I always found it was counterintuitive that the holiest day of the Jewish calendar was not about life, but death. For example, on the Shabbat before Yom Kippur, we read about the death of Moses. We see two very different reactions. And by closely considering dying, we learn something important about living.

God tells Moses: "You shall die on the mountain that you are about to ascend. You may view the land from a distance, but you shall not enter it, the land that I am giving to the Israelite people."

Moses does not argue. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all to God. This is out of character: the man who argued with God, who accused God of harming the Israelites, who pleaded with God to forgive his people following the Golden Calf. Yet now, he is silent. Moses accepts death gracefully.

Three thousand years later, another leader comments on this passage. On April 3, 1968, Martin Luther King Jr. arrived in Memphis to support striking sanitation workers despite threats against his life.

"I don't know what will happen [to me]," he told the crowd, "But it really doesn't matter because I've been to the mountaintop. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!"

Like Moses, King looks into a Promised Land he knows he may never enter. He finds solace in knowing that he has done enough work – he's completed his mission – to help his nation reach it. And like Moses, instead of running from death, his proximity to it clarifies how to live.

"Like anybody, I would like to live a long life," King admits. "Longevity has its place." But he is focused on something else. He tells the audience, "The question is not: 'If I stop to help this man in need, what will happen to me?' The question is, 'If I do not stop to help the sanitation workers, what will happen to them?'" In a moment of danger, he is not worried about himself, he is focused on serving God and others. Dr. King was assassinated the following day.

Moses's confrontation with death yields a similar message. Before ascending his mountaintop, he reminds the people to observe the Torah's teachings and mitzvot because "they are your very life." The emphasis is less on accumulating days than on filling them appropriately. To only focus on living longer is anathema to Moses. It is not about focusing on when we die, but what we do when we're alive.

As Abraham Joshua Heschel puts it: "Just to live is holy. And yet, being alive is no answer to the problems of living. To be or not to be is not the question. The vital question is: how to be and how not to be?" This is the implicit message of Moses's perplexing silence: the fight against our own death is a distraction. Make our days count, and let God take care of the rest.

But as it turns out, Moses's silence is just one interpretation. Because would we be Jews if we only had one interpretation? I think not! And so, there is also a second interpretation from the ancient rabbis. Here Moses behaves very differently. And perhaps more in line with himself and with Judaism as "a religion of life against death."¹

"When his time to die arrived," the Midrash teaches, "God says to Moses, behold the days are drawing near for you to die." Moses effectively responds: "Sovereign of the world," can I not live forever? No, God replies.

Moses modifies his ask: "Please let me enter the land and spend two or three years there, and after that let me die." Again, God replies: no.

Moses tries for a third time: "If I am not to enter while alive, let me enter after my death." For the third time, God replies: no.

Moses begs. God denies. At last, Moses seems to understand. The curse may really be a blessing. Moses concedes: "I am 120 years old today. מָלְאוּ יָמַי וּשְׁנוֹתַי." – "I have filled my days and years." In other words, "I have done what I am supposed to have done." The blessing of the righteous is a life well lived, a life of fulfillment.

The literal interpretation and the midrashic one offer two very different reactions to death. One accepts it to focus on life. The other rejects it to continue life's mission. But they both share the same underlying assumption: life is short – it's God's greatest gift to us – and we must live it wisely and fully.

Like most cliches, life being short is so obvious but so hard to appreciate. Earlier this year, I came a little closer to appreciating it. I was on a flight to Mexico City, as I think I've shared before, and in what felt like a moment of fiction, the attendant announced on the PA, "we're having an emergency landing in seven minutes, get into brace position." The plane began to nosedive. The oxygen masks came down. Max told me he loved me, and we said the shema together. (Max later told me he thought to himself, "if we die, my mom's going to kill me.")

At the time, I thought to myself: Do I like where I am? If I knew I was going to die now, would I have lived my life exactly as I'd been living it?

These are the questions of the Days of Awe. "Mah anu, Mah chayenu." What are we? What are our lives? When I heard the shofar sound on Rosh Hashanah, I closed my eyes to imagine myself once again in that plane. I wanted to remind myself that life is not guaranteed. That it can be taken. And if I am lucky enough to live in this world, how should I contribute to it?