Despite the gaiety and joy which attaches to this Shmini-Atzeret-Simchat Torah period, the pathetic figure of Moses dominates the theme of this holiday. In Zot Haberachah, the last sidra of the Torah which we read during this holiday, we meet up with Moses as he prepares to die. And Moses, despite the loftiness of his prophecy, the heights of his spirit and the nobleness of his whole life, is essentially a warm and profoundly human being. He wanted to live. He found it difficult to reconcile himself with God’s notice that he would die here, overlooking the Land of Israel, and that he would not live to set foot in it. And how he begged God for just a bit more, for just that bit of nachas to be able to feel this Promised Land under the soles of his feet! If not alive, let them take my ashes there. If not as leader, let me enter as an ordinary Jew. And God says, No, my son, veshamah lo ta’avor, you cannot enter it, neither as leader, nor alive, nor even dead (Sifri, Yalkut Shimoni). And then the pathos and beauty of this scene are made even greater as our rabbis picture Moses, acting under Divine command, writing the last words of the Torah, and writing – not with ink but with his own tears – the words vayamat sham Mosheh, “And Moses died there,” there, on the eastern bank of the Jordan, and buried there, there on the eastern bank of the Jordan, and not in the beloved, Promised Land.

Now our rabbis, when reading and studying this portion which we have just described, made some very interesting remarks which are somewhat astonishing. Darash Reb Samlai: Torah techilatah gemillat chasadim vesofah gemillat chasadim. Techilatah, dikhtiv ‘vayaas Hashem Elokim laadam ule’ishto ktonet or vayalbishem’; vesofah, dikhtiv ‘vayikbor oto bagai’ (Sotah 14a). The Torah begins with an act of kindness and charity on the part of God and ends with the same. The beginning act of Divine generosity is where God makes clothing for Adam and Eve, and dresses them, after their sin. And the final act of Divine benevolence is when He buries Moses in a valley in Moab.

What a strange thing to say! One can understand that God’s act of giving clothing to primordial man was an act of kindness. It meant warmth and protection from disease and the elements. It gave Adam and Eve the dignity of human beings. It set them apart and over the animals. It inculcated in them a sense of morality. It served as a psychological buffer. The beginning of the Torah does bespeak Divine charitableness.

But why does God regard His taking of Moses’ life as gemillat chasadim? By what stretch of the imagination can we regard vayikbor oto bagai as generosity? Is it not tragic enough when this strong and solitary figure who had flaunted kings and moved mountains is reduced to begging for only another few days of life, or for a favorable plot in which to be buried? Is it not heartbreaking when a Moses has to plead, “God Almighty, have I not given enough of my sweat and blood and toil and heart to this people? Have I not suffered from their rebelliousness, from their terrible ingratitude, from their pettiness? Wasn’t it You who insisted that I accept the burden of leadership? Isn’t forty years long enough to labor in fashioning a stable nation out of a motley crew of disgruntled slave-tribes? Will You now deprive me of this singular nachas of seeing these children follow me into the Land for which we strove through plague-ridden Egypt, through the burning desert, through all conceivable difficulty? O God, kill me now, if You will, but at least let them take my body and lay it in yonder ground, let me at least find this satisfaction after death!” And God says, No – but vayikbor oto bagai. Is that a favor – a gemillat chasadim?

I can imagine if a medieval church, or even some modern church, had written that story of Moses and made him their hero. Moses would have disappeared in a puff, lifted bodily into Heaven by angelic hands, greeted by a parade of saints, while only a glowing halo remained to mark the earthly spot.

I can imagine if the story had been written for Mohammedans. We would have found Moses charging the gates of Paradise, astride a proud Arab steed, and in a final victorious flourish, he would have forced open the gates to eternal joy.

I can imagine if the story had been written by a Greek tragedian. There would have been a grand, dramatic, tragic, smashing climax, in which, in the presence of all the gods, Moses duels with Satan, and after piercing his black heart takes the bloody knife, and in a fit of tragic remorse, thrusts it into his own heart.

In other words, we might have expected a heroic ending, a dramatic climax, some overbearing act of bravery by which Moses closes his life-story.

