Where There’s a Will – Parshat Toldot 5779

where-theres-a-will.jpg

You know those moments you have when you realize you’re an adult? I had one of those a few years ago when Duncan and I sat in our attorney’s office preparing items like our advanced medical directives, our wishes for our children, and our estate plan. I admit we got a little teary-eyed as we sat there and decided who we’d ask to care for our children if anything should happen. We didn’t get quite as emotional when it came time to decide what to do with our beloved dog Stanley; in fact we laughed a little thinking about how even a dog needs a contingency plan.

We thought about how we might divide up our special pieces of jewelry and made sure that our housing documents were in order. And we had serious discussions with each other about our wishes for end of life. The entire process felt very adult and somewhat terrifying, yet at the same time calming and oddly satisfying. While we can never actually plan for every situation that might arise, I certainly feel like this process gave us peace of mind.

Throughout life we spend a lot of time thinking about “what if” situations, and it’s our forefathers in the Torah who give us the first example of acting and concretizing our plans. This week we read Parshat Toldot, in which Isaac and Rebekah become parents. The pregnancy is not easy, and the twins are anything but calm. Jacob and Esau are very different, and each is feisty in his own way. Esau sells his birthright to Jacob for lentil stew, and Jacob tricks his father into getting the blessing his brother deserves. Esau finds out, and his outrage over the incident causes Jacob to flee for his life. The portion ends with Esau growing up and rebelling against the family in his choice of life partner.

As the drama and chaos occur, we learn about Isaac aging. In chapter 27, verse 2 he says, “I am old now, and I do not know how soon I may die. Take your gear, your quiver and bow, and go out into the open and hunt for me some game.” The text continues as Isaac guides his son to create a meal so that ultimately he can do his final fatherly duty: bestow blessing, share inheritance, and say goodbye.

The Shulchan Aruch, the code of Jewish law, uses the words “I am old now” to teach us that those who tend to the dying must ask them whether they have put their affairs in order. Our modern legal body that guides the Conservative movement, the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards (CJLS), goes further to remind us that in addition to arranging for our assets to be disbursed, we must also take care to provide medical directives and ethical wills for our families.

Besides the memories of a life well lived and loved, the final gift we have to share with loved ones is the gift of planning. Our Torah this week teaches us that the more guidance we can give our loved ones to care for us and know our own wishes, the less stress and chaos we create. If you haven’t yet created a living trust or will, take the time to offer those close to you this gift – not just the gift of the value of the items you’ll leave behind, but more importantly, the gift of compassionate concern for the people who live on after you.

Advertisements

Good Grief – Parshat Chayei Sarah 5779

good-grief.jpg

Do you ever feel completely wiped out? Sometimes I feel so bone tired and knocked down, I could just sleep for hours. Bear in mind I say “hours” and not “days” because I’m a parent of young children who still wake up weekly in the middle of the night, so the luxury of consecutive hours of sleep sounds beautifully restorative. Everything is relative, right? It’s even worse when I’m sick. On days when I’m under the weather, I just want to lie on the couch and not move until the cold is gone.

And then there are weeks like this one when complete devastation knocks me down the hardest. It seems impossible to go on, and yet, somehow we must.

This very week, the Torah happens to teach us how to go on, find courage, and be a blessing. We read from Parshat Chayei Sarah, which makes the transition from one generation to the next. Beginning with Sarah’s death, we learn about Isaac and his courtship with Rebekkah, the list of Abraham’s decedents, and the death of Abraham and his burial at the cave of Machpelah. Through it all the family continues to push their way from experiences of loss and grief into the next chapter of life.

It seems crazy that Abraham, and then Isaac, would be so quick to bury their loved ones. When we experience a loss, the paralyzing emotions we experience are in direct conflict with the pace at which our tradition encourages us to move on. Nevertheless, the Torah instructs us to waste no time in burying the deceased. In chapter 23, verses 3-4 we read, “Then Abraham arose from beside his dead, and spoke to the Hittites, saying, ‘I am a resident alien among you; sell me a burial site among you, that I may remove my dead for burial.’” Even in his deep grief, Abraham does not allow himself to wallow just yet; instead, he rushes to honor his beloved Sarah and give her a proper, timely burial.

As Jews we are commanded to bury our dead quickly. There are many reasons for this, but perhaps the most important is that it actually helps the grieving process. We, the living, must be able to say goodbye and have some closure if we are to fully grieve and move forward. Shiva allows for seven days of direct community support, and saying Kaddish for a year ensures that mourners continue to have indirect support as they keep their loved one close.

Through everything we do in Judaism, we walk yad b’yad (hand in hand), as the name of our grief partnership program here at Neveh Shalom suggests. The reason is simple – it’s so that we never have to experience life, or death, alone. May we strengthen and lift one another up, in happiness and in grief, and may all our lives be a blessing.

Adonai Li V’Lo Irah

tree-of-life.jpg

At 7 a.m. I was snuggled under the covers, playing a cozy game of monster with my sweet two-year-old son. My only worry was that he not wake his sister. We were luxuriating in the peacefulness of Shabbat. At that same moment, a gunman with hate in his heart entered Tree of Life Congregation in Pittsburgh and opened fire, killing at least 11, injuring more, and fracturing a sacred space.

