Jewish tradition has some fascinating, layered answers. Let's dive into one, found in Kohelet Rabbah, a midrashic (interpretive) commentary on the Book of Ecclesiastes. It offers a powerful, poetic view on the very creation of life.
According to this teaching, when a fetus is formed, it's a partnership – a three-way collaboration, if you will. There's the Holy One, blessed be He, the father, and the mother. The father contributes the "white substance," the source of things like bones, tendons, the brain, the whites of the eyes, even the fingernails. The mother provides the "red substance," which gives rise to blood, skin, flesh, hair, and the dark parts of our eyes. So far, so biological, right? But here's where it gets really interesting.
The Holy One, blessed be He, adds ten crucial elements: Ruach (spirit), Nefesh (soul), countenance, eyesight, hearing, speech, the ability to move our limbs, wisdom, understanding, counsel, knowledge, and strength. These are the things that truly make us human, that give us our spark.
But, as with all things, there's an ending. When death arrives, the Holy One takes back His portion, leaving behind the contributions of the parents. And what happens then? Grief. The parents weep.
God asks them, "Why are you crying? Did I take anything of yours? I only took what was Mine."
Their response is heartbreaking. They say, "Master of the Universe, as long as Your portion was intermingled with our portions, our portions were protected from maggots and worms. Now that You have taken Your portion from the midst of our portions, our portions are cast aside and subject to maggots and worms."
Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, according to the text, uses a powerful analogy to explain this. Imagine a king who owns a vineyard and entrusts it to a sharecropper. The king tells his servants to harvest his portion, leaving the sharecropper's share behind. The sharecropper, naturally, begins to weep. The king, like before, protests that he only took what belonged to him. But the sharecropper's lament is the same: as long as the king's portion was mixed with his, it was safe from plunder. Now it's vulnerable.
The king, of course, represents the King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He. The sharecropper represents the parents. As long as the soul – God's portion – is within us, we are protected. But when we die, we're vulnerable, subject to the natural processes of decay.
Shimon ben Elazar adds another layer. Even a newborn infant is naturally protected. Animals instinctively fear it. But in death, even the mighty Og, King of Bashan, needs protection from the smallest of creatures. This echoes Genesis 9:2, "And your fear and your dread shall be upon every beast of the earth…" That fear vanishes at death, and protection is needed.
There's a real-world implication here too. We are taught that you can desecrate Shabbat to save the life of a one-day-old infant. But even for David, King of Israel, you wouldn't desecrate Shabbat after his death. As Solomon wisely said, "For a living dog is better than a dead lion" (Ecclesiastes 9:4).
The text then veers into a fascinating anecdote about King David's death. David asks God to inform him of his end. God refuses to reveal the exact time but tells David he will die on Shabbat. David, ever the devoted student of Torah, spends every Shabbat immersed in study, hoping to postpone his death. On the fateful day, the Angel of Death tries to trick him. A stair breaks, David falls, and his time comes.
The story doesn't end there. Solomon, faced with the dilemma of honoring Shabbat while also caring for his father's body and the hungry dogs, seeks guidance. The solution? Place a loaf of bread or an infant on top of the corpse, allowing it to be moved without directly violating Shabbat. Practicality and respect, intertwined.
The passage concludes, returning to Solomon's earlier words: "For a living dog is better than a dead lion."
What does it all mean? This Kohelet Rabbah passage offers a profound meditation on life, death, and the partnership between humanity and the Divine. It reminds us that life is a gift, a fragile collaboration. It highlights the preciousness of the divine spark within us, and the vulnerability we face when that spark returns to its source. It is a reminder to cherish life, to embrace our humanity, and to appreciate the protection and purpose that the Divine presence offers us, while we still have it.