My mother, Sharon, died two years ago, today.
In some ways, it's hard to believe it's only been two years. It feels like a lifetime I've lived without my mother here. So much has happened, in every single day, that I want to tell her about. So many little things - things that we would laugh at, or cry over, or discuss, or sing about. There are big things, too - I'm making some job changes, I've moved apartments, I fell in love and got engaged. I'm going to have a wedding (something I know she always wanted to throw for me) and there is something so difficult and bittersweet about realizing her dreams for me, in her absence.
In other ways, it feels like two years have been gone in the blink of an eye. If I close my eyes, I can picture myself back in her hospital room, surrounded by my brother, father, aunt, uncle and grandmother, as we held her and whispered "we love you" as she took in her last breath and left this world. Just like it was yesterday. I can still see the details of her hands, the crookedness of her smile (which she hated), and the faces she used to make. I can still hear her laugh, uproarious and contagious, and if I listen very closely I can still hear her heartbeat when she used to hug me and hold me - something a daughter never forgets.
In distant ways, I can still see all the memories I have of her, in the back of my mind - from the time I was very little up until now. It often feels like an old movie reel, playing highlights over and over in my head. When someone dies, I think we fear most that we will forget them and all the little moments that contributed to the whole of who they were - to ourselves and to the world. But, now, I know that isn't true. In fact, it's all of those little things that surface all the time for me, that remind me of something she used to do or say, of who she used to be and the people she touched. The further away we get from her life, the more important these little reminders and memories become, to me, in keeping her spirit alive.
When she first died, people were so gracious and comforting and loving and I've never stopped being grateful for that. I was so scared that I would be trapped in the grief and pain of losing my best friend and my mother, but I'm not. With the help of amazing family and friends, I've come through the cloud of grief and settled into bearing a new reality. It doesn't get easier with time, but it certainly becomes more bearable and we learn better how to live with the emptiness that sits within us. But that emptiness always resides deep inside. Even two years later. Perhaps it will reside there forever.
I spoke with my father, this morning, and he told me that he often feels like we're still living in a dream, that sometimes it's hard to accept this new kind of reality that is so unwelcomed and unfamiliar to the history of our lives. After all, each of us have had so much more time with her in our lives, than without her. We spoke about time and how much we 'think' time will help or hurt us, but that ultimately we control what times gives us and we control our memory of her and how she lives on in our lives.
At her funeral, my friend sang a song I had never heard of before called "Stones Under Rushing Water" by NEEDTOBREATHE. If you've never heard it, go find it, it's a beautiful piece. And, every year, on the anniversary of her death, or at times when I really miss her or am thinking about her, I listen to it. For some reason, it helps to remind me of all the pain and all the grief and all the blessings and new life and excitement and all the memory and love that exist in the world and that I have for my mother. It's been two years. I miss her every day. But, I am also grateful for the love and guidance she gave me, for the blessings of her life that still live on in the people she knew and loved and touched. It's hard, but life goes on, beating forward, and her memory shines brightly within us, living on, as well.
Why don't we dance anymore?
I'm not okay with that
Why don't we laugh anymore?
I'm not okay with that
The years go by
Like stones under rushing water
We only know
We only know
when it's gone....
Yeah, the years go by
Like stones under rushing water
We only know
We only know
when it's gone....
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Monday, October 20, 2014
Yom Kippur Sermon 5775 - Creative Midrash
Jonah:
The Prequel
I was
born a cursed man. I'm not famous. Not yet, at least. But soon,
everyone is going to know my name: Jonah. Some people would
eventually call me a prophet, but I never liked that term. It's
always implied something special or good about me and I don't think
I'm a particularly good person. No, I prefer the name Jonah. In
Hebrew it means “dove” which I guess makes sense. I was always
taking flight, ever since I could remember. Even as a baby, I was
quick to walk, preferring not to crawl but to learn how to move as
fast as I could, jetting from point A to point B, just to see how
fast I could get there. Adults called me curious, but looking back I
know it was a combination of mischief and movement that would shape
my life. Curiosity is just a nice word for it. Later on, my speed
and desire to flee served me well. I'd get into trouble and leave,
just like that. I was always running, from my family, from my
troubles, maybe even trying to run from myself. And for most of my
early life, I was pretty good at flying away. Until it all
eventually caught up with me. I couldn't run any longer – I had to
face everything about who I was, what I knew, and what my job would
eventually be. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't want to
tell you about how I got famous and what I did and that giant awful
fish. Not really. I want to tell you about who I am and where it
all began.
Even
if I wasn't a great person, there was something undeniably different
about me. Perhaps it's why I was always trying to escape, to leave,
to get away from it all. Because I could never really figure out how
to get away...from that voice. I always heard it. I can't remember
a time in my life when I didn't hear that voice, speaking to me, like
everyone else was speaking to me. But I remember the first time
that I really became aware of it, and knew that I was different.
I was
about 7 years old and my cousin and I were playing in the great big
waters. Usually we just went down there to bathe but it was a
particularly hot summer day. I never really liked being in the
water, but I liked that it could move me faster than I could move on
my own. So, I learned how to swim and let it move me along. I loved
the feel of the reeds against my skin as I moved fast, darting in and
out like the schools of fish we could see in the crystal clear
depths. My cousin and I were playing a game to see how long we could
stay underwater before we needed to get to the top and find some air.
