“Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before Adonai alien fire, which He had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of Adonai. Then Moses said to Aaron, ‘This is what Adonai meant when God said: 

Through those near to Me I show Myself holy,
And gain glory before all the people.’

And Aaron was silent.” (Leviticus 10:1-3)

In the face of sudden death, we are most often anything but silent. We cry, we yell at the attending medical staff, we demand to know why our loved one died. We want someone to be held accountable because surely the death was not inevitable, surely someone could have done something at just the right moment to stave off death.

And surely this is true, sometimes. But not always. So Aaron’s reaction is silence, and perhaps acceptance. And this is also an acceptable reaction. Through my work on the Corewell Health ethics committee, I’ve been thinking lately about the issue of medical futility. There comes a point when we will no longer be able to evade death. We might first face it for a loved one, a parent or spouse for whom we have been entrusted with the responsibility of making decisions when they can no longer speak for themselves. Ultimately, we’ll face our own mortality and the question, ‘Is is OK to accept that my body will die or am I obligated to fight to keep it functioning no matter how high the economic or physical cost?’

Judaism holds that life is precious, of infinite value. We are obligating to take care of our health and pay attention to competent medical professionals and get routine medical care such as preventative checkups and vaccinations, and visits to the dentist. Even the short term life of a person in hospice care is precious. We are forbidden to hasten death, even for someone who is actively dying. Judaism believes that the moment of death is in the hands of God. The principle of autonomy plays a larger role in secular medical ethics than it does in Jewish ethics, but there is a role for autonomy in our medical decision making as Jews.

We may evaluate medical treatment based on our ability to withstand the treatment. We may decide to accept the peace of palliative care in place of suffering through a more aggressive treatment. Or we may decide that the possibility of lengthening our days is worth the discomfort or pain of the treatment.

Aaron’s silence in Leviticus 10 might be coming from a place of deep faith in God’s judgment or a place of grief in which he was bereft of words. He might be holding back anger at Moses for trying to justify the loss of two of his children. We face the certainty of the death of those we love and our own mortality. Our society embraces taking an aggressive stance against death, fighting the good fight, but it is a fight we will inevitably lose. Fighting death is ultimately futile.

The lesson I want to take away from Aaron’s silence is that there will come a time to embrace death and to realize that our spirit will continue in some way even after our body no longer functions. Rather than defaulting to the language of combat, consider approaching death with wisdom. Working in partnership with my medical team, what are reasonable goals of care? How may I best live the life that I seek? When the time draws near, how may I most wisely accept death?