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For Your Shabbat Table

Two Rabbis - One Shul

 

Sound like double trouble?  Over-employment?  The latest synagogue sitcom?  Probably; but Jewish history is never probable. 

 

We started that way.  Moses could not, would not, lead alone; Aaron had to be there.  Moses’ older brother never was quite his associate rabbi.  Aaron was vastly more popular.  He was the nice guy: arbitrator in congregants’ business disputes, mediator in spousal clashes, peacemaker in sisterly spats, and conciliator for anyone with a teenager at home.  Mr. Nice.

Moshe was more the patrician than the paternal.  The teacher, not the counselor; the lawgiver, not the therapist.    Mr. (sorry relativists and wannabe brides) Right.

Moshe embodied truth; Aaron embraced peace.  Truth demands integrity; peace requires compromise.  Torah insists on both, hence a team was needed for the making of a people – not an individual.

 

Moshe rarely enjoyed public support; his method, leadership qualifications, and integrity were regularly challenged, and accusations of nepotism drained him.  Aaron was rarely taken to task, and then only because of his association with you-know-who. 

 

 

The brothers’ dichotomy did not abate with their deaths; the turnout at Aaron’s funeral nearly doubled Moshe’s.  Not surprisingly, it was only upon Moshe’s passing that despair threatened the people.  But while Aaron’s popularity earned him a larger funeral, Moshe’s instruction earned him the role of leader.  Aaron’s passing evoked mourning; Moshe’s passing created a terrifying void.  Like money, you appreciate leadership when you don’t have it. 

 

We need our Aarons and we need our Moshes (including our intra-personal, internal ones).  One without the other is unbalanced.  If we favor the peace over truth because peace doesn’t demand of us and truth does, we’ll get neither.  It might not play well in the sitcoms, but Jewish legacy is not a sitcom.

What Is Your Name?

"Where were you?"  Whether the question is from Mom, the boss, the wife, the husband or the grown children; they are not asking, they are accusing: Why weren't you where you were supposed to be?

 

Your answer is an excuse.  Unless you answer "I've been here the whole time."

 

A shepherd sees a little lamb run off.  The shepherd runs after the lamb: to save it from wolves, to ensure the lamb has enough water and enough tender green grass.

 

While chasing the lamb, he sees a bush on fire, but it isn't burning.  He takes off his shoes in deference.  He is told by he-knows-who to go free the people from Pharaoh.  

 

But they will ask me Your name, what do I say? asks the shepherd.  A bizarre question matched by an equally perplexing answer: tell them my name is I Will Be As I Will Be.   (It is the first recorded conversation between the world's greatest teacher and the world's foremost student.)

 

What is your name?  A name is how we relate; it defines who is speaking to whom.  If you say Dad, Mr. Smith, Dr. Smith or Sonny or Bubba you're not talking about you or them; you are articulating a relationship.  

 

What is your name?  How have you related to these people as Pharaoh threw their sons into the Nile, kidnapped their daughters, bathed in their newborns' blood? Used their children's bodies to fill quotas of unmade bricks?   Where were you?

 

And He answers: Tell them I Will Be As I Will Be.  Where was I?  I was with them the whole time.  When Pharaoh bathed in their babies' blood, it was my blood that was spilled.   When he shoved their tiny limbs into spaces meant for bricks, it was me who was shoved in there.  Everything they endured, I endured.  Everyone who tortured them tortured me.   Imo Anochi betzora I am with them in their suffering.

 

A bush is on fire but it is not consumed.  A nation is threatened with death -- killed time and time again -- but it does not die. 

 

But how does the bush burn without being consumed?  For it is I in the fire.  Just as I live forever, they live with me.  Just as these people live forever, I live with them.    We will get burnt on the way.  We will suffer.  But we will suffer together.  And we will not be consumed.   Alone.  Together.

 

Why though is all this suffering and retelling and reliving of this suffering not melancholy to those who live it and tell it and live it again?  Because it reminds them of the second phase of the words spoken to the barefooted shepherd.  That together we will live, we will leave.  With tangible treasure and unmitigated spirit.

Live With Death; Die With Life

If you want to know what a bureaucracy does, suggests PJ O'Rourke, watch it when it does nothing.  If you want to know what people think about life, watch them when death sticks out his calling card. 
 
Many act like it ain't happening.  They dress the dead in tuxes and ballroom dresses and do the dead's hair and apply them with make-up.   We're here to celebrate a life, they chirp, while the elephant in the room swishes his large head.  
 
They exchange stories of (I'm not making this up) the deceased's delicious flanken and chicken soup (we called them Godzilla balls!)  and they solemnly vow to keep the condo in Boca "because Dad loved the water".  But this ignoring of death is not simply ignorance; this ignoring speaks of a deep, silent fear: a fear of the unknown.  
 
Death does us apart -- and brings us together -- like nothing else can: when else does everyone drop everything to get 'there' in time or at least get there for the funeral?   
 
And if we get there in time, into a room often crowded with illness and always with sorrow, if we are lucky, there are also words, glances: exchanges.   They remain a lifetime with the sons and daughters.  Jacob on his deathbed blessed his children: Rembrandt, captivated by the scene, rendered it on canvas.   
 
