Category: sacred aging

We are of a particular generation, us boomers.

Our cohort is thinning.  We watch as icons, friends, and family of our generation die. So many of us have already lost our parents, and our grandparents have been consigned to our memories for years.

generations
PHOTOGRAPH BY SAPPINGTON TODD—GETTY IMAGES/BLOOMIMAGE RF

It is a natural process but a sobering one.  Our days may still be many, but the time ahead of us is far shorter than the time we have already lived.

We are of a particular generation, us boomers. We who live on reflect on our mortality and what our lives will mean to those who will continue after we are gone.

A friend of mine used to joke that he read the obituary first thing in the paper, and if he didn’t see his name, he knew it would be a good day.  Gallows humor perhaps, but now is the time to ensure the gift that is the remainder of our lives is lived well.  What do we have yet to accomplish?  Have we been faithful to our ideals, and what amends must we make for the times we did not?

What will we leave behind to those we love?  Will they remember us as unique parts of their lives, filled with experiences of beautiful times together?  Now is the time to reach out to them and make our time together memorable- it is a gift for us both.

 

Did I Make a Difference?

Parshat Devarim

Did I make a difference?
This timeless question is in Moses’ heart as Devarim, the first parsha of Deuteronomy, as he recounts the trials and tribulations from Egypt to the edge of the Promised Land.
He has led the people faithfully, but the old generation is gone. Moses prepares for his death, Joshua is appointed the new leader and a new generation of people formed and steeled in the crucible of the Midbar prepares to move forward, leaving Moses behind.
Moses’ recollections are slightly different than what we read as things occurred along the journey. Despite pushback from the people and God, he places himself in the spotlight as the true champion in every circumstance.
Elie Weisel suggests, “Some stories are true that never happened.” Indeed, memories often are the recalling of experiences based on the values that helped us understand those experiences and shaped us.
It has been an often-fraught relationship, with the people wanting to rebel and turn back, factions acting out against Moses and Moses saving the people from God’s wrath. Moses recounts things through the filter of his memory and the desire to be remembered for his accomplishments as the person who brought B’nei Israel into nationhood and to the Promised Land, following God’s direction. But now, it is Joshua’s turn as God’s chosen successor.
We sense the tension in the transition as Moses recounts the extraordinary experiences thus far under his tutelage. Although we consider Moses most humble, even he needs to see that his time has meaning, his life was for a purpose and the people he served appreciate all he has done.
We are on the verge of a new chapter. At the edge of the Promised Land, the needs are different. New and fresh leadership is required to meet the new tests, the challenges of a new generation and the new enterprise of taking the land and dwelling in it. But this transition is often abrupt and dismissive, without the respect the elders have earned.
Can we elevate the process by offering sincere gratitude and recognizing this as a “shehecheyanu” moment? Can we maintain a respectful place for those soon-to-be former leaders as curators of wisdom and institutional memory? This kind of transition is a process, not a moment. And the lessons of the Torah are timely. Change a name and the setting, and we are talking about us.
The pandemic accelerated many changes already underway in our culture and society. Legacy institutions have struggled with membership and age; leaders are finding they do not speak a language that resonates with the next generation to engage them successfully; identity is more fluid than ever.
For many clergy leaders, the time has come to leave the pulpit and make way for the new group of leaders. Can we find ways to usher this change along, honoring the past while looking to the future? I suggest that although the methods may differ, the Torah’s enduring values remain constant.
We will lose much if we cannot embrace the old while turning toward the new. It is about giving our people both roots and wings, to liken it to parenting.
It validates who we as parents are, the nurturers and teachers. The values they learn are the values we taught. The ability to find meaning is grounded in the world in which we raised them. This is a moment of extraordinary challenge, and the opportunities are practically unlimited. We brought them along on this remarkable journey to this particular point.
Now they, the next generation, must move forward, leaving us behind, but carrying us in their hearts and minds. This is the underlying message of the phrase, Zichronam Livracha, may their memories be for a blessing.
May we live our lives to bring honor to a tradition grounded in morals and ethics and understand that we live in service to something greater. And may the next generation honor us by doing the same.
This piece was originally published by the Jewish Exponent. 

Anything worth saying can be said in under two minutes

Anything worth saying can be said in under two minutes.

My grandfather used to say that any conversation can be reduced to something compelling and short and delivered in two minutes or less. He practiced this with his telephone conversations. Grandpa would regularly call each of his grandchildren to say hello. He would call and start to chat, asking how we were, what was new, and then he would close by saying that he was just checking in, and he looked forward to talking again soon—all of it in under two minutes, including responses.

I marveled at how this could happen; there were a series of questions, each followed by a response.  And yet, it always seems to last for only a couple of minutes.

