Category: filial responsibility

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. 

Grandpa’s Magic Marshmallows

 

When we went to grandma and grandpa’s house to visit, some things stood out. Among them was a giant breakfront that contained the unique items they had collected over the years. I remember the porcelain figurines on display, delicate and colorful, gracing the shelves just behind the beautiful curved glass. But there was something even more extraordinary; it was a secret that only my grandpa knew. He would call us over and open the top right drawer and withdraw a box of campfire marshmallows. The box had eight marshmallows, so my brother Jeff and I always enjoyed the special treat and even got seconds.

As I got older, I got a bit bolder, and the allure of those marshmallows was too great. So, I decided to sneak over to that drawer and get a marshmallow for myself. I waited for the appropriate time and stealthily made my move to the treasure chest. I opened the drawer, but the marshmallows were not there. I was crestfallen. I was sure grandpa put the box back in the drawer. But like magic, they disappeared. What was amazing to me was that the same thing happened the next time.   Grandpa produced the box of marshmallows and put the remaining ones away, but they disappeared when I went back to look. It was truly magic.

I never did ask my grandfather about the magic disappearing marshmallow trick. But now that I am about as old as he was when he performed that trick, I think I figured out how he did it. I hope that someday I will be given the gift of performing that same magic trick for my grandchild. For, the breakfront now sits in my study. I have replaced the porcelains with special books and mementos, including a picture of my grandparents on their 50th wedding anniversary. It is magical.

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.

 

 

To Mom, Zichronah Livracha- a toast with Chocolate Milk

A small gathering of family said goodbye to the matriarch this past Sunday.  Adult children and wives, adult grandchildren, and a “bun in the oven.”  I was asked to officiate because that is what the family believed mom would have wanted.  They and their mother understood themselves in a humanist way, but they believed it was the appropriate honor for mom- to bury her Jewishly.  The boys never had a chance to have this conversation with her as she had dementia that ravaged her by the end.

I did my best to honor her and those who were trying to honor their mother by weaving rituals with stories that each family member was eager to share and reluctant to stop.  This beautiful family time ended by raising a glass of chocolate milk, mom’s favorite drink, toasting her life and the family that is her legacy.

As I was preparing to leave, the sons presented me with the replica Torah Scrolls given to each of them by the rabbi from their Bar Mitzvah.  They found them among the few possessions mom brought with her to the care facility.

May her life be for a blessing.

Do we Deserve our Kids?

Our tradition speaks at great lengths about filial obligations, the responsibilities of children to honor and revere their parents. Likewise, much is written about our obligations as parents to raise children properly, to teach them, and to prepare them for the world. But do we teach them Torah when we do not live it our selves? We do not teach them to build a better world but instead how to selfishly survive in it.

We offer them a world based on material gain, our nation withdrawing from its predominant place in the world, communal strife, a political system challenging the legitimacy of its fundamental institutions, and an economy that will burden them with almost intolerable crushing debt. We have not built a better world for them. And yet, these young people have galvanized in the wake of the Parkland horror. And that gives me hope. For even though we have not done right by them, they seek changes that will benefit us all.

Do we deserve our kids? That remains an open question until we begin to act as though they truly are the most prized things in our lives. We can start by supporting them in their efforts to address gun violence, this grievous wrong in our society that has murdered so many of them. Support them as they raise their voices, join them as they march in March. Help make the world they inherit better than what we have now.