Instead, Moses just lies down and dies. For after Moses has accepted the Divine judgment, the midrash relates, God orders Moses to lie down, and Moses lies down. God lovingly tells him to fold his hands across his chest, and Moses, quietly and gently, does so. Close your eyes, Moses – and Moses closes his eyes. And then, God softly kisses Moses, withdraws his holy soul from him, and Moses is dead. No one is there to witness it. There is no audience and no obituary. Until this day, we know he died on the plains of Moab, in a valley between some small mountains. But no one knows just where. A simple, plain, ordinary death. No noise, no fanfare, no expensive coffins, no black ribbons, no unveilings – nothing at all. And after only thirty days, the Torah emphasizes, vayitmu yemei bechi evel Mosheh, the mourning period for him in Israel was ended. It is all over and done with.

And that, friends, our rabbis called gemillat chasadim, an example of God’s goodness.

And, indeed, it most certainly was an act of charitableness by God. The gemillat chasadim consisted of the very simplicity of his demise. Why? Because Moses needed no heroic act to signify a heroic end, since all his life was an exercise in heroic holiness. His quiet, uneventful death only served to highlight, and emphasize by contrast, the heroic quality of all his life. Courage and valor were his everyday companions. Hardihood of spirit, fortitude of heart, firmness of backbone, chivalry of character, and elasticity of patience were his daily equipment and experiences. He needed no closing act, no grand finale, no tragedy or heroics or histrionics, for no death could have been as great as was his life. When a man is remembered for one act, then he has lived only a moment. But when a man is remembered for a lifetime, then he is immortal, and has lived life in its fullest, longest, and deepest expression. No wonder lo chahasah eino velo nas leicho – his eye was not dim, and his natural force not abated.

He was too busy living to begin to die.

Moses realized, at the end, that a life well-lived needs no special act of daring or bravery or even fulfillment. And therefore, as the aggadah relates, Moses ascended the chamesh-esreh maalot – the fifteen steps to Mt. Nebo – bipsiah achat, in one step. He appreciated God’s goodness in giving him a great, full, creative life, a life that was sufficient without a heroic death, a life that stood out in all its fullness and holiness by contrast with the utter simplicity of his passing away. Indeed, that was the gemillat chasadim.

I wish we Americans, with our penchant for dramatic flourish and impulsive acts of bravery, would take this to heart. We American Jews, like other Americans, have come to admire the one-two punch – whether in boxing or in war or study or religion. We give our wholehearted approval to the kind of goodness expressed in an applause-ridden grand finale, but are somewhat bored by the steadiness of slow development, the well-grounded quality of gradual achievement, the sure but constant application of great principles which alone can carve out a Ten Commandments kind of life.

Remember the dark years of World War II? Which American Jew was not prepared to give his life to defend his people and defeat the inhuman, diabolical enemy? We were truly idealists, and great ones. But it was a one-act kind of heroism. We have seen Germany grow and prosper since those horrible years. And we keep silent. We have not got the strength to keep up a sustained fight against evil – so much so, that if a rabbi speaks out against this pampering of ex-Nazis, he is regarded as a brave young man. How unfortunate that such should be the case!

Or, let us go back one generation. Now that we are celebrating the Tercentenary, we keep on reading history books which vividly describe the plight of our immigrant parents. Think of how they devoted lifetimes – every living moment – to our advancement and progress. No great sacrifices, no sudden flashes of bravery and sacrifice – but a sustained, lifelong devotion of labor in sweatshops and penny-saving in cold-water tenements, to enable us to spend leisure years in high schools and on rolling college campuses. They loved us, their children, in a manner truly heroic, for it was sustained, though it lacked the éclat and flash.

But how about us? Any parent would respond in the affirmative if asked if he or she would give their lives for a child. Certainly. But how many would give as many as two Saturday nights a month? We pay, as accumulated through the year, hundreds for babysitters – valorous indeed. But how many would stay home more often, and give a child the feeling of being with a parent? We are ready to spend thousands for special education for them. But how many will help a child patiently with his homework, or study a parsha chumash verashi with him? Perhaps if we would follow the example of our less sophisticated immigrant parents, and dispense with the bravery and the bravado, and act like Jews, like a Moses, we would be giving our youngsters the true gemillat chasadim.

