A Terrible Way to Start

This is a terrible way to start. It’s Friday afternoon. I have almost completed my regular work, not quite getting to two important emails that will have to wait until after Shabbat. My sense of what I do and what I don’t do on Shabbat stems from a very clear set of standards that Dad, if not imposed, at least made very clear. I have long established that working on Shabbat is a “don’t do”. For some years in my youth, what I would do included going to the Nassau Community Temple in West Hempstead, Long Island, New York for the regular Friday night service. “Friday night is temple night.” “As Israel has kept the Sabbath, so the Sabbath has kept Israel.” These concepts are ingrained, and yet, even in my youth I had limits to which I observed Sabbath law.

As a mid-Twentieth Century, New York suburban, Reform Jewish teenager, there was as much I was ignorant about these laws as defiant of. At the same time I do have a sense that I attended many Friday night services—perhaps even willingly. In a way I might not have even been conscious of then, the temple was my home with a huge extended family. That is where I could be with and see my father in action. That is where I could connect with his voice in its sweet, intelligent, caring reverence. That is where I would sit sometimes in rapt attention, sometime in a fit of the “church giggles” with my mom in the middle of the fourth pew from the front on the right, week after week, year after year.

One of the things I ponder now is how much of my father’s words will seem familiar as I read them. I know I will hear his voice in every syllable, but will I be taken back to the time and place where I first heard those very words? The anticipation is building, the curiosity, the longing for that connection is palpable.

My Shabbat ethic is squaring off with my anticipation. Late Friday afternoon. Just back from a long bike ride. I could be picking up a few things for dinner, setting the Shabbes table. Preparing for, if not an evening at shul, at least a quiet night home with Debbie. But no. Anticipation—a need to roll into action overtakes Jewish law. I search for some rationalization. The one I usually use to justify all sorts of violations is the precept that saving a life takes precedence over the restrictions of Shabbat. Isn’t opening the blue bins, in a sense, a resurrection? Aren’t I preserving my father’s life by reviving his words, preserving them, sharing them for perhaps generations to come? Even I am not buying that specious argument. Another thing I am not doing is making Shabbes dinner and setting the table. I am overcome by the intense desire to go out to the garage, dust off the two remaining bins out there, and bring the whole lot of papers into the house to sort and inventory them before I start the long process of reading them.

Instead of putting candles in the shiny candleholders on the dining table, I pick them up and set them aside so I can use the broad surface to sort the musty paper-laden folders. If that isn’t a piece of ironic effrontery. Shameful. As I watch my hands set the candlesticks aside, and make way to do this work, I can sense what may have been a common occurrence for my father as he observed his youngest child—a wrestling match between pride and dismay.

I pry off the lid of the first bin. The files are tightly packed together. I look for one that I can easily grasp—“NCT ’55 – ‘56”. Many of the files are marked similarly, with the initials of the Nassau Community Temple and an academic year. I grab a fatter folder—“SERMONS – PRE-LEX”—prior to our move to Lexington, KY in 1948. That would cover the first ten years of his rabbinate. There are two such fat files. Maybe somewhere in all of these is his first sermon as a congregational rabbi. “HIGH HOLY DAYS 1952-1960” “PASSOVER SERMONS”  “LEXINGTON – 1949” “INVOCATIONS  - SPECIAL PRAYERS” “THANKSGIVING” “RADIO & TV – NY” Eventually I come to “SERMONS – BRUNSWICK ’74 – ‘75”. Dad did not live to fill this folder. He died on November 11, 1974. Somewhere in this file is his last sermon. He didn’t know it when he wrote it. The mystery of mortality stares me in the face—the spectrum of a man’s life. Later I find a draft of Dad’s seminary thesis—from student, to rabbi, to gone—all in within an arms reach. An indescribable sensation runs through the core of my body as I contemplate getting further acquainted with this material, with this man.

Three Blue Storage Bins

Three blue storage bins have been gathering dust in my garage for decades. They are among a total of twenty-four bins that cover most of the wall above my workbench. Several containers are regularly accessed. They have wrenches and drill bits, nuts, bolts, and nails; or paraphernalia associated with one Jewish holiday or another. Some of the boxes rarely get opened. These three bins haven’t been accessed since I filled them—that is, until last week.