Do not bury me in Egypt, Jacob pleads.  And they listen.  Bury me with my parents.  And they listen.  I will tell you the end of days.  They listen but no words come.  I will bless you.  They listen and we echo their hearing.  
 
The Baal Shem Tov was five when his father and mother died in quick succession.  Be afraid of nothing but the Almighty, his father told him, leaving him a legacy of love and sustenance which his son fed to many. 
 
An old woman I knew was diagnosed with cancer and given a few months to live.  She was neither alarmed nor distressed.  I've lived a good life, said she, and I am old.   And I'm happy; my grandchildren didn't speak Yiddish, but my great-grandchildren do.  She was no Sholom Aleichem enthusiast: as a girl she read Emile Zola.  She spoke a more than serviceable English: communication was never a problem.   Nor was there a generation gap:  she knew her grandchildren shared her world.  But you taste the world with your mother tongue and choosing a language (langue means tongue) for your newborn's first taste, shows your love for the culture that bore that language. 
 
It was an intimacy with a particular world that she wanted for her progeny.  That her world, destroyed by Hitler and Stalin, should be the girsa deyankesa, the primal view, of her grandchildren.  Everything we want, we want for our kids.  More than a man's vacations, more than a man's portfolio, if you want to know a man's dreams, if you want to know where he lives, look at what he seeks for his children. 
 
Such is the legacy of the Parsha which speaks of Jacob's death and then Joseph's: incongruously it is called Vayechi- the parsha of life.  Actually, not so incongruously.   
 
Death is a window to a world that the survivors cannot look through. It is a window to the soul of the dying that blinds us with veracity: why else do we affirm the deathbed confession and honor the dying wish?    In the face of finality the charades of life stop. 
 
Death is the moment of truth that only the starkness of separation can elicit. And this moment of truth connects people and worlds.  Death is the ultimate divide -- leaving us abandoned from those crossing over -- that brings us together.   At death, people are their most truthful, their most alive, both the dying and the ones they are leaving.  Suddenly, (often painfully but ultimately comfortingly) everyone stands exposed.   The father dies and (suddenly!) the sixty year old left behind is no longer a child, just an orphan, confused by sudden adulthood.  And in this void, this most living moment, a link in the chain is forged.   
 
The process exhausts us.  Not for nothing does the Parsha end with chazak chazak venitchazek: Be strong, be strong, and be strengthened.

Bonded by Faith

The Communists rose to power when Naphtali, Tolchik to his friends, was young. His father didn't like the smell of it all and told Tolchik to become a shochet: to master the intricate, exacting practice of kosher butchering - the training takes years and the pay is lousy. "Become a shochet," said Tolchik's father, "if you'll be a shochet, you'll stay a Jew." 
 
Tolchik the shochet and his wife raised their children under the Soviets. By the early 1950's all had escaped, most of them with false passports. Except for their grown son Meir and his growing family. 
 
Their other son Berel had escaped with Chana Shneerson, posing as her son. Upon arrival to New York, Berel became a masterful diamond cutter, and (the grey Soviet's silver-lining) maintained his filial status with Chana (he had the keys to her apartment) and developed a warm relationship with her son, the Rebbe of Lubavitch. Tolchik and his wife, together with their daughter, settled in Montreal, his son Dovid was in Antwerp and Tolchik was happy, but for Meir's being held by the Soviets. 
 
There is a custom to receive matzah from one's Rebbe before Passover. Naturally, Berel would be doing so.
"When you receive matzah from the Rebbe," Tolchik told his son Berel, "mention to him your brother Meir." 
"But do not ask for a bracha, a blessing," continued Tolchik, "ask for a havtacha -- ask for the Rebbe's assurance -- that my Meir will make it out alive."
 
Berel never pushed anyone into doing something they did not want to do. And a chassid does not demand of his Rebbe. But Berel never refused his father. 
 
The Rebbe handed matzah to Berel. Berel mentioned his brother Meir and the Rebbe gave his bracha. "My father requests your assurance that Meir will come out."
 
The Rebbe's face grew dark and his hand shook. "Shlep mir nisht beim tzung!" (Don't wrench words out of me that I cannot say) the Rebbe answered with rare sting, and added, "My father-in-law accomplished greater things than this." 
 
Berel saw tears in the Rebbe's eyes begin to fall. The Rebbe gave Berel another piece of matzah. "You will give this to your brother."
 
"My brother Dovid in Belgium?" Berel asked. 
 
"No. Meir. Not necessarily in America but somewhere close by." 
 
A few years later the family got word that Meir had plans to spirit his family across the border with forged passports. He failed. More years passed. Berel held the matzah for his brother. Eighteen years he held onto that matzah: matzah, the Kabala calls it the bread of faith. 
 
Then they heard. Meir is free! With his wife! With his sons! With his daughter! They received visas to Canada (not necessarily America, but close by) and Berel got himself to Montreal just as fast as he could. Berel hadn't seen his brother in over twenty years. He ran towards his brother. His brother ran towards him. He gave his brother the piece of matza. And then they fell into each other's arms. 
 
Berel's story explains Jacob of our parsha. Jacob mourned his lost son Joseph as dead for over twenty years. He finally saw him -- a miracle! - but Jacob did not kiss him; he was saying the Shema. . . a jaw-dropping breach of human emotion. Berel demonstrates that a moment of faith does not separate between long-lost loves. It holds them together.
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