The living, only the living, are the ones, like me, to thank today.
Sometimes, when death stares us directly in the face, our inner truth comes out. This was the case for King Hezekiah, on what he thought was his deathbed in Jerusalem. That was the case for Fyodor Dostoevsky, standing in front of a firing squad in St. Petersburg on the 22nd of December, 1849.
Along with several others, the young author who had not yet published his famous works, was sentenced to death by Tsar Nicholas I for participating in a liberal discussion group accused of conspiring against the Tsar.
When the execution was canceled at the last minute, Dostoevsky was relieved—and later realized that the execution was a cruel trick the whole time. He wrote his brother right after the event:
“Why, didn’t I face death for three-quarters of an hour today, live with this thought in my head, was I not a hairsbreadth away from death, and now I am living again! I am being reborn in another form. When I turn back to look at the past, I think of how much time has been wasted, how much of it lost in misdirected efforts, mistakes, and idleness, in living the wrong way; and, however I treasured life, how much I sinned against my heart and spirit—my heart bleeds now as I think of it. Life is a gift, life is happiness, each minute could be an eternity of bliss.”
Like Dostoevsky, we are each aware of our mortality and precious time on earth, and yet we often come up with infinite reasons to repress this knowledge and function in whatever ways needed, not always with this keen attention to what will best enable us to live our full lives. Sometimes a dramatic moment in which death’s inevitable truth intervenes occurs and interrupts our routines. Sometimes that’s when poetry happen.
King Hezekiah of Jerusalem is very ill. Today’s chapter in Isaiah is again an echo of this story that was told in Kings, but with a surprising addition: The king’s passionate and poetic prayer.
Isaiah is summoned to the king’s bedchamber to counsel the ill man who had been his disciple. Its unclear when exactly this is taking place - likely at least a decade before the siege of Sennacherib, and it’s unclear what the illness is, likely some sort of severe skin infection, bad enough to merit death.
The prophet tells the king that he’s about to die, and Hezekiah turns his face to the wall, sobs, and begs to live. It works.
A message from beyond enters the prophet’s mind and he informs the king that actually - it’s not time yet. He has another 15 years to live. In this version of the story Hezekiah then delivers an ecstatic poem that begins with dread of death and concludes with the duty of the living to sing life’s praises and thank the Creator for every breath. Ideally with music.
Scholars question the motives of the editor to include this poem here, and why it’s called a ‘michtav’ - a letter, or a written composition, but the message, either way, is clear - we are not masters of our fate, not even the royalty among us, and the power of prayer is great to remind us of this precious truth. Like Dostoevsky, and so many others, Hezekiah’ brush with death becomes an exercise in creative imagination and commitment o living life with gratitude. He begins by using the Hebrew word that will eventually become a mystical marker of contemplation, and a tool for meditation - “Shiviti” - ‘I imagine’ - as if the power of ‘as if’ enables the poetic mind to penetrate the mysteries of life and death, through words and images, an animistic weave of the power of life:
שִׁוִּ֤יתִי עַד־בֹּ֙קֶר֙ כָּאֲרִ֔י כֵּ֥ן יְשַׁבֵּ֖ר כׇּל־עַצְמוֹתָ֑י מִיּ֥וֹם עַד־לַ֖יְלָה תַּשְׁלִימֵֽנִי׃
I watch, all night long, as if I am a lion; a lion is breaking all my bones; From day to night You keep me whole.
כְּס֤וּס עָגוּר֙ כֵּ֣ן אֲצַפְצֵ֔ף אֶהְגֶּ֖ה כַּיּוֹנָ֑ה דַּלּ֤וּ עֵינַי֙ לַמָּר֔וֹם אֲדֹנָ֖י עָֽשְׁקָה־לִּ֥י עׇרְבֵֽנִי׃
I chirp like a crane, moan like a dove, my eyes look up, dull, O Master, I am distressed, be my security.
חַ֥י חַ֛י ה֥וּא יוֹדֶ֖ךָ כָּמ֣וֹנִי הַיּ֑וֹם אָ֣ב לְבָנִ֔ים יוֹדִ֖יעַ אֶל־אֲמִתֶּֽךָ׃
The living, only the living, are the ones, like me, to thank today. today. Fathers will tell their children: This is the truth.
יְהֹוָ֖ה לְהוֹשִׁיעֵ֑נִי וּנְגִנוֹתַ֧י נְנַגֵּ֛ן כׇּל־יְמֵ֥י חַיֵּ֖ינוּ עַל־בֵּ֥ית יְהֹוָֽה׃
YHWH was ready to save me: therefore we will sing my songs to the stringed instruments all the days of our life in the house of God.
Isaiah 38:13-20
Perhaps it was the poetry, or the fig-paste that Isaiah, in his role as prophetic medicine man, orders to be placed on the king’s skin. But either way, Hezekiah recovers. His poem, recorded here, was perhaps sung in the court, as the last line suggests, as a hymn that honors faith and celebrates life’s fleeting gifts and duties. The king lives to endure Jerusalem’s siege and several more crises, with one last story in tomorrow’s chapter, as the war drums near and the poetry, not always so ecstatic and grateful, accompanying the cries of the dying and the dirge of the mourners.
Dostoyevsky lived on for another 30 years, creating some of the world’s literary masterpieces. Hezekiah’s healing took him through the next 15 years, and some memorable achievements. His words, like those of other great poets and artists, like the sounds of lion and cranes, doves and donkeys - still echo today - the living, only the living, get to live out loud, grateful and offer up praise by merely being.
(As far as we know anyway. )
Image: Dostoyevsky on his deathbed, drawn by Ivan Kramskoy, 29 January 1881
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Power of prayer! great post!