Thirty-six and a half years ago, November 1974, I rescued the contents from incineration. My father had died suddenly and unexpectedly of heart disease. My mother was ridding herself of his accumulated possessions, including his files. Almost all of the papers ended up in flames in a rusty barrel in the Brunswick, Georgia dump. For some reason—mostly unknown to me then as now—I decided to hold onto his sermons, most of them dutifully typed on his Royal portable typewriter virtually every Thursday night for the better part of thirty-six years.

Dad received his ordination from The Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati in 1938. I don’t think he had a pulpit that first year, but it’s possible he performed services somewhere.  It must have been in 1939 that he arrived as rabbi of the Reform Jewish Tree of Life congregation in Columbia, South Carolina where he began his weekly preaching.

The exact contents of these boxes are still unknown to me, but his words, his voice beckons. Anticipating the centennial of Dad’s birth a year and a few weeks from today I have decided to embark on a challenging marathon of perusing this collection and selecting significant samples of it to publish in his memory. I hesitated jumping right into the project until I heard back from the archivist of the Central Conference of American Rabbis. In response to my query he informed me that the CCAR would indeed be very interested in receiving the collection when I completed my task. There were few if any admonitions about how to handle the documents—mostly words of encouragement.

The little I have observed of the sermons so far makes the project very enticing. There are many manila folders with his familiar penciled handwriting with such topic headers as High Holy Days, Marriage, Family & Home, Sermons 1972-73, etc. It’s an adventure—like traveling to a distant land in search of a treasure, or better yet a lost loved one. I can’t anticipate what I will learn about my father or myself, what lessons in Judaism or ethics or social action will unfold. I don’t know how many I will be able to read or how much he will repeat his pet themes over the years. So much to discover! 

Tribute to My Brother

Weatherly Heights Baptist Church

Huntsville, Alabama
Monday, January 24, 2011

At Jeffrey’s 60th birthday party I read the single poem that I am most proud of writing. It’s a poem that Jeff loved as well, and I think you will see why. It expresses the admiration and the love of a little boy for his big brother, and the wistful yearning for deeper connection with his brother that the boy felt later in life.

Brothers

He had a Schwinn Roadmaster

the kind with the fat tank

along the crossbar

that held batteries and

had a little round chrome button

to sound the horn

Some mornings

he let me sit sideways

along that crossbar

he seemed so big and strong

to pedal for the two of us

as we headed for the

Chestnut Street School­

a first-grader and

a big sixth-grader

That was the last time we were going

in the same direction at

the same time

the last time we were on

the same path

We’ve traced one another’s

footsteps here and there

crossed paths on other occasions

often out of synch

going to or coming from

different places

There were places

           of learning

           of worship

           of recreation

           of work

           of living­

a cat’s cradle

of our travels

           our quests

through space and time

How glorious

to recall

a September morning

when we were going

the same way

as

brothers!

I stand here today not only with gratitude for that September morning, but with eternal gratitude that in the years that followed the writing of this poem, and especially in the last two and a half years, Jeff and I made the time to consciously walk the same path at the same time.

No greater example of this was the “home and away” visits to one another’s spiritual retreat centers. In the summer of 2005 I asked Jeff if I could join him for his annual foray to the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina where he would meet with colleagues for a week of study and fellowship.  It was a treat to spend time with him driving through the wooded highways, or sitting shoulder to shoulder in morning prayers, or taking in a scholarly lecture. Best of all was just hanging out on the porch at night with an array of snacks and beverages, chatting with Jeff and his rabbi friends.

In October of 2009, with both his speech and his walking somewhat compromised, I nervously asked him if he would consider coming with me to a Jewish Men’s retreat—at a place in the Berkshire Mountains of Connecticut that I have come to love as a spiritual refuge. I can’t remember why I was so hesitant and unsure, because Jeff accepted the invitation at once. We met in New York City, celebrated his 67^th birthday with Ann Lois and other family members, and then the two of us headed up the Hudson Valley to camp.

As  he did everywhere, Jeff instantly became a beloved and treasured member of this ad hoc community of fifty men. I really don’t recall that either of us did anything so special, but it was ironically gratifying to discover that within this group of men who had gathered in search of virtual brotherhood, two actual brothers would be so greatly admired for simply being there with and for one another. 

The single moment that I will most treasure occurred during the Sabbath morning service. Quite unexpectedly I was summoned to come forward to carry the Torah around and through the congregation before it was to be read. As is the custom, as I passed each man, he would take the fringes of his prayer shawl and touch the sacred scroll, then touch the cloth to his lips and kiss it. When I reached Jeff, in addition to touching the Torah and kissing it, he touched my forehead as well and drew the fringes to his lips with a kiss.                                                                  

How glorious to recall an October morning when we were going the same way as brothers!