He was pretty good, but I knew that I could be better. So I took a
deep breath, held my nose, and plunged underwater. As I sank lower
and lower into the cool wetness, I knew I was going to win. I was
just about ready to come up for air when I realized that I couldn't
move my foot. It was trapped. It was as though something had a hold
on it. It didn't hurt but I couldn't moved it and I suddenly became
aware of the fact that I was running out of air. I panicked. I
flailed my arms as fast as could be and heaved my body back and
forth, trying to free myself from whatever was holding me down. And
that's when I heard it. That voice. It wasn't unfamiliar to me.
Like I said, I had always heard it, but I'd never really been aware
of it. It was like background noise, most of the time. But suddenly
my mind was razor sharp and focused on the only sound I could hear.
“Relax....” it said. “Breathe....” I panicked all over
again. Where was that voice coming from? There was no one down
there with me, in the depths of those waters. But it came again, as
clear as could be. “Relax...” I felt the voice wash over me and
for the first time, I really listened to it. I stopped moving my
arms and my legs and I let my whole little body relax. My foot must
have been hooked on something because the second I let my body go
limp, my foot released from its trap and I floated to the surface.
It wasn't until I was above water, sputtering out liquid from my nose
and mouth, that I realized what had happened. A voice, that was not
me and not anyone else, had told me what to do. It had saved me.
And I was terrified. What was this voice? Where did it come from?
Why did I hear it all the time, now? What was happening to me? Why
couldn't anyone else hear this voice, like I did? I didn't
understand it. I knew I was cursed. So, I left.
I left
my family early on, when I was still a boy, and not quite yet a man.
. I left my family because they didn't understand me. They didn't
feel my need to get away, all the time, to try new things and to have
fun. I never liked being told what to do, from them or from anyone.
They certainly didn't understand that voice I had once tried to
explain to them. They just thought I was a freak. So, I left. Who
needs them, anyway?
I
didn't like the water, but I realized that the great big waters were
a means to an end. There were a lot of people there traveling in and
out, trying to sell things, trying to make a living. I found
like-minded people who dwelled along the great big waters. They were
always traveling back and forth, here and there, seeking what they
wanted, meeting new people, doing as they pleased. I gravitated
towards that lifestyle. That sense of freedom, of independence, of
carefree days. I wanted that. I craved that. They weren't the best
of people. In fact, they often lied, cheated, and stole to get what
they needed. But, I didn't mind that. It kept me on my toes, always
trying to stay one step ahead of everyone else. I didn't judge them
or care what they did, as long as they didn't hurt me and stop me
from making money. As long as I could run free and move when I
wanted and where I wanted, I was happy.
Soon
after I left my family, I met an old man, named Amittai, who took me
in. Like me, he understood the need to be free and to keep moving.
He always made sure I had shelter and food. He taught me how to do
business, too. He trained me to know how to sell and trade and
barter for what we needed, in exchange for what other people wanted.
We had fun, too. He loved hearing my stories from home and didn't
seem to mind when I told him about that voice. In fact, he quite
liked it – it often helped me understand people that we did
business with and figure out what to do when we were in trouble. It
was a good partnership, between me and Amittai – he had knowledge
and experience, and I was young and had energy and....intuition. But
it was more than that, what we had. He really was like a father to
me. He looked after me and understood me and treated me like I was
worthy of his time. In many ways, he was the only family that I ever
had, even if it was of our own making. For the first time, I WAS
happy...that is, until I was cursed, again.
We had
been in a new city for about 2 moons. Ami had gotten comfortable
with the local traders and merchants and sailors. And they were
getting to know us, too. Until one night, things took a wrong turn.
I was fast asleep, my back sore from carrying heavy loads all day,
when suddenly I was being shaken awake. “Get up, Jonah.” Ami
said. He looked serious but calm. “We have to make a deal,
tonight.” “Right now?” I said. His eyes told me the answer.
So I dragged myself up, threw on my clothes, and followed my friend
out to the great big waters. I trusted Ami, and I didn't want to
tell him that the voice was urging me not to go. I felt the voice
envelop me like the thick fog that was piercing the cool night air.
But, like I often did when I thought I knew better, I ignored it,
shrugged it off my shoulders like an old blanket and followed after
my friend. “Stay here” Ami told me. “Like all the guys we deal
with, these guys are a little tough. But they're offering me a good
deal for our stuff. I don't think they're dangerous, but I just want
you to be safe. Watch and learn how to deal with these kind of guys.”
I nodded, listening to my old friend, my business partner, my mentor,
and crouched into a small space in a stone wall, so I could see him,
but stay of sight. I watched him walk away, down towards the waters.
As he left, I longed to go after him, to stop him, to bring him back.
But, I didn't. I just stayed very still and kept my eyes open.
Three
men approached Ami, down by the waters. I couldn't see their faces,
only the outline of their bodies. One was short and wide and the
other two were taller. Ami immediately produced our goods for the
buyers to see. It only took a few seconds for what happened next.
