Our foremother Sarah died when she was 127 years old. The Torah says, in a literal translation of the Hebrew, “Sarah’s lifetime was one hundred years and twenty years and seven years, the years of the life of Sarah” (Genesis 23:1). The way the Torah presents her age—as one hundred years and twenty years and seven years—invites us to think anew about our own life journeys.
Jerusalem gets the credit for introducing me to my wife. I was seeking the wisdom of Torah in both yeshiva and classes at liberal seminaries when she started rabbinical school. Our first meeting was on Shabbat, and our second was to recite the poetry of Yehudah Amichai. Then we became chevruta, learning partners, in Talmud and Midrash. The first passages of sacred text we deciphered together regarded Abraham and Sarah. I was twenty-five, and she was twenty-three. Abraham and Sarah were very much alive for us, though they lived so many generations ago.
This week’s parsha, Chayyei Sarah, begins with a unique approach to the life of our matriarch Sarah: it presents her life in numbers. While the Broadway musical RENT famously counts life in minutes, our Torah opens the accounting of Sarah’s life by stating she lived to be one hundred years, twenty years, and seven years old. It’s a curious way of explaining her time on earth. Why might the Torah express it this way?
Did Sarah talk about “when she was seven?” Or did she mention her twentieth birthday often enough that it was woven into the fabric of her personal accounting of life. Did those who knew and loved her use those profound birthdays to honor her life, as they reflected upon their relationships and Sarah’s journey?
With this week’s parsha, I feel called by the Torah to play with the way that I describe how old I am. When I stop to think about it, I don’t want to just say I am 56. I could say that I am thirteen years and forty years and twelve years. Thirteen because at my bar mitzvah I read the Book of Isaiah, and he stirred my soul to the point I would never be the same. And forty years because I felt I was only wandering in my life like my people did out of Egypt. And twelve years where I have been a better, more balanced husband, father and communal spiritual leader.
I invite you to take up the invitation for reflection in this way. Can we reframe the “How old are you?” question to help us inhabit the experiences of our hearts and minds, to tell our growth and wisdom stories? Which are the birthdays that are most notable that you would place on a personal list, through which you might reflect deeply on the life you’ve lived? How has life and time unfolded for us?
Upon Sarah’s death, the Torah continues, “Abraham came to mourn her.” (Genesis 23:2) We imagine the entire family and their community grieving. They cried, and they came to share stories, to honor her. I was reminded of a Yehudah Amichai poem:
…to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest…
Learning this poem, Amichai’s “A Man Doesn’t Have Time in His Life”, amplified for me a personal truth. (The whole poem is here: https://allpoetry.com/A-Man-Doesn’t-Have-Time-In-His-Life.) My wife and I especially discuss this stanza to this day:
A man doesn’t have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
“But we do have time!” I remember thinking the very first time I saw this poem. I still wish to assert that as my truth! And if we use our time wisely, we might organize our lives into chapters and write our own books of life. Sarah was one-hundred and twenty and seven. I always imagine her curious as a child, like I was about God, and even about snakes and insects. I am sure our ancestors had to know what to expect during desert hikes! She was twenty. What did she learn during those moments of feeling leadership instincts brewing and preparing herself for a journey from her homeland? Was she already looking for a partner to marry and share a life’s journey with, or would society at that time only arrange for her a marriage she had no choice about?
And was she figuring out how to make the most of her situation, despite its challenges, as so many of us have done and so many do when they strive for meaning? The philosopher and Holocaust survivor Victor Frankl’s profound work describes this situation: “We do not simply exist, but we decide how we exist, and what we will become in the next moment… our decisions, not conditions, shape our destiny.”
Sarah was one-hundred. That meant to me that she had good, long years to see her family through both difficult and blessed times. I imagine her debating with Abraham about when to stay loyal to members of their family or those who had become part of their household. I imagine she and her loved ones debated, like we all do, what’s worth getting angry about and what is worth fighting for.
Let’s now look to what others who have come before us have said. Rashi, the renowned 11th-century medieval commentator, reflects on the numbers of Sarah’s life as signifiers of her vibrant, enduring spirit. He breaks down her years into a soulful prism through which to view her life: At 100 years old, she was like a 20-year-old, still alive with vigor and appreciation for every day she woke with the sun. At 20, she was like a 7-year-old, full of childhood innocence, curiosity, and wonder.
In contrast, the Ramban (also known as Nachmanides) focuses on the completeness of her years. He emphasizes that the number 127 represents not just a sum of her age, but reflects the fullness of her life’s work. One hundred and twenty mirrors the lifespan of Moses, while seven recalls the cycles of creation, renewal, and humanity’s partnership with God in constructing meaning and purpose in the world.
Our Psalmist beautifully articulates, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12). In a poetic translation, the verse might read: “Teach us to group our days into distinct periods of our lives, so that we may reflect on our experience, to achieve a heart of wisdom.”