Jacob's Dream . . . and Mine

(This post originally appeared in Fresh Day - https://readymag.com/mwm/663887/6/)

It was almost thirty years ago that my colleague and teacher, Rabbi Harry Danizger, of Memphis, with a casual comment, taught me a lesson which remains with me to this day. 

We were chatting about his mother’s recent death and the work of cleaning out her apartment. He quipped, “You know, Eric, we rabbis see everything midrashically.” (Midrash is a form of interpretation developed by the early Rabbis for interpreting Scripture, and even everyday events.) From Harry’s words three decades ago I have found abundant inspiration for sermons and other teachings, not only in the sacred texts of Jewish tradition, but also in the world around me.

Some years later I was dining in a restaurant in Great Barrington, MA, where I spotted a wall festooned with bumper stickers with pithy phrases, and some of historical interest. One bumper sticker caught my eye. It read, “Remember who you wanted to be.” 

A few weeks later, on a summer road trip with my eldest son, I spotted that same bumper sticker on a car in front of me. Rabbi Harry Danziger’s words came rushing back to me. The “coincidence (?!?)” of sighting that bumper sticker twice in a short period of time stuck with me, and that phrase went on to become the cornerstone of my Yom Kippur eve sermon to our congregation just weeks later. 

On the holiest day of our Jewish year, I thought it an appropriate message for a period of introspection and repentance. I even bought hundreds of the bumper stickers to distribute to anyone who wanted one. There’s one on the door of my study at the synagogue, and I still spot some in our parking lot from time to time. “Remember who you wanted to be.” Those words have been marinating in my soul for a long time. 

In this past week’s Torah reading from the book of Genesis, we read of our patriarch Jacob’s flight from his family’s home after he has stolen his slightly-older brother Esau’s blessing as the firstborn son. On the first night of his journey to Uncle Laban in Haran, he spends the night in an as-yet unnamed place where, taking a rock for a pillow, he falls asleep. We can only imagine what must have been churning in Jacob’s subconscious. His dream has been the focus of much commentary, art, and debate for millennia. In Genesis 28:12 we read, “He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground and its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down on it.” The dream, and God’s message to Jacob in his dreams startles the frightened young man. “Surely God is in this place, and I did not know!” he proclaims.

There are times in our lives when each of us is startled, awakened, challenged to refocus. For me, this year, Jacob’s dream speaks to me the words of that bumper sticker – “Remember who you always wanted to be.” It brought to mind words I spoke in 1977 to the admissions committee for the Rabbinic studies program at the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, “I passionately want to be a rabbi. I likely will work with youth, or in one of our Jewish educational summer camps, or perhaps on a college campus.” I stated, “I will never serve as a congregational rabbi!” Almost thirty-six years have passed on this rabbinic journey of mine. The only position I have held is as a congregational rabbi. 

Over recent months, “Remember who you always wanted to be” has brought that declaration back to my consciousness. I’m not certain of my journey, certainly not any more than Jacob could have been as he set out from his parent’s home for Haran. In late October I informed the leadership of my congregation, where I have served since the summer of 1999, that I wish to step down as Senior Rabbi. 

In part, I think that bumper sticker’s message, and those dreams of long ago are calling me. I find myself wondering about the final active chapter of this rabbinic career. Like Father Jacob I have decided to set out. (In my case I’m not physically going anywhere as we intend to stay in Boston, and my congregation has graciously asked me to become Rabbi Emeritus.) However, for whatever years remain in my active rabbinate, I’m searching for a new, non-congregational path to serving my people and our broader community. I’m hoping it’s not a fool’s errand. I’m trusting that “God is in this place.” I’m simply listening for a different way to respond to God’s call.

Life is What Happens . . .

This was a chaotic summer. I am not reflecting on the political campaign, which is to be sure, chaotic and cacophonous. I’m not talking about Major League Baseball where I’ve watched my beloved Boston Red Sox tumble in and out of the lead in the American League’s busy and tight Eastern division. And I am not referring to world events.  For our family, this was a chaotic summer as my father-in-law, Irving Kizner, who has been a fixture in my life for over thirty years suffered, at first a pre-stroke, followed by a full-blown stroke. After six weeks of medical care, rehabilitation, and finally hospice care, he breathed his last and our family gathered to honor a beloved father, father-in-law, uncle and grandfather. Interruptions to plans and routine were de rigueur this summer.

