Dying—and Living—with a Smile 

Why do we celebrate someone’s passing like it’s their wedding day?

Who is in Charge?

Good Shabbos! 

Every year around this time, a new report is published about the number of Jews living in the Land of Israel. And in recent years, something remarkable has happened—something we haven’t seen in nearly 2,000 years: the largest Jewish population center in the world is now in Israel.

Until about 2007, more Jews lived in the United States that in Israel. But in recent years, this phenomenon reversed itself—and today, there are close to seven million Jews living in the Holy Land while in America, on the other hand, there are only five to six million Jews. 

2,000 years ago, the largest Jewish population wasn’t in the Holy Land—it was in Bavel, what we know today as Iraq. And that created some tension. Which community was the center of Jewish life? Who set the tone for the nation—the Jews living in Israel, or those in exile? And this wasn’t just philosophical. It had real-life implications, with many halachic differences rooted in that divide.

But today, I want to share a story that shows how, despite the tension, the Sages of Bavel still looked to the traditions of the Holy Land for guidance.

One of the leading Torah figures of that era was Rabbi Yehudah bar Yechezkel, the head of the great yeshivah in Pumbedisa, near what is now Baghdad. He was a giant among the Amoraim of Bavel in the third century and the founder of a yeshivah that endured for nearly 800 years.

The Talmud (Moed Katan 17a) tells of a difficult situation that arose in Rabbi Yehudah’s community. A certain Torah scholar had begun acting in ways unbefitting someone of his stature. Rabbi Yehudah found himself torn. On the one hand, the scholar’s behavior was a chillul Hashem—a public desecration of G-d’s Name. On the other hand, he was a brilliant mind, and the broader community still needed his Torah.

“What should we do?” Rabbi Yehudah asked. “If we excommunicate him, we lose a great Torah mind. But if we don’t, we disrespect the Torah by letting his actions slide.”

To resolve the dilemma, Rabbi Yehudah turned to a Sage who had come from Eretz Yisrael—Rabbah bar Bar-Chanah—and asked: “What would they do in the Holy Land?”

Rabbah answered by quoting Rabbi Yochanan, who had taught a powerful interpretation of a verse in Malachi: “The lips of a kohein should guard knowledge, and people should seek Torah from his mouth, for he is a messenger of G-d.” Rabbi Yochanan said: If a teacher resembles a messenger of G-d—humble, moral, upright—then learn from him. But if not, he should not be treated as a Torah authority.

And with that guidance, Rabbi Yehudah made his decision—he excommunicated the scholar.

So Rabbi Yochanan—one of the great Amoraim of the Holy Land and the primary compiler of the Jerusalem Talmud—taught Rabbah bar Bar-Chanah a clear standard: Torah should only be learned from someone who resembles a malach, an angel—someone spiritually pure and morally upright. If a teacher’s conduct doesn’t reflect that—even if their flaws are minor—it’s not appropriate to learn Torah from them.

And Rabbi Yehudah took that message to heart. He followed Rabbi Yochanan’s guidance and excommunicated the scholar who had gone off the proper path.

Rabbi Yochanan’s view was that Torah isn’t just another area of study. It’s not like science, where a person can know the facts but live differently. A scientist might know that sugar is unhealthy and still eat cake. But Torah is different. It’s not just knowledge—it’s a guide for life. And if a person teaches Torah, their personal conduct has to reflect what they’re teaching. The most powerful form of teaching isn’t through words—it’s through example. And if someone can’t serve as a living example of Torah, they’re not fit to be in that role.

The Talmud goes on to describe the final moments of Rabbi Yehudah’s life. As he lay on his deathbed, surrounded by students and colleagues, one familiar face appeared in the crowd—it was the same scholar he had excommunicated.

When Rabbi Yehudah saw him, he smiled. The scholar was taken aback. “Not only did you excommunicate me,” he said, “but now, in your final moments, you mock me too?”

He clearly still carried hurt over what had happened. He felt disgraced, humiliated.

But Rabbi Yehudah answered calmly, with a clarity that echoed beyond that room. “I’m not smiling at you,” he said. “I’m smiling because I’m going to the World to Come with peace of mind—because even when it was hard, even when it meant standing up to someone great, I never showed favoritism in matters of truth.”

The Other Approach

Now, Rabbi Yehudah’s peaceful passing—with a smile and a clear conscience—stands in striking contrast to another great Sage: Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai.

Rabbi Yochanan lived through one of the most critical moments in Jewish history—the destruction of the Second Beis Hamikdash. It was he who made the difficult and courageous decision to surrender Jerusalem and secure permission from the Romans to move the center of Jewish life to Yavneh. That decision ultimately saved the Jewish people from spiritual extinction.

Yet the Talmud (Berachos 28b) tells us something surprising. When Rabbi Yochanan fell ill and his students came to visit him, he began to cry.

His students were shocked. “Light of Israel! Mighty hammer! Why are you crying?” they asked. They couldn’t understand how someone who had done so much good, who had saved the entire nation, could feel such anguish in his final moments.

Rabbi Yochanan replied with heartbreaking honesty. “If I were being judged by a human king,” he said, “I might be able to reason with him, maybe even offer a bribe. But now I’m going before the King of kings, who lives forever—and there’s no bribery and no excuses. And in front of me are two paths: one to Gan Eden and one to Gehinom—and I don’t know which one I’ll be taken on. Shouldn’t I cry?”

This was the same man who had stood with confidence before the Roman Caesar and negotiated for the future of Judaism. But now, as he stood before G-d Himself, the outcome of his life’s choices—especially the enormous decision to move Jewish life from Jerusalem to Yavneh—was not clear to him. He didn’t know how it would be judged. And that uncertainty brought him to tears.

Lag Baomer

This time of year, we celebrate Lag BaOmer—the hilula of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai. Now, the word hilula doesn’t mean “anniversary of passing.” It means “wedding.” So it begs the question: Why do we refer to the yahrzeit of the great Tanna, Rabbi Shimon—whose entire life was Torah study, and who authored the Zohar—as a wedding? And more than that, why are we happy on the day we lost him?

The Zohar itself answers this. It tells us that on the day of his passing—the 33rd day of the Omer—Rabbi Shimon was in a prophetic state all day. He was immersed in the deepest mystical secrets of the Torah and told his students that he wanted to reveal those secrets before he left this world.

His student, Rabbi Aba, later recounted that the light radiating from Rabbi Shimon was so intense, he physically couldn’t look at his face. And then, at the end of that day, Rabbi Shimon passed away—lying on his right side, wrapped in his tallis, with a smile on his face.

That’s why we celebrate on Lag BaOmer. Because he didn’t leave this world in sadness—he left it in joy.

The Rebbe would often quote what Rabbi Shimon says in the Zohar: that the world above reflects the world below. If a person is joyous and full of light down here, that energy draws down even greater light from above. As the Zohar puts it: if someone’s face shines with joy, then Heaven shines back on him with even more joy. That’s why the verse says, “Serve G-d with joy”—because joy brings blessing.

And someone who can smile at the end of their life? That’s not someone who decided to become happy in their final moments. That’s someone who lived with joy their entire life.

Rabbi Yehudah bar Yechezkel, and long before him, Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, weren’t just people who died with smiles. They lived with smiles. Even Rabbi Shimon—who spent 13 years hiding in a cave, who suffered hunger and isolation—still lived with optimism, light, and joy.

Lag BaOmer teaches us something simple but powerful: A Jew needs to live with a smile. And when he smiles, Heaven smiles back.

Good Shabbos!