One of the tall men grabbed Ami while the others struck him. I
couldn’t move. I was afraid. All I could hear was that voice
saying, “Stay here. Stay safe. Stay here.” I watched Ami fall
into the waters, as I was paralyzed by fear for my best friend. It
was the first time in my life I couldn't move, as desperately as I
wanted to. The three men took our goods and left. I rushed over to
Ami and dragged him out of the waters onto the shore, but I knew it
was too late for him. I held my friend as he left this world and I
sobbed over him. “Why?” I cried out. “Why did I listen to
that voice and stay?” I could have helped him. I could have
stopped them. I could have done something. But, instead, I had
nothing. All of our goods were gone, and I was alone – having lost
the only person in the world who ever felt like my family. I shut the
voice off and every time I heard it, I ignored it. It was just too
painful. It wasn't just that I was cursed, it was that everything I
touched, everyone I knew, they were cursed, too.
So, I
moved along. As the years rolled by, I learned how to fend for
myself, how to trade goods on my own, and how to survive. Ami had
taught me well and my business was enough for me to live off of, and
have a little extra too. I never forgot Ami, what he taught me, or
what happened, but I was starting to feel good again – running my
own life the way that I liked. People were starting to know me for me
and knew they could trust me to do business with them. I felt like,
with my loss of Ami, that I had seen the worst the world could offer.
I knew pain and suffering. I was finally on the road to happiness
and freedom. Until one day, I got cursed all over again. It was
the most common way any person can be cursed. Maybe you've heard of
it: The total and complete agony of LOVE.
I'll
never forget that day that I first met her. It's as crystal clear in
my memory, as if it happened yesterday. I was trading with the
sailors on the shore of the great big waters when I looked up and
there she was. Long, curly black flowing hair, beautiful smooth
skin, and a confidence about her I cannot explain. My heart was
beating fast and my mouth was suddenly dry. “I'm Jonah, son of
Amittai,” I said. I was surprised that my throat could actually
pull words from it. “I'm Neera,” she replied warmly, smiling at
me with her eyes. My heart fluttered and I felt light-headed. But
her warm eyes and her sweet smile steadied me. “I work with my
father, over there, to help our family business.” I barely glanced
over at the man she was pointing to, captivated by every motion she
was making and every breath she took. “Oh” I said. STUPID.
What kind of a line is that? But she just smiled at me, waved, and
turned to leave. “I hope I'll see you around, for a while,” she
said as she turned and ran towards her father. I exhaled. Yes, you
certainly will see me around.
Over
the next several moons, I saw Neera every single day. I learned
about her life and tried to understand who she really was. Her mother
had died giving birth to her and her brothers were out on the seas,
fishing for their family business. So, that left her on shore to
work with her father and sell and trade their goods and fare. She
was very close with her father and loved him very much. So, I did
what any love-struck man does, and I helped them out, showing up
every day to work with them. Lucky for me, her father seemed to
take a liking to me, as well. He often invited me to join them for
evening bread. Neera and her family were Hebrews, worshiping one
God, whom they considered to be the Source of everything – good,
bad, and even all the things we can't explain. I had never really
given much thought to it all, before, but the more I learned about it
from them, the more it made sense. God doesn't exist in things, in
small little statues or pictures that we make, but rather in what is
made around us, in what already exists, in moments and experiences.
God was the one who made the waters and the land and everything in
it. I liked it. It fit what I had always thought, but never really
understood. “I am a Hebrew too,” I announced one day to Neera and
her father. “I believe in one God, both wrathful and loving.”
They looked up at me, pleased, and quietly returned to their work. I
saw Neera look back up at me, and give a quick wink and a smile. I
felt triumphant. I felt as though things finally felt right. Being
with Neera was easy – she was warm and kind and taught me about her
land and I told her stories of my world and who I was. Every day
with her was new and interesting and I could feel myself growing,
actually changing, because of someone else. It both excited me and
terrified me, beyond belief.
After
one full turn of the sun, I realized that I had to leave. My
business was slowing down, I could no longer support myself and I
knew it was time for me to keep moving, to find new sellers to trade
with. My business, and my life, thrived when I was on the move. I
had been running my whole life, but this time, I wanted someone to
run with me. “Come with me, Neera,” I urged. “Your father can
come too. I love you both and it's time for me to move on....but, I
want you to move with me. Will you be my wife?” Neera looked at
me as though I had asked her to transform into a giant big fish. “I
can't,” she said. “My life is here. My home is here. My
brothers will return to us from the seas and if we're not here, how
would they find us? I love you, Jonah, but I can't go with you. Why
can't you just stay here, with us? We love having you.” The tears
welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them away. “I thought you
understood me. I thought you knew who I was, after all this time. I
can never stay. There is too much to see and do and run towards.”
And then, I heard that voice, the one I shut away for so many years,
and it spoke through me. “It's my destiny to go. It's my future
to leave here. I just don't want to leave you....” “I can't,”
she repeated. And her shoulders began to heave as her sobs unleashed
like a mighty torrent. My heart ripped in two. I kissed her cheek
softly. “I'll always love you,” I said, realizing the weight of
my words. The finality in them. “Me too,” she answered softly.
“Me too.”
So, I
left. The first person I ever loved was taken from me. The second
person I ever loved, well....I guess that was my doing. That's the
thing about being cursed. You can feel joy and love and alive, but
there's still pain and confusion and doubt. After Ami's death, I had
resigned myself to loneliness and emptiness, and Neera changed that
for me. She taught me it was possible to love and feel happiness,
again. She helped me to understand that there were forces in this
world beyond my control. No matter how far I run, I can never escape
that love, or all of my heart-break, or everything I learned. The
difference is, that I know who I am, now. I know why I run and I
know what I believe in and what I've seen and what my life can hold.
