There is a safe in my office that contains several priceless items.
Not cash, or gold, or valuable Judaica.
But rather sealed envelopes passed to me over the years, awaiting the final day that comes to each of us.
The envelopes contain ethical wills (tzava’ot.) Most of us have prepared documents with lawyers or accountants to indicate where our physical assets should go after we die.
But that is not what is in my safe. These envelopes contain information and instructions designed to affect how we will be remembered: the charities we cherish, the values and wisdom we’d like to pass on to those who follow—and even what our funerals will look like.
These days, we tend live in the now. Medical breakthroughs have made it possible for each of us to live longer than previous generations. A 2016 study concluded that more than 24 percent of us will live past 90.
We tend to avoid thoughts of our passing, but these ethical wills—distinct from the conventional physical ones—can help each of us live on in some significant way—not to control, but rather to inspire after our earthly passing.
Before Covid interrupted the regular cycle of events and programs at our synagogue, I would hold a workshop every three years, encouraging participants to prepare ethical wills in order to guide future generations through the wisdom they had acquired over time.
In recent years, the practice has been revived, and is often considered by rabbis, as we transition in our Torah reading from the Book of Genesis to Exodus.
We are currently approaching the end of Genesis. In its final pages, we are told of Joseph’s death at age 110. But, it is the earlier death of his father, Jacob, who passes away at 147 that has inspired the custom of developing an “ethical will.”
In his final hours, Jacob gathers his 12 sons, and—one by one—praises, guides and even admonishes them.
The idea of bringing earthly closure to our relationships—has encouraged many to prepare a letter or similar document for their families and friends to read some time in the future.
Although we tend to avoid the thought, each of us understands that we will not live forever. Don’t we wish we would continue guiding our precious children and grandchildren after we are gone?
Don’t we wish we could in some way prevent those who follow us from making the same mistakes—or share what we’ve learned through our successes?
As we reflect upon the future, in the tradition of tzava’ot, how would we fill in the following blanks?
- The happiest moment of my life was…
- The most difficult moment of my life was…and this is what I learned from it.
- This is how I would like to be remembered.
- These traditions are most important to me. If you can, remember me through one or two.
- My greatest hope for the future is …
- My greatest fear for the future is…and perhaps this is how we can help avoid it.
- This is how I define success.
- This is what I would like my memorial service to look like.
- After my earthly journey is complete, these are the charities or causes I would like to see continued.
- I may not have always expressed it, but I have, and will always love you. Despite your differences, please cherish each other.
Yes, we live in the now. We too often feel invincible. Sons and daughters don’t like to discuss these topics. It is one reason why people have, over the years, handed me these envelopes.
As I experience my own parents fading, I am forever grateful that a few years ago, I asked them, “How would you like to be remembered?”
What followed was one of the most helpful, comforting and uplifting conversations I ever had with them—one they were eager to participate in.
There are no biblical characters alive today—but each of us is living a sacred story. And even though Jacob’s parting words were by some measure harsh and direct, his practice inspires us to consider the enduring words we would like to share.
The first surviving ethical will was written in 1050 by Eleazar ben Isaac in Worms, Germany. He wrote: “Think not of evil, for evil thinking leads to evil doing. Purify thy body, the dwelling place of thy soul. Give of all thy food a portion to God. Let God’s portion be the best, and give it to the poor.”
Judah ben Saul ibn Tibbon wrote in 1190, “Avoid bad society, make thy books thy companions.”
The Talmud reminds us to pay attention to the feelings and instructions we leave behind. It teaches that a “physical will,” which favors one or blots out another, will ultimately lead to disharmony for future generations.
Therefore, it says, be clear, fair and mindful regarding the directions that you leave behind. None of us will live forever. There is no one who is perfect, nor anyone who deserves to be eternally defined by their worst moment.
We are a composite of many lessons. So, as we complete the Book of Genesis next week, in advance, let us take a moment and think about the future.
There is no rush. There is so much more life to live. But what an interesting exercise to complete an ethical will now, if for no other reason than to reflect upon and guide our coming years.
We end most Jewish funerals with the words, “May their memory always be for a blessing.” What role will we play in shaping those memories?
How would we like to be remembered?
During this time of gathering—as we complete this secular year—there is potential to engage in these memorable conversations.
Not everyone is ready to talk about these matters.
If not, there is still plenty of room in my safe—for the future.
Shabbat Shalom, v’kol tuv.
Rabbi Irwin Huberman.