In the opening verse of this week’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah, we learn:
וַיִּהְיוּ חַיֵּי שָׂרָה מֵאָה שָׁנָה וְעֶשְׂרִים שָׁנָה וְשֶׁבַע שָׁנִים שְׁנֵי חַיֵּי שָׂרָה׃
“This was the life of Sarah: 127 years—these were the years of Sarah’s life.” (Gen. 23:1)
We have two instances that cause us to believe that Sarah, our mother, lived twice. The first piece of evidence is that Chayei Sarah is mentioned twice: Va’y’hu chayei Sarah (this was the life of Sarah) and sh’nei chayei Sarah (these were the years of Sarah’s life). The second piece of evidence is within the second example—sh’nei chayei Sarah. For our Hebrew speakers, sh’nei means years, but it also means two. Shnei chayei Sarah could be translated as “these are the two lives of Sarah.”
But what does it mean to live twice?
When the ancients of Babylonia measured time, they did so in terms of the number 60. In fact, our entire system of time is based on this ancient system. For the ancients, the number 60 was the most complete number. In Judaism, we too have adopted this adoration for the number 60 as being representative of the whole. Our sages tell us that sleep is 1/60 of death. For a glass of wine to be kosher for Pesach, it must be at least 1/60 wine to ensure the destitute can participate in the mitzvah of drinking wine on Pesach. A mikvah, our ritual bath, must be 1/60 mayim chaim or naturally occurring water from rainfall or rivers. In fact, the letter samekh, which is a circle, has the numerical value of 60. On birthdays, in the secular world, we wish people to live a long and happy life; but in Judaism, we wish that the person celebrating their birthday might live to 120.
There are two reasons we say, “may you live to be 120.” First, Sarah and Moses lived to be 127 and 120, respectively. The second is that 60, this complete number, is considered to be a complete life. When we say, may you live to be 120, we are essentially saying “may you live twice.” May you live two complete lives. We live our lives and then we live until we are forgotten. The implication of remembering a once vibrant, animate human is such that they might live again in our hearts and minds—but to forget is to cause their soul to perish.
When we say the words Never Forget, we mean to say remember always.
Always remember: Always remember those who do not have anyone to remember them... Always remember the 6 million Jews who died without cause...
Always remember those who were killed because evil triumphed...
Always remember those who were taken before their time...
Whether you subscribe to the idea of life after death, we cannot deny that those who have passed, live again in our memories. After my grandmother died, and I would visit my grandfather, I’d get off the elevator and turn the corner and was sure that my grandmother would be standing in the doorway waiting for me. She wasn’t, and yet... she was. By remembering those whom we love, we give them the chance to live again.
What life do those murdered in Pittsburgh have now that their first life has ended? What life will we give them when we leave these doors tonight? What will you do to make this world a better place—in their honor, in the name of their lives, so that they did not die in vain. Prayers are not the answer. Prayers are not the solution. Prayers are the catalyst from which we find the strength to stand up and denounce the hatred.
To quote Elie Weisel,
“to remain silent and indifferent is the greatest sin of all...
The opposite of Love is not hate, it is indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it is indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it is indifference.”
What happened in Pittsburgh is only the beginning. We have seen this kind of hatred manifest into violence before, and it is happening again: when thoughts of fear are allowed to flourish and hatred goes unchecked; when words are like gasoline thrown on this fire of fear, and a certain angry, wounded group of people are mobilized to act, will you stand idly by? Will you wait until it is too late?
Will you remain indifferent because perhaps you aren’t Jewish, so it doesn’t affect you? Because you aren’t Hispanic, perhaps it doesn’t affect you... Because you are not of another sexual orientation, perhaps it doesn’t affect you... Because you are not a woman, perhaps it does not affect you... Because you aren’t black, perhaps it doesn’t affect you... But if you breathe the air we breathe, if your blood is as red as ours, this is your chance to stand up against hate, to stand up against indifference.
When your life comes to a close, what will your legacy be? What second life will your first one leave behind?
I pray that when you go to the ballot box next week, you vote as if your life depended on it. I pray that you vote as if your Mother were Jewish. I pray that you vote as if your sister were a survivor of rape. I pray that you vote as if your brother were gay. I pray that you vote as if your father needed healthcare that you could not afford. As people of the book, we have come to learn that when the Torah speaks out against the ill-treatment of the widow and the orphan, we should not limit our understanding of this idea to just widows and orphans.
Rather, we should include all of those who do not have a voice. When you leave these doors, seek out opportunity to do good. Make the world a better place. We are only here for a little while and then we are gone. We say l’dor vador from generation to generation because without those who came before us, there will be none that come after us. In the words of Hillel, Love the Lord your God with all your might, with all your soul, with all your being and love your neighbor as yourself. The rest is commentary. Now go and do good.
Ken y’hi ratzon. May it be God’s will.
כי האדם עץ השדה For humanity is akin to a tree in the field
--Deuteronomy 20:19
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