I don't always like it, and I will always prefer to run away from it,
rather than towards it. I guess that's part of knowing who I am. I
am not a particularly good person – in fact, I'm quite flawed. I
am just a human, a human who senses and hears and feels and who needs
to keep moving. Maybe that voice is some kind of special gift, but it
doesn't change who I am, deep down inside. Not really.
I know
I am a cursed man. And my story is not yet done. I know that
whatever comes next, it will continue to be built upon the sum of all
of my experiences. Every decision I make might not be the best one,
but it's mine to make and it's mine to stand by. After all, whether
you're cursed or not, whether you hear that voice too or not, we are
all humans, living and learning and I guess that’s what we're all
trying to do – just live our lives and move forward, as best we
can.
So
that’s me, Jonah. There’s a lot more, but it will all unfold,
over time. Like the rest of us, all we can do is live and learn and
keep on moving.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
SuperMichael and SuperPhyllis
Michael and Liz, visiting during her Year-in-Israel, 2005 |
It was the summer of 1999 at Goldman Union Camp Institute. I was still in high school and I was spending my summer working and studying in the Avodah program at camp. I met Phyllis Sklar, a rabbinical student who was working at GUCI for the summer, and she was very friendly to me.
I met her fiancé, Michael Sommer , when he came to visit her, but it wasn't until the following summer, when he was working at GUCI too, that we all really became friends.
You have to understand - I was a tall, overweight, unconfident, not-so-funny-yet teen. People who seemed to genuinely like me felt very rare, to me. Who were these two and where did they come from??
In the summer of 2001, Michael (still a rabbinical student) returned to GUCI and I spent my 2nd year on staff (a sophomore in college) and that's when our friendship really solidified. Even though he was much older than me, we really connected. He could see in me all the things I couldn't really yet see in myself. He seemed to take such pride in the good work I was doing as a counselor and staff member. He used to tell me, "We don't always get to choose our family. But we always get to choose our friends who become our family." I learned so much from him, that summer, about life and love and hard work and fun and friendship.
As a college student at IU, I probably visited Michael and Phyllis at their home in Cincinnati once a month for the following few years. We all grew so remarkably close over those years, as we experienced so much together in each other's lives. I even spent part of a summer in their upstairs attic room when I was studying Hebrew at HUC-JIR to get into rabbinical school. When they left Cincinnati to head up to Chicago, I saw them slightly less frequently, but never with less intensity to our visits. Our bonds over the years only strengthened as our family and our own friends became intertwined in one another's lives.
I was there when each of their kids were born. I was there through their ordinations and they were there through my graduation, ordination, and even as my mother lay dying, last year. I'll never forget how grateful I was to Phyllis for driving me and my grandmother to my mother's dying bedside, or when she and Michael sang softly in her hospital room, rubbing my shoulders as I wept.
I weep now, for my dear friends and their tragic loss of Sammy.
Michael and Phyllis are amazing. Not just for what they've been through, but for who they are.
They were my friends when I felt as though I'd never understand what real friendship was.
They were my first "family" members outside of my own who would take me in and go on to be lifelong friends.
They were my mentors and now my colleagues - I always look to Phyllis when I have any "rabbinical" inspiration that I need. Every rabbi needs their own rabbi, too.
They create a life for themselves much like a kibbutz - everyone is a valued member (and everyone pitches in around their house), everyone gets to be with them and is included, everyone is a part of their family.
They taught me about warmth and friendship and creating relationships with people that are meaningful and significant and that weave throughout the fabric of our lives.
There are so many stories, memories, and inside jokes that we've shared, that it would take a lifetime to retell them all again.
Over the last few days, people have remarked to me about how lucky they are to have me in their life and to be their friend, but everyone has it all backwards. I am the lucky one.
I am lucky that I found friends who have, literally, changed the shape and scope and narrative of my life. In every stage and at nearly every age, they've been there. I am lucky that I have lifelong friends who have helped support me and love me in my terrible teens, tumultuous twenties, and slightly-more-stable thirties. But, I am not surprised. Because that is just who they are. They are SuperMichael and SuperPhyllis.
As Sam's "Auntie Liz" I will never stop weeping for the pain and suffering he had to endure these last many months and for the unfinished symphony of his life. As Michael and Phyllis's inner circle, I will always try to hold them up and support them and carry them, as best I can. Because that is exactly what you do for your family. And that is what Michael and Phyllis have always taught me - we go through this life but once, and it's about the people we meet and the relationships we sustain that count above everything, and anything, else.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
YOM KIPPUR - 5774
Over
the last several months, I cannot seem to stop thinking about
“thestrals”. Before this year, I did not understand this magical
and mythical creature in J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series.
Thestrals, as we understand them from the 5th
book in the series, are gaunt dark horses with wings, but can only be
seen by someone who has encountered death. They were there from the
very beginning of the series, driving the so-called “horseless
carriages” from the train station to Hogwarts, but it is not until
Harry witnesses the death of his friend, Cedric Diggory, that he can
finally see them. It suddenly puts Harry in a different category,
with eyes opened and aware of new things around him, because he has
seen and known death.