One intention I’d set this summer, to start and regularly update this new blog, fell off the radar for more weeks than I’d hoped. But there were a number of things I’d set as intentions for my summer that went by the wayside.  This reality brought to mind a lyric from a John Lennon song, which appeared on the last album released before his death, Beautiful Boy.  The song, which I have always loved, was written for Lennon’s only son with wife Yoko Ono, Sean. In it, Lennon, who had an amazing gift with lyrics wrote, “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.” I have often repeated those words when my plans have not worked out quite according to my intentions.  I’m certain I am not alone.

Indeed, there ae many things that happen along the way in our lives, wherein we do find our carefully considered plans are not playing out according to the script we’ve devised.  Life, and external realities take over and we busily make course corrections. It’s a part of all of our family lives. We experience in our work, and truthfully, in virtually every realm in which we live our lives.

As the members of our family and I spend these days, some three weeks after Irv’s death, trying to return to routine and normal, I find that the six weeks of Irv’s illness, hospitalization, and ultimately his path towards death have made me more reflective. The death of a close family member, or friend, a loved one, more than just about anything other disruption can, and should, give us pause.  Indeed, facing the finitude that is ultimately the reality of our human existence is important.

Sure, I'd planned on writing more about my visit in Berlin where I was learning about the courageous and sacred work of IsraAid (a trip that was also cut short by this summer’s reality.)  And I will get back to that promised “part 2.”  Indeed, the interruption and the reality of this summer may have played a useful role in pushing me to reflect even more deeply and in ways I might not have, if I’d simply plowed ahead and written on my initial schedule.

As Jews, we are in the month of Elul, which is our annual time of spiritual reflection and examination of our lives as we prepare for our Yamim Noraim, our High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) and Yom Kippur (our Day of Atonement) along with the other festivals which round out our fall roster of holy days and festivals.  This is already a season of introspection.  Perhaps this summer thrust me into an early reflective mode, with Irv’s illness and ultimately his death.

It certainly has made me aware in a renewed sense of the precious gift of live and loved ones.  It has forced me, much as the coming Holy Days do each year, to reflect and intentionally set course corrections for my life in the year ahead.

Routine is settling.  I’m back to planning for the Holy Days.  And even writing these words feels good as a return to my intention to solidify a writing practice.

As for the promised part 2 about my visit in Berlin, soon!

An Uncertain Journey - part 1

I approached my trip to Berlin with a mélange of emotions. I was uncertain how I would feel about being in Germany. I was curious how I would feel walking the streets of a city that holds so much dark baggage for the Jewish people. I was curious to explore a place entirely new to me. And I was eager to join rabbinic colleagues in learning about the Syrian refuge crisis from those on the frontline of addressing that crisis in Berlin. While my trip was unexpectedly shortened, the few days I spent in Germany were eye-opening in a number of ways. In my next few posts I will explore some of these, starting with an initial impression from my first visit in Berlin.

Taking advantage of a better airfare, I arrived in Berlin with a day-and-a-half to explore prior to start of our Rabbinic mission. Several years ago, I was introduced to the work of Rick Steves, his guidebooks, blogs, TV show, and for my purpose, his free downloadable podcast walking tours! Having used his resources in other cities, I set out to explore Berlin with his informative, and entertaining company. I spent some 6 or so hours walking around the city, exploring important sites, and getting a decent overview of Berlin.

I’ll not bore you with details. Rather, I begin with a profound impression which, with a week’s distance, I’ve been able to sort through more fully. I’ve often heard from other Jewish visitors to Germany that they found themselves looking at the people on the streets, wondering where they might have been, and what they have been doing during World War II. This only crossed my mind in retrospect. I was struck by the number of times I came face-to-face with monuments, memorials and exhibitions in which Germany accepts responsibility for the darkness of its actions in the 20th century.

Nowhere was this more in evidence than at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. As Rick Steves explains, in naming the site as being dedicated to “the Murdered Jews of Europe,” Germany chose to own its actions, and responsibility for those actions, by naming the crime committed by nation and her people during the years leading up and during the War.white-washed at this memorial. At Berlin’s Topography of Terror Memorial and Museum, I witnessed acceptance of the crimes against other groups, also targeted by the Third Reich. These were but two of the many sites at which I found myself noting the openness and directness with which Germany seems to have chosen to deal with the ugly and horrific stains on its past.

