents—Philo asserted that birds taught us much about our own familial duties. Commenting on the commandment to honor one’s father and mother (as in Deuteronomy 5:16 and its parallel in Exodus 20:12), Philo adjured his readers:
Let us turn for a lesson in right conduct to the winged tribe that ranges the air. Among the storks the old birds stay in the nests when they are unable to fly, while their children fly… over sea and land, gathering… provision for the needs of their parents… Without any teacher but their natural instinct they gladly give… the nurture which fostered their youth. (The Decalogue, lines 115–117; vol. VII, pp. 65–67.)
The overlapping themes that connect the honoring of one’s parents and the protection of baby birds (who will hopefully one day help their parents in their time of need) may not so easily apply, however, to the third mitzvah where God’s will would grant long life to the obedient. Deuteronomy 25:14–15 exhorts:
לֹא־יִהְיֶ֥ה לְךָ֛ בְּבֵיתְךָ֖ אֵיפָ֣ה וְאֵיפָ֑ה גְּדוֹלָ֖ה וּקְטַנָּֽה׃
אֶ֣בֶן שְׁלֵמָ֤ה וָצֶ֙דֶק֙ יִֽהְיֶה־לָּ֔ךְ אֵיפָ֧ה שְׁלֵמָ֛ה וָצֶ֖דֶק יִֽהְיֶה־לָּ֑ךְ לְמַ֙עַן֙ יַאֲרִ֣יכוּ יָמֶ֔יךָ עַ֚ל הָֽאֲדָמָ֔ה אֲשֶׁר־יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לָֽךְ:
There shall not be within your home one measure called an eyfah and another measure called an eyfah—one big and one small.
Let it be a whole stone! There shall be justice for you! Let it be a whole stone! There shall be justice for you! Thusly, your days may be lengthened upon the land that Adonai your God is giving to you.
A reader might feel undue drama building up this law against false weights; the next verse even calls deceptive scales “תוֹעֲבַ֛ת יְהֹוָ֥ה” (to’avat Adonai, “an abomination to Adonai”). Commenting on Deuteronomy 15:15, the Spanish Rabbi Avraham Ibn Ezra (c. 1089–1167) believed that invoking long life was appropriate when considering “כי כל מלכות צדק תעמוד כי הצדק כבנין והעיוות כהריסו’” (“that any kingdom [based in] justice will endure, for justice is its architecture; however, [moral] twistedness is akin to destruction”). Regarding the same verse, the French philosopher Rabbi Levi ben Gereshon (c. 1288–1344) localized a similar concern to the Israelites about to enter their Promised Land and explained “שההתנהג בצדק וביושר מביא ישראל להאריך ימיהם על הארץ” (“that behaving justly and uprightly leads [the people] Israel to lengthening their days on the Land [of Israel]”).
But is bad business really a matter of life and death? In the ancient world it was. In ancient Egyptian mythology, a soul’s sojourn in the afterlife may have been cut short if they could not claim having traded with honesty in their lifetime. According to the Egyptian Book of the Dead (dating from around the 16th century B.C.E.), upon entering the Hall of Righteousness, the soul was required to attest, “I put not pressure upon the beam of the balance. I tamper not with the tongue of the balance.” (See the translation of Peter le Page Renouf and Dr. Edouard Naville; ch. 125, part I.) In the Babylonian Talmud, edited around the 6th century C.E., the sage Rava shared a similar vision. Upon entering the world to come, taught Rava, a Jewish soul would be interviewed, and the first question to be asked—before anything related to Torah study or Jewish practice—would be “נָשָׂאתָ וְנָתַתָּ בָּאֱמוּנָה?” (nasata venatatta be’emunah? “Have you purchased and sold in good faith?”) (Shabbat 31a).
Other than the promise of long life, what common thread unites honoring one’s parents, protecting a mother bird from witnessing personal tragedy, and being fair in business conduct? These each may be matters deeply tied to mortality and morality; however, such is the case for many laws in the Torah. Rather—even though these three laws might not be the most striking examples of mitzvot that encourage us to act compassionately towards all spheres of life—each of these three mitzvot nonetheless exemplifies a unique dimension where we interact with the diversity of life. Honoring one’s parents is just one of many mitzvot that remind us of our responsibilities to our families and our loved ones. Being honest in our professional life expands the sphere of our responsibility; conducting our business fairly is one of many Divine words that urge us to interface justly with strangers. Lastly, if we can care for the emotional wellbeing of a bird, we can widen the net of compassion our faith demands of us; we can begin to imagine the fuller scope of the Jewish religion’s concern that we tend to צַעַר בַּעֲלֵי חַיִּים (tza’ar ba’aley chayyim, “the suffering of living creatures”).
Does this trio of mitzvot comprehensively address everything that should concern us? The weights and measures may be made of stones, but these three mitzvot—honoring parents, shillu’ach hakken, and using fair scales—do not quite ask us to protect the earth. (Other mitzvot do that.) Likewise, these three mitzvot do not ask us to observe deeply idiosyncratic rituals that only God could appreciate. (Other mitzvot make such asks.) Rather, these three mitzvot ask us to act compassionately with our loved ones, with strangers, and with the non-human organisms around us. We need compassion for all the living; compassion for the living lengthens the days for mortals.
Medicine may be able to guide us to ward away diseases, but we remain mortal; we cannot know how many days our days will number. Nonetheless the Torah’s promise of lengthened days demands of us compassion. The days when we exhibit compassion are the days when we are worthiest of God’s having given us the gift of life.
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