Before
this last year, I didn't really understand what these thestrals
represented. As a rabbi, I sit with the dying, and then the bereaved,
quite often. They
didn't always seem so different to me.
Why, after experiencing a death, would the world suddenly seem
different, with new and different things in it, to that person? It
wasn't until this last year, when I experienced my own tremendous
loss that I finally understood: It's not that we see things
differently, it is that the world becomes different to us. As one
woman in my bereavement group often suggests, “When our loved one
died, the trivial things of this world died away as well. We don’t
see the world in color, anymore. We are confronted with the reality
of black and white and how to navigate in that kind of world.”
In
truth, I'm not sure it's that easy of an explanation. Now don't get
me wrong - This has been the hardest year of my life. The pain of
suddenly losing the closest person in the world to me, who happened
to be my mother, role model, confidant and my best friend all rolled
into one, was unbearable most days. At the age of 30, I never
expected to lose my 61 year old mother, and I miss her more and more
every day that she is not here with me. But in those first few days,
and even now as I continue to feel this reverberation of grief in my
life, I never stopped seeing the world in color. In fact, I've felt a
heightened sense of love, support, and gratitude. The triviality of
things in this world fell away for me, for sure. And the world is a
completely different place for me than before, even though I may
appear the same on the outside. But the choice I made to find
hopefulness in all of this, and to continue to find beauty and color
in our world was the only reality I could bear as I began the
monumental task of learning to live my life without my mother.
My
mother was the epitome of positivity and hopefulness. She always made
the choice to see the glass half full. She believed there was a
solution to every problem in life, even if it just meant looking at
it from every possible angle. But sitting with her after one of the
many blood transfusions she received in the ten weeks between her
diagnosis of leukemia and her untimely death, I will never forget
when she turned to me, in a weakened moment and said, “You know,
Elizabeth, control is just an illusion. We always think we're in
control of things, but it turns out that we're not. In the end, we
have so little say over what ultimately happens in our lives.” And
like all the wise things my mother used to say, she was absolutely
right. Control is just an illusion. It comforts us when we are
scared and reassures us when we have doubt. But it is not real. If
it were, my mother would still be here today, and perhaps a loved one
of yours would still be here too. It's a hard concept to swallow that
we have no real control over what might happen to us, in our lives.
But, luckily, my mother also spent my entire life telling me that the
one thing we could control were the choices we make in this world. We
cannot control what happens to us, but we can always control how we
react and the outcome of our own actions. And, of course, she was
also right. You see, it's a fine line between illusion and reality
and the difference is control versus choice. Control is just an
illusion, but choice is our reality. However, it is not until we are
faced with the fragility of life, the possibility of death, and the
pain of loss that we, perhaps, can ever fully understand this
tension. Control is an illusion, but how we respond, that choice is
our reality.
On Yom
Kippur morning, we read from the book of Deuteronomy that advises us
to choose life. It says, “I have put before you life and death,
blessing and curse - - therefore choose life1.”
Now, this does not literally mean that we can stop death by choosing
life. If only. It means that we have a choice about how to live our
lives, in the face of despair and curse and hopelessness. It reminds
us that in every situation, no matter how dire or difficult, we
always have a choice on how to respond, how to react, and how to
proceed. And it is those choices, in particular, that will dictate
how we live our lives, how we find blessings in the curse, and how we
find life even in the face of death.
In
some ways, I believe that the thestrals from Harry Potter represent
the choices that we can now see. The veil of illusion was lifted from
Harry's eyes. He can no longer ignore the realities of life so he
must make choices on how to live with this greater understanding of
the world. Illusion and the illusion of control are gone and that is
what makes reality so evident, what awakens us to the truth and
fragility of life around us.
This
last Wednesday was the twelve year anniversary of the attacks on
September 11th.
If ever there was a day in our recent history that was more stark and
grim reality than control, it was that one, and the days that
followed. But in our collective loss, there was not only pain and
suffering and fear. There was also hope, and love and a desire to
work through grief, together. Rick Hamlin, the executive editor of
Guideposts magazine
wrote a beautiful article last year about his memories on the days
that followed September 11th,
2001. He wrote: Not long after that day, when the sirens of police
cars and ambulances still set us on edge, when the streetlamp poles
and sides of telephone booths were still plastered with
black-and-white posters of the missing saying, “Have you seen?”
of “If you have any information on...” I was crossing 33rd
street. The woman walking in front of me was clearly grieving, paying
no attention to where her feet were taking her, meandering in a fog.
Without knowing it, she ran directly into a cop on the corner.
I took
a deep breath. A New York cop is not someone to mess with, certainly
not to run into. He held out his arms, though, holding her gently by
the shoulders and looked her in the eyes as if to say, 'You going to
be all right? Did you lose a loved one too? We'll get through this,
OK?' Then, he did something remarkable. He gave her a gentle hug,
patting her on the back, before they separated and she moved on. If
ever a hug was a prayer, there it was. Barriers had dropped,
compassion took over protocol, love spoke.
It's
what I remember most about those sad days, the lesson I still take
with me on the streets of New York. Watch out, look up, someone's
sure to be aching or grieving. Be ready to care. Be ready to reach
out. A hug can be a prayer.2
What I
love most about this story is the choice that the police officer
made. He too was confronted with the reality of loss and grief when
he got run over by that woman who knocked into him. But, instead of
telling her to watch where she was going, he made a choice. He
recognized her pain, he realized he had no control over the whole
situation, and he chose life – affirming her by embracing her and
comforting her in her most painful hour.