As I got older, I began to understand more about what was going on in these conversations. Initially, I thought it was about the expense of the telephone, for my grandfather was of the generation where the landline was an expensive proposition. AT&T, the only phone company,  charged based on the distance and phone-call time. That predates most of us, the generation with cell phones instantly able to communicate anywhere in the world for however long we would like for one set fee per month. How times have changed, but I digress

A bit later, I learned that there was something else going on. My grandfather was getting increasingly hard of hearing, making conversations on the phone without special devices like hearing aids much more difficult. But the impossible didn’t stop grandpa. He continued to make the phone calls long after his hearing stopped working, and even the hearing aids were ineffective. It was then I realized my grandfather was reaching out to keep in touch. He was interested in remaining connected to each of us and for us to know that he was interested in them.

As I listened to our conversations more closely, I realized that there wasn’t a conversation at all. Grandpa asked a question waited for what seemed to be a long enough time for a grandchild to respond. Then he moved on to ask the next question, again waiting for the appropriate amount of time for the response and so on until we reached the end of the “conversation,” at which time he would say how nice it was to speak, and he’s looking forward to speaking again soon.

Although Grandpa did not hear our responses, he knew if something significant had happened, good or bad, he would hear about it through other channels- particularly my dad, his son. Not hearing anything momentous from dad meant grandpa could have our conversation without worrying he would miss something.

I began to understand, albeit only in much later life, what grandpa was teaching me was what it meant to care and how important caring is.    The particulars of the conversations were unimportant, except for a grandson to know that his grandpa loved him and thought of him all the time — all in two minutes.

 

What is the right way to mourn?

In Judaism, it is pretty straightforward.  We have a series of rituals and traditions that serve to guide us.  But the answer is more nuanced depending in considerable measure on who you are and the relationship to the deceased.

Judaism compels us to “do the right thing.” It is one of our tradition’s great insights. Doing what we are supposed to do is affirming the bereaved’s humanity and sense of ethics.  Even if the relationship was fraught, Judaism provides the ability to rise above circumstances instead of becoming a victim to circumstances.

In this week’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah, we read that when Sarah died, Abraham wept (Genesis 23:2).  But as is the case with Torah, there is more here than the words of the verse.  The Torah has one of the letters of the Hebrew word for wept, livkotah, the kaf, printed physically smaller than the other letters.  Our sages saw this as purposeful and concluded that this indicated that Abraham cried only a little.  Why would Abraham not weep fully?

Perhaps he was overcome by guilt, bearing responsibility for her death.  Midrashim tell of Sarah dying of a broken heart when she learns Abraham took their precious son Isaac and sacrificed to God on Mount Moriah.  And to further compound things, Abraham knows in his heart that he would do the same thing again to prove his loyalty to God.

There are many reasons why we are unable to be fully present when we experience loss.

For example, Abraham negotiated for the burial cave and immediately focused on sending his servant to find a wife for Isaac.  Most of us have experience with people focusing on funeral planning as a means of diversion from confronting the pain of loss.  And many people experience complicated grief or ambivalence over the death of someone ostensibly close.

Our tradition offers us a roadmap of sorts when for the process of death and grief.  My teacher Rabbi Dr. Michael Chernick wrote that we have obligations and responsibilities as the surviving loved one.  Whether we loved them or even liked them, whether they were good to us or not, for our own sake, we need to do certain things on behalf of those who die. So we learned that despite Abraham’s weeping, or lack thereof, he purchased the cave at Machpelah and buried Sarah there.

As a rabbi, I am often asked how do I bury my loved one correctly?  The fact that someone would ask means that, on some level, they already are.  Together we can explore ways to help them.

But that is different from dictating what to do or how to feel.  We have a framework.  The task is to understand how our tradition can provide the honor of the deceased and comfort for the bereaved.

Recently, two adult children asked me to officiate the unveiling for their father.  Then they changed their minds, cavalierly saying that as only a couple of prayers need to be spoken, they could do it without the expense of a rabbi in attendance.  Besides, he (their father) never would have won father of the year.

As I listened, I knew that they would honor their father, but I also knew they were about to miss out on that crucial second piece of our tradition’s wisdom, finding their comfort.  We spent some time talking as I was wearing my chaplain’s kippah.  But I didn’t press.  I hoped they might process the unveiling and the loss in a constructive way and bring them comfort and healing.

How do you process complicated grief?  Abraham demonstrates that the question has been around for a long time. So may we find comfort in our memories of those deceased as we embrace the idea that they may be for us a blessing.

 

 

Chayei Sarah-Life lessons for us all

“And the life of Sarah was 100 years and twenty years and seven years, the years of the life of Sarah”.

It would be easier to say she died at the age of 127.  But we would miss an important message.  The text seems to ask us to examine Sarah’s life, not that it was over, but that it was lived- there were distinct phases to her life, each of which is worth examining and celebrating and using as a guide for us to navigate our lives.

Parshah Chayei Sarah goes on to share the story of her death and burial.  But the opening is a peek into the life of an extraordinary person, our Matriarch.