 

Even more powerful, as our Rabbinic mission began, it seemed to me that the response to the current refugee crisis cannot be wholly detached from Germany’s crimes in the 20th century. It struck me, and many of my colleagues, that the open embrace and efforts at rescuing these 21st century refugees, fleeing persecution and certain death in their native homeland, must to some degree be viewed against the backdrop of Germany’s crimes against humanity some seven decades ago.

To be sure, the response to the refugee crisis in complicated. It is viewed in different ways across German society. Yet, the juxtaposition of memorials and sites recounting Germany’s horrific policies and deeds in the 1930’s and 40’s seemed to me, to reflect a measure of national self-awareness and an attempt to learn from the country’s past. One case in point as a remaining section of the Berlin Wall, on the back of which is displaying a graphic and haunting photo-essay of the current conflict in Syria which tells the stories of many of refugees now seeking asylum in Germany. Reading the refugees’ stories, and visiting the memorials I could not help but reflect on what I was seeing against the backdrop of what is unfolding across our country. My abbreviated time in Berlin, the sites I saw and the stories I heard gave me pause to wonder whether, as Americans, we have learned sufficiently from our own past?

More about the relief efforts and the response of Germans will follow in part 2.

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The Power of Words

Bereishit bara Elohim . . . so begins Torah. "In the beginning God created . . ." This first story in Torah revolves around the notion of Creation by fiat - God speaks, and Creation happens. From the very beginning of Torah Jewish tradition teaches us of the power of words.

This theme of the power of words is ever-present throughout Jewish tradition. God's ongoing speech to human beings. Abraham, Moses, the prophets of ancient Israel . . . and down through Rabbinic tradition and into contemporary teachings. Other traditions also place emphasis on the power of words. As children we are taught, "stick and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt me." Our faith traditions would beg to differ. So would many of us!

This year's Presidential contest is surely the ugliest I can remember in my life as a voter. I've witnessed enough to understand that politics involves ugliness, half-truths, and verbal feints. This year however, we are witness to something beyond the usual political fare of questionable claims and doubtful promises. In today's media we find columns devoted to tracking the truth, or falsehoods of our candidates. They are rated: by a number of “Pinocchio noses;” levels of “pants-on-fire,” and so it goes. Both the Republican and Democratic nominees have challenged relationships with truth and directness. This is not new in Presidential politics.

But this year, we are relearning the Torah's ancient lesson about the power of words with new twists. Yes, both Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump can be accused by the detractors of misusing the power of words in some fashion. But in my eyes and ears, and especially in my kishkes (guts), only Donald Trump raises the stakes of the power of words to a dangerous level.

The medieval Jewish philosopher Yehuda HaLevi (Spain, 1086-1145) taught that humans, like other creatures we are chai - "living beings." Yet HaLevi taught that we are something more. We are chai m'dabeyr - "living beings who speak," by which he really means that we are beings capable of rational thought. We are not only capable of rational thought in connection with our speech. We are commanded to speak responsibly. Rabbinic literature and Hasidic tales, indeed, every phase of our Jewish canon contains aphorisms and stories meant to teach us about the power of our words.

The list of Mr. Trump's abuse of words, and the platform he has gained from which to speak those words is truly frightening. Whether it is calling for a heckler in his crowd to be physically harmed; his misogynist language as regards women, and minorities; his outright lies; or even this week's suggestive comments in regard to the Second amendment and how Hillary Clinton or even judges might need to be “taken care of” have pushed the limits. He is out-of-bounds, and if we, in the name of partisan political affiliations allow him to continue, I fear where his irresponsible rantings may lead us. New York Times columnist, Tom Friedman connects what we are witnessing to the political climate in Israel leading up to the assassination of former Israeli Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin. I am grateful for that particular Friedman' column. As had many friends and colleagues, that thought crossed my mind long before this week's Times' column.

We are living in highly polarized, tense, contentious times. We have already been witness to too much violence in our cities and on our streets. How much longer will we allow Donald Trump to spew his venomous and flammable verbiage? Will we wait until someone actually takes him "at his word" and lights the match that will set our country ablaze?

Now is the time for our leaders in our nation's capital, from both sides of the aisle to lead us out of the shadow of this dangerous volcano of Trump's egotistical, hate-filled, divisive, and dangerous proclamations. If we don't act soon, we will only have ourselves to blame. 

Much is broken in our nation. Much needs fixing. Let's start with this campaign, and then join together to find a path out of the morass in which so many feel we live.