Loss
is a universal experience. Whether it is personal, communal, or
national loss, there isn't one of us here who won't feel it
significantly in our lifetime. We each have meaningful and deep
relationships that enrich our lives. And it is because of the beauty
and strength of those relationships that we end up feeling our pain
and our grief so deeply, when these people cease to exist. It's the
classic example of King Solomon and the baby. A real mother, one who
loves and cherishes and cultivates a relationship with her child,
would never let Solomon split the baby, for fear that it would harm
the child. It's much easier to lose something we never loved, in the
first place, than to give up something that we treasure most of all.
But we
all must lose. That's the reality of being human and knowing that we
are not infinite beings. I think about how blind I was at this time,
last year. On Yom Kippur 5773, my mother was fine, without a
diagnosis of cancer and with no knowledge of what the coming weeks
and months would quickly bring. Life can change in the blink of an
eye and more can happen in a year than you ever imagined or expected.
Although we are never prepared for tremendous loss ahead of time,
we can consciously think about the choice we have in what to do in
the aftermath, in how to relate to others, in how to perceive the
world, and in the way in which we care for ourselves and our loved
ones.
You,
our Reform Temple of Forest Hills, have helped me to find life, even
in the face of death. You made the beautiful and conscious choice to
support me, to reach out to me and my family through notes,
donations, phone calls, meals and expressions of sympathy over the
last many months and embrace us as we faced the most difficult
moments of all. Each one of these acts have overwhelmed and surprised
us, and we are so deeply touched by your actions of kindness and
comfort. From the bottom of our hearts, my family and I cannot
thank you enough for this blessing of community and support. The
gratitude we feel towards you is immeasurable.
The
choices that we make to choose life are reflected in the actions that
we take, whether comforting someone who has had loss, responding to
communal loss, or learning how to live when confronted with our own
personal loss. The answer is not to respond with pure positivity and
a disingenuous sense of reality. Phrases like, “everything will be
okay”, “you're gonna get through this”, and “time heals all
wounds” should be thrown right out the window. Instead, our
actions can reflect our deep caring for other people, patience with
ourselves as we learn to grieve and learn to live without, and an
understanding that life is completely different now, once the loss
has occurred. Grief is a tremendous teacher, and though the world
can seem different, it does not have to include only anger, hurt, and
sorrow. It can also include compassion, reflection, and perspective.
The
story is told of an old Chinese woman who had two water cans which
were attached to a pole. Each day, she put the pole over her
shoulders and went down to the river, filled the cans, and walked
back to her modest hut. The water can on the right side of her pole
was fine and sturdy; when she arrived home it was always full. But
the can on the left had a crack in it. By the time the woman arrived
home, half of the water was usually gone.
The
water can always felt inferior to it's partner. It was ashamed that
it was cracked and broken and wasn't pulling it's weight. One day,
it turned to the woman and apologized for being so defective. The
woman smiled gently and said, “Did you think that I didn't notice
that you had a crack, and water dripped from you? Look at the path
from the river to my hut. Do you see all the beautiful flowers that
are growing on the one side of the path? Those are the flowers I
planted there, that you watered every day as I walked home from the
river.”
Each
one of us is broken in some way. Each one of us can see people
around us who are broken and in need of love, care, and attention to
what hurts them most. We cannot always control what makes us broken,
but we can always make the choice on how we move through it, how we
respond to it, and what we can take from it.
One of
the greatest lessons that I have learned in this last year is that
everything is finite. When our lives are done, they are done. And
so, it REALLY is important to make moments count and be unafraid to
say what really matters to you and whom matters most. Why are we
always so afraid of telling others just how much we love them, how
important they are to us, or how much they enrich our lives? Not
just family, but friends, co-workers, and people we know in our
community. We cannot let moments of love and appreciation and
opportunity pass us by. When our lives are done, they are done. It
is so important to tell others exactly how much they mean to you when
you feel it most. I've also learned to be unafraid of the
consequences of making decisions. Life is about experiencing the
choices we make and not always being held up by fear or the illusion
of control over certain situations. If we live our entire lives in a
“comfort zone” than we are playing into a sense of control that
we only imagine and that will eventually come crashing down around
us. By taking chances and embracing a little bit of risk, you never
know who or what might be waiting right around the corner for you
that will open up your life in a totally new and different way. And,
of course, I've learned to be kinder, more compassionate, and more
generous with my time and energy when it comes to others. You never
know who might be hurting, when a friendly hug or an ear to listen to
them, might be just the prayer they need at that moment. I cannot
control what happens in my life and you cannot control what happens
in yours, but we can choose to be there for each other in our
greatest hour of need. Our loss is going to hurt and we cannot run
from it. We cannot stop creating and making significant
relationships for fear of what happens when they end. Instead, we
must choose to put as much as we can into them and then be secure in
the knowledge that amidst all of our pain, the love and comfort of
others will always surround us.
Yom
Kippur is the holiest day of the year. It is a day of reflection,
repentance, and acceptance. In essence, it is a day about choice,
and about confronting the illusion of control and thinking about how
we accept reality and make choices that are good for us in our life.