And what is religion for so many of us if not something we can expect to get all at once, only one day a week, or three days a year? We make the supreme sacrifice of staying away from the store and the golf links on these sacred days, but we neglect the day-to-day application that alone can give man true blessing. We expect to get, from one sermon or two lectures or three nights in an adult education course, all the Jewish philosophy, law, ethics, and history that have taken three thousand years to create. But we are bored by the prospect of applied study, every day, by ourselves. And yet only that way can we get ourselves the greatest gemillat chesed.

Of course, when we speak in favor of undramatic and simple living which is constant in its goodness and application of virtue, we do not mean to cast aspersions upon the martyrs of ages gone by, or of our own age. There are thousands, nay millions, of Jews who have given their lives for kiddush Hashem, in holy martyrdom, and they have helped preserve our people with the supreme sacrifice. But we must remember this: the Jewish martyr throughout history has given more than death; he has given all his life. Martyrdom for the Jew was not an impulsive, sudden inspiration. You had to train for it from infancy. You had to prepare for it and study for it. Only thus was it martyrdom, not bravado.

Recall the story of that genius of Torah, Rabbi Akiva, who, in the second century of the Common Era, when Rome ruled over Palestine, defied the decrees of the cruel oppressors and continued to teach talmud torah barabim – to teach Torah in public. The great teacher was warned to desist or else he would pay with his life. His closest disciples begged him to desist, but he refused and continued to teach. And he explained to his students: Kol yamai hitzta’ar’ti al pasuk zeh – “Ve’ahavta… bechol nafshecha,” afilu notel et nafshecha, matai yavo liyadi va’akaymenu? V’achshav she’ba liyadi lo akaymena?!

It was just this sort of discussion that passed between the great Rabbi Akiva and his beloved pupils. “Rebbe,” they cried to him, “don’t you know that you are of more value to us alive than dead? Are you the type who shows bravery in great dramatic fashion? How does this kind of showy heroism come to you? We want you alive!” And then their sainted teacher answered, “My children, you are gravely mistaken. I am not now embarking on a single act of sacrifice! I am not being impulsive about this! Kol yamai hitzta’ar’ti! All my life have I pained and suffered, all my life have I worked and strived and dreamt of this moment. My life was a living martyrdom. My life was a series of great sacrifices. There is absolutely nothing impulsive about this, my final act. It is only the culmination forced upon me.

When, as a 40-year-old ignorant shepherd, I married Rachel against her father’s wishes, it was a preparation of martyrdom. When she lovingly consented right thereafter to release me for 14 years of study, that was a sacrifice. When I came to the great academies in Jerusalem and found myself sitting in one class with five-year-olds learning aleph-bet, that was sacrifice. When I returned to my wife and then tore myself away again for so many years, that was a sort of martyrdom. When I espoused the cause of Bar Kochba against Rome – and against the better judgment of every one of my colleagues – that wasn’t bravado, it was a slow and painful martyrdom. Kol yamai!”

And so the great teacher brought an entire lifetime of martyrdom to an end with the declaration of the Shema – Shema Yisrael… Hashem echad.

All life must be marked by greatness. All life must be devoted. We must lead heroic lives, and not be satisfied with heroic acts, with heroic deaths. That is the Jewish way: the drama is evident throughout the play, and not confined to the last act. That is Jewish bravery – the bravery of life, not the bravery of death. That is Jewish courage, and that is Jewish heroism.

In concluding, let me leave one word of comfort and consolation for those here this morning who agree with the thesis we expressed, but who are wondering if this kind of life isn’t just a bit too difficult. Certainly it’s more difficult. A life of heroism is far more difficult to achieve than one act of courage. But – and this is the redeeming thought – most of the difficulty is imagined and not real. You can learn to live with it and even enjoy it like nothing else.

I leave you with this one Chassidic tale, which you may interpret for yourselves, apropos of what we have been saying. One Simchat Torah, in the synagogue of the venerable master, the Rizhiner Rebbe, the dancing was proceeding in full strength and vigor. And then the old Rebbe himself, bent and weighed down by the years, entered the circle and took hold of a Torah and began to dance. One of his chasidim noticed that that particular Torah was a very heavy one, and so he said, “Rebbe leiben, isn’t the Torah too heavy for you?”

And the old sage, without a moment’s hesitation, answered, Az men halt shoyn die Torah, iz zie garnisht azoy shver – “Once you hold the Torah, you find that it is not quite so heavy…”