At 10 a.m. my own synagogue began reading from Parshat Vayera, the text which begins with Abraham in his wide open tent, a symbol of welcoming for our people, a proof text for why synagogues keep their doors open to all who want to come in on Shabbat. At the same time, the president of the United States remarked that the synagogue was at fault for having not locked down their campus.

At 12 p.m. we sang Adon Olam, ending with the line, “Adonai li v’lo irah.” God is for me, I shall not fear. The families at Tree of Life didn’t get to sing that affirmation of faith today. These words were hard today. My shul is called Neveh Shalom, “oasis of peace,” and it is this sacred space for my children. How can I have no fear if the very essence of my community feels threatened?

At 1 p.m. I sang my daughter her naptime song, “Lo Yisa Goy.” Nation shall not lift up sword against nation. That is when I cried.

May we see a day in our future when the desire to welcome one and all like Abraham outweighs the urge to cause harm. May the day be near when we can affirm our faith in God who protects while actually feeling protection in all our houses of worship, no matter the faith. May we see the day speedily in our lifetime when we all pursue peace.

Sugar Coated – Parshat Vayera 5779

sugar-coated.png

For some reason keeping comments to myself doesn’t come naturally to me. Do I have a filter? Yes. Do I use it as often as I should? That depends on who you ask. Throughout my life I’ve had to work hard to say the right thing at the right time, or at least keep the snarky and inappropriate thoughts silent. My tone of voice and sometimes biting remarks were a source of great strife as I made my way through my teenage years and young adulthood. Even now I constantly check myself to see if what I’m about to say out loud will be harmful to others, or if there’s a better or nicer way I could say it, or if it really needs to be said at all. I have to use extreme care and caution in picking my words so that the conversation remains productive and not destructive. The old saying, “If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all” is a rule with which I struggle daily.

I know I’m not alone in my cautious selecting of words and tone. In fact, throughout the Torah we receive warnings of the problems that arise when we either don’t choose our words carefully or use our words to destroy. In this week’s parshah, Vayera, we learn this lesson as well. Here’s the recap: Abraham and Sarah contemplate the son that will be born to them in their old age; Sodom and Gomorrah fall as Abraham bargains with God to save Lot’s life; and Isaac is born, causing a rift in Abraham’s house with Ishmael. Abraham moves forward in making a deal with King Avimelech, and we end with the Akeidah, the test of Abraham as God asks that he offer up his son, Isaac.

When Sarah learns of her pregnancy, her first reaction is to laugh, responding, “Now that I am withered, am I to have enjoyment with my husband so old?” She’s telling God there’s no way she can be pregnant because her husband is so old. However, when God recounts the experience to Abraham, God changes her reaction and asks, “Why did Sarah laugh, saying, ‘Shall I in truth bear a child, old as I am?’” Remember, Sarah called Abraham old, not herself, but God changes the harshness of Sarah’s reaction to cushion the blow for Abraham.

This verse is used as the proof text in the Talmud in Tractate Ketubot, where we learn that one is not obligated to tell the whole truth if it will hurt someone’s feelings. Part of being human and engaging in human relationships is the ability to discern what is necessary to share and what might be best “softened” for others. It’s not that we have a free pass to lie, but we do have the obligation to think of other people first and make sure our words and actions come from a place of respect.

You Do You – Parshat Lech Lecha 5779

you-do-you.png

Every morning my daughter’s preschool class begins with free play. There are options to play blocks, or draw, build or explore. Nine times out of ten, though, Shiri is playing dress up. Sometimes the outfits are hilarious, with as many layers piled on as she can put on her body. Other times she’s a doctor, a waitress, a princess, or a mommy. Imaginative and creative play are staples in our preschool classrooms because they allow our children to try on different roles, explore what it means to be the leader or a follower, and discover what feels comfortable and what feels unique and different. It’s natural for there to be a lot of gender fluidity in early childhood development. That doesn’t mean that genders are changing, it just means children are experimenting with different roles. Play is without gender or stereotype at this age, and there is great strength and beauty when children explore their world to find their authentic selves.

As adults, it’s easy to get stuck in a rut being who we think we’re supposed to be instead of being our best selves. This challenge of human adult life has been around for a while, and in fact the same thing happened to Abraham. This week we read Parshat Lech Lecha. In Parshat Lech Lecha, we are finally introduced to Avram and Sarai – later Avraham and Sarah – who become the great patriarch and matriarch of the rest of our narrative. We learn that Avraham follows God with full intent, without questioning, and that Sarah goes with him. God tells him to leave his home, leave the only house he’s ever known, and go to a place he knows nothing about. He’s following God’s voice and taking a leap of faith.

The text begins, “The Lord said to Avram, ‘Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’” A literal translation of lech l’cha is “go forth” or “betake yourself.” However, the Mei Hashiloach, a compilation of the teachings of Rabbi Mordechai Yosef Leiner, translates this in a midrash as, “Go forth to find your authentic self, to learn who you are meant to be.” In other words, the text lists the various levels of “leaving” or “exploration” which a person must go through in order to identify who their true, authentic self is.

To add this concept to what we already know about Avraham, finding yourself isn’t simply deciding to be the true you; it’s physically seeking out that person. In order to be your best, most authentic self, there’s a journey to travel, and the hardest part of the journey is the possibility that some less authentic part might be shed in order to make a new discovery. But as we learn with Avraham, we must go forth and explore – only then can we be sure to bring our gifts into the world.