Although we focus on atonement today, what we're really doing is
examining the choices that we've made that have brought us to this
place and time. These choices aren't just about ways in which we've
done things poorly, they are also about learning how to choose life,
how to be real and honest with ourselves, and how to make the most
out of each moment that we are given. I would give all of these
lessons back, in a moment, just to have ten more minutes with my
mother. But I cannot control that. Instead, I am left with the
reality of her loss....and I choose life. I choose sharing her
positivity and her belief in the goodness of this world and the
importance of building deep relationships with others. I choose
love, and patience, and compassion, and vivaciousness, even in the
face of despair and a life that is totally and completely different
now that she is gone. But not just because that is who she was or who
I am, but because that is what this day is about. It's about
starting fresh and saying, what choices will I make this year, so
that I can fully embrace life, even though I cannot control it?
Mahatma
Ghandi once said, “ I shall pass through this world but once. Any
good therefore that I can do or any kindness that I can show to any
human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I
shall not pass this way, again.” Our lives are a series of ups and
downs, most of which we really have no control over. Some days are
harder and some days are easier. And none of us is immune to what
will inevitably be great loss. At some point in our lives, our eyes
will be opened to the reality of life and it's fragility. But, the
choice is ours on how we respond, on how we persevere, on how we live
each day. Do we choose love or do we choose fear? Do we choose
comfort and compassion or do we turn the other way? Do we choose
control and illusion or do we choose reality? Do we choose death or
do we choose life? The choice is up to you. May each of you find a
life that is worth living, even in the face of difficulty. May each
of you make choices that help you support others and feel supported
by them, in the ups and downs that occur on the journey of life. May
each of you be brave enough to confront reality head on, rather than
live under the illusion of control. May each of you be written as a
blessing in the Book of Life. And if that doesn't go according to
plan, we'll figure out how to move forward, one day and one choice at
a time.
1Deuteronomy
30:19
2Hamlin,
Rick. Guideposts., Sept 2012
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Shema in the Sound Booth - Shavuot
I wrote this piece last year (2012), after attending and helping out at WAREHOUSE SHABBAT
I’ve
been thinking a lot lately about standing at Sinai. As Shavuot
approaches, I am reminded of the notion that we all stood at Sinai
together as we received Torah from God. You were there, and you were
there, and you too. You were standing right next to me as we got
those sacred instructions. Don’t you remember? It was a very long
time ago. Sometimes I have a hard time remembering we were all there
together, too.
I
also have a really hard time learning how to really bring in Shabbat.
It’s not that I don’t make time for it – quite the opposite.
I’m a rabbi. I celebrate Shabbat (almost) every week. But, I’m
often so concerned with the details and orchestration of the service
I’m leading that I don’t ever truly let myself go and relax and
feel all the things that I like to help others feel. I espouse peace
and rest and worship, but the truth is that I am working. And while
I love the work that I do, it’s hard for me to find moments of
holiness, of connection, of true release. Just because I’m a rabbi,
it doesn’t mean that spiritual enlightenment comes any easier for
me.
A
few weeks ago, I offered to step in and help my friends run Warehouse
Shabbat. I was familiar with the service after seeing it a few
months ago at a convention, but I was eager to see it in its natural
habitat – a hip lower east side bar on a Friday night filled with
young Jews. The food was delicious. The drinks were great. The
crowd was really a fun group and the band sounded awesome. But I was
there to work. I tucked myself back into the sound booth with Billy
(the sound guy!) and focused on the laptop in front of me, prepared
not to miss a stitch with the slides, videos, and supplemental images
and prayers I was about to help conjure up.
And
then, something incredible happened. I let go. We began singing the
Shema, slowly and quietly. No instruments, just our voices. It felt
singular. I was scared of it, at first, but this feeling washed over
me until I was completely consumed. We continued singing, chanting
almost, a mantra of our people. And the voices around me exploded.
The instruments layered their sound with ours. I was transformed. I
stood there, in the sound booth, eyes closed, body swaying, and I was
no longer there. I was standing at Sinai and so were the people
around me. They always had been. I just couldn’t remember it until
at that moment when I was lifted up and struck. Our voices were like
a chord that penetrated history, penetrated time and space and place,
penetrated our very being. It didn’t matter that I didn’t really
know these people in the bar around me. I did know them. In that
moment, we connected, we took our places once again at Sinai and
together we received Torah. Our voices were one.
And
then, it was over, almost as quickly as it came on. I sat down, and
I played the next video.
But
something about that moment changed me. It renewed me. It taught me.
Community is everywhere and accessible all the time. We just need to
open our eyes and our ears to the people around us. Judaism also
surrounds us, in every moment. We just need the right tools to
access it. Music, prayer, intention. But we also need to not get so
wrapped up in always trying to make it happen. Sometimes, we just
need to let go. Sometimes we cannot be afraid of letting go.
Sometimes, we cannot worry about where we are, or who we are with, or
what we are doing – we just have to be open to what we are given
and the experience before us.
I
might have been singing Shema in the sound booth that night, but I
will always feel as though I was REALLY standing at Sinai, opening up
my heart and my eyes and my ears to God and to the Jewish people. It
might have started with my voice, but your voice was there, and yours
too, and even yours. I remember now. I remember.