We also have distinct phases in our lives.  For example, each of us has a childhood, young adulthood, and that period known as middle-age.  But each of us is unique.  Sarah’s three phases are written at the end of her life.  So, we look back and see how her story unfolded and the legacy she leaves for the generations to come.  There is another implication to this as well; we can start a new chapter in our lives.  It takes courage to change course midstream deliberately, but it can be done.  We are not bound to follow a path. We can make changes that will bring more profound meaning and connection.  Some changes are subtle, some are more radical, perhaps not as drastic as Sarah giving birth at 90, but radical none-the-less.

We can look forward to what might be rather than only looking back at what was.  Sarah scoffed at the idea of becoming a mother at her age.  But she was a protective nurturer of the next leader of our people, her son Isaac.  The future possibilities seemed incredible when they were presented, but it became her reality.  So too, with us.  May we have the courage to reach beyond what is easily within our grasp, and perhaps we also will realize what had only been a dream and make it real.

BaMidbar-In the Desert and Everywhere, Everyone counts

As social beings we seek relationships as a way of making meaning. We need to connect to other people’s lives, believing we have something to contribute, and through this validating our own self. We want to count. Each of us is busy, absorbed in our own world with scarce time to think of others. We often find ourselves shunted aside, neglected or forgotten, not because of anything malicious, but because each of us become so focused on the day to day challenges, we forget to reach out and are often left feeling alone. This can be discouraging and even make us doubt our own value. This week’s Torah portion BaMidbar reminds us however, that indeed we are important.

This first chapter of the book of Numbers has the Israelites out wandering in the desert, in the Midbar. But translating the word as desert is deceptive. We picture a desert as a vast place, devoid of life, empty, and forbidding. But the desert is actually a place teeming with life, a place of overwhelming beauty, and an awesome night sky filled with countless stars. It is the place where the children descended from Israel/Jacob become the People/nation of Israel. The Children of Israel are forged in this harsh climate, and preparing to enter the Promised Land. It is a time of growing where everyone is needed to build the nation. Everyone counts.

The idea that everyone counts is so important that God instructs Moses to conduct a census. God appoints leaders of each clan to do help in this important work of accounting for everyone so the greater task of building the nation can occur. As it says in Numbers 1:19, “As the Lord commanded Moses, so did he count them in the Sinai desert.” The desert is a place of accounting, revelation and building, and revealing that each of us has a critical role to play. At this time, nothing is of greater importance.

Even the word BaMidbar speaks to our significance and meaning. The word shares the same letters as the word for speaking or speaker, Midaber. The word BaMidbar that we translate as “in the desert,” could be, “ in the speaking”, or “in the speaker.” Each person has an important contribution to make to the whole. It was true in the Sinai, also it is also true now. The desert is far more than what it might seem on the surface. The Torah portion shares that the Midbar is an extraordinary place of discovery- finding our place, finding our purpose, and finding our connection to things greater than ourselves, our family and our people. BaMidbar teaches that I am worthy of being counted- that I do count!

Each of us counts. Each of us has something worthwhile to say and something important to give. Our life experiences have created a wealth of knowledge and wisdom. We are teachers and caregivers, learning, practicing, educating, and demonstrating what it means to be human, what it means to make meaning in the lives of others and in our own lives as well. That makes each of us significant.

Each of us counts.

A Passport- a gateway and a journey

I just received my new passport. The old one was expiring and I dutifully followed the instructions, got a new picture, completed the DS-82 form, mailed it and in the mail was the new passport. But I miss the old one.

I got the old one as I prepared to enter a new phase of my life, leaving a 30-year career in business to become a rabbi. Looking back, it has been a fascinating decade chronicled by this small blue book. Stamps representing my trips to and from Israel as a rabbinical student, my trips through the Former Soviet Union celebrating Pesach in Moscow and cities in Siberia, my honeymoon in Italy with Naomi as a newlywed, the trips to Israel as a rabbi, and a wedding in the Dominican Republic, were all documented by this small blue book with worn edges. Each page is a reminder of a very special experience.

I remember the process of obtaining it, completing other forms and taking other pictures that showed a younger version of me with more hair on top of my head and less gray on the face. The book was empty and new. It was literally and figuratively my passport to my future. Each of those stamps represented an amazing journey. Each was memorialized in that precious little book that I scrupulously guarded but whose inside page I copied just in case my best-laid plans to protect it was subverted.

Extraordinary memories of extraordinary experiences are evidenced in my old passport. It serves as a reminder that we continue to grow and each passing day is another page in our life journey. I reflect back on them and see something I learned and perhaps can share with others. My life is enriched and so too is my capacity to teach.

So now I have the new passport. The picture inside is of an older, current version of me. The pages are clean and new. I can only wonder about the adventures and how those pages might be filled over the next decade. The fresh pages beckon with anticipation and promise. I can only hope that when it is time to replace this contemporary passport, it too will worn and maybe tattered, filled with visas and stamps of exciting travels evoking meaningful memories declaring that my continuing life journey remains a rich experience of growth and sharing.