Friday, May 10, 2013
A question of moral responsibitlity
Often times, the greatest questions of morality and character do not reflect how to achieve happiness or whether something is definitively right or wrong. Rather, the challenge comes from our moral responsibility to care for others, to care for our cherished but broken world, and how to partner with God in continuing the daily renewed work of creation. The Jewish tradition teaches that even the poorest among us is capable of giving to others - whether through time, action, or intention. In that way, we understand that we are all privileged and imbued with a spirit that is capable of giving. Moreover, it is is our moral and ethical responsibility, as privileged human beings of God's world, to share in that responsibility to promote equality, to advocate for social justice, and to mend our world. As it states in Deuteronomy 15:7-8, "If among you one of your fellow humans should become poor, in any of the towns of the land which Adonai your God gave to you, you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against them, but you shall open your hard and give them what is needed, whatever it may be."
As religious and spiritual beings, it is not enough it simply pray for good and expect it to come. We must be continuously committed to the hard and, often, difficult work of speaking up and speaking out and taking action so that all of God's children can live in harmony in our world. Then, and only then, will it be possible to think about calling this place Eden, once again.
As religious and spiritual beings, it is not enough it simply pray for good and expect it to come. We must be continuously committed to the hard and, often, difficult work of speaking up and speaking out and taking action so that all of God's children can live in harmony in our world. Then, and only then, will it be possible to think about calling this place Eden, once again.
Friday, April 26, 2013
What drives you to do Social Justice? Reflections from the Brickner Rabbinic Program
The question was so simple. “What drives you to do social justice?”
But the answer was so complex and varied. The themes were similar:
family role models, personal experiences of injustice, a sense of
responsibility and moral obligation. But each one of us had a story to
tell, a piece to uncover, a truth to reveal. After 15 months of knowing
the people in the room with me, I realized that maybe I didn’t really
know them that well at all. And all it takes, to really get to know a
person, is to ask a simple question and let their story unfold.
I just returned from the Religious Action Center’s Consultation on Conscience. As a 2012-2013 Brickner Rabbinic Fellow, this was the culminating event to months of study, prayer, and exploration on social advocacy, as it pertains to being a rabbi. But it was more than that. It was the culmination of months of being in relationship with a great group that helped me realize what it means to be passionate about social justice, to rely on one another professionally to help better our world, and to live with holy intention in the work that we do.
And yet, there was something so powerful, so organically raw and moving in the room as we closed out our final moments together as a group. Rabbi Steve Fox, Chief Executive of the CCAR, invited us to reflect for a moment. In most cases, you would expect us to reflect back on the last 15 months and the experiences shared in the program. But we didn’t do that. We did something much more sacred, much more meaningful and much more useful. We shared words with one another about our own personal journeys and lives in relation to changing, healing, and helping our broken world. It had all the potential to go wrong and be self-serving and egotistical. But it wasn’t. It was beautiful. In that moment, our group took the trust that had been building in those 15 months and we unleashed our stories – painful, funny, heartfelt – and we crea
ted sacred space to continue connecting our lives with one another.
That moment continued to teach us about social advocacy, about the holiness that comes from hearing and sharing stories and recognizing the beauty of the human spirit and the power of community. Social advocacy is nothing without recognizing that we are all human beings, with complex stories and histories and lives, and that we are all in this world together, trying to create a better world so that all may live with dignity and freedom. But it begins by listening and by sharing.
The question was so very simple. But I am grateful that it was asked. Because with it, I was able to understand what the last 15 months truly were about – making sacred connections so that I can be empowered to continue partnering with God and with my fellow human beings in order to help create a more perfect world through social advocacy, social justice and tikkun olam.
I just returned from the Religious Action Center’s Consultation on Conscience. As a 2012-2013 Brickner Rabbinic Fellow, this was the culminating event to months of study, prayer, and exploration on social advocacy, as it pertains to being a rabbi. But it was more than that. It was the culmination of months of being in relationship with a great group that helped me realize what it means to be passionate about social justice, to rely on one another professionally to help better our world, and to live with holy intention in the work that we do.
And yet, there was something so powerful, so organically raw and moving in the room as we closed out our final moments together as a group. Rabbi Steve Fox, Chief Executive of the CCAR, invited us to reflect for a moment. In most cases, you would expect us to reflect back on the last 15 months and the experiences shared in the program. But we didn’t do that. We did something much more sacred, much more meaningful and much more useful. We shared words with one another about our own personal journeys and lives in relation to changing, healing, and helping our broken world. It had all the potential to go wrong and be self-serving and egotistical. But it wasn’t. It was beautiful. In that moment, our group took the trust that had been building in those 15 months and we unleashed our stories – painful, funny, heartfelt – and we crea
ted sacred space to continue connecting our lives with one another.
That moment continued to teach us about social advocacy, about the holiness that comes from hearing and sharing stories and recognizing the beauty of the human spirit and the power of community. Social advocacy is nothing without recognizing that we are all human beings, with complex stories and histories and lives, and that we are all in this world together, trying to create a better world so that all may live with dignity and freedom. But it begins by listening and by sharing.
The question was so very simple. But I am grateful that it was asked. Because with it, I was able to understand what the last 15 months truly were about – making sacred connections so that I can be empowered to continue partnering with God and with my fellow human beings in order to help create a more perfect world through social advocacy, social justice and tikkun olam.
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