In August of 2008, Jeff had been given what some considered a cruel and tragic “death sentence” but he didn’t seem to look at it that way. For him it was a chariot ride—a golden chariot drawn by winged horses—sent from heaven for his final ascent. He would savor the ride with such appreciation of his days, that he invited everyone along the way—friends and family and even strangers—to climb aboard and share the sheer joy of being alive. For two and a half years we all were on the same path—a path of hope, a path of faith, and most of all, a path of love. My brother shared every mile of his journey with every one of us. As sad as we are to see him reach his final destination, we all rejoice in the treasured gifts that he bestowed along the way.

The last time I saw him, I pulled up a chair to sit close as he chatted with great animation late into the night, well past his normal bedtime. He asked to study the Twenty-third Psalm.

“What does it mean,” he probed the Hebrew text, “Adonai ro-ee, lo echsar. (The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.)?” “...[people] say they know this, but none of them [really know] any of it!”

“Lo echsar! (I shall not want!) Lo echsar! Lo echsar! he kept exclaiming.

He wanted us to know that he felt the guiding hand of the shepherd and that he was lacking for nothing. It was an amazing teaching from a man barely able to make his simplest thoughts understood. It was a final declaration of faith—as far as I know, his final sermon. In studying the Twenty-third Psalm, as Jeff requested, I discovered these words of Rabbi Harold Kushner who says that part of the psalm’s message is our ability to “make God look good by the way we live our lives so that others will be inspired to follow us and walk in God’s ways.” 

Jeff made God look very very good. Jeff was an inspiration. Jeff’s cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy followed Jeff all the days of his life. Rabbi Jeffrey Lewis Ballon, harav Yisrael Lev ben haRav Shimon, my brother, Jeff shall dwell in the House of the Lord and in our hearts forever.

The Shepherd’s Hand

Debbie and I were concluding our planned three-day visit to Columbus, Ohio—home of our daughter, Becca and her husband, Josh. We had gathered on Sunday, December 26, 2010, the eve of our fortieth wedding anniversary, with our other children—Shira from Chicago, and Jake from New York City with his wife, Alana. The event was joyously successful beyond our expectations. Everything seemed to come together perfectly.

The mere fact that we all arrived was a miracle in itself. A week or two before our travel day, Jake and Alana were notified that they had been unceremoniously moved from the mid-morning flight that they had booked to a seven a.m. departure— less pleasing to them by far. Disgruntled but compliant, they left their Manhattan apartment in darkness to get to the airport. How fortunate it turned out to be, as a blizzard soon descended upon New York stranding thousands of people for days. They were among the last to depart that morning, thus allowing our celebration to take place on schedule with everyone present.  

As we contemplated our scheduled departures from Columbus later in the week, it seemed like it would be clear sailing ahead. The warming trend in the weather was reassuring. Shira departed on schedule Wednesday morning. Jake and Alana followed suit Wednesday afternoon. Deb and I would stay through Thursday afternoon so we could spend some time with Josh’s parents, Steve and Cheryl, with whom we have become good friends.

All was good. We had a great visit. Wednesday night we parted company with Becca, Josh, Steve and Cheryl and headed to our hotel. Just then I received an email from my sister-in-law Ann Lois, from Huntsville, Alabama, giving me an update on my brother Jeff’s condition. He himself is a miracle, long outlasting the dire predictions of his neuro-oncologist. Nonetheless, his brain cancer—or its treatment—has had a deleterious effect on his speech and mobility. The latest news is that his kidneys are showing signs of being compromised as well, with the possibility that kidney failure might ensue. I called Ann Lois to get the details. We spoke nearly an hour. It was around midnight when we hung up.

I prepared to go to bed. Deb may already have nodded off when my phone rang with a recorded announcement from United Airlines informing me that our Thursday afternoon return flight had been cancelled! I immediately called United to see how we would make it home, and learned that there were no seats available until Saturday, January 1. This was preposterous. I was on the phone another hour searching every possible option from several Ohio airports to nearly every California airport—nothing! Reluctantly I allowed the agent to book us on a New Year’s Day flight at 6:10 a.m.—routing us backwards to Washington/Dulles, then on to Chicago, and finally San Francisco. Yuck!

At the end of the call, my curiosity prompted me to ask the reason for our flight cancellation. They told me it was due to an impending ice storm in Chicago that would not allow our plane to get to Columbus for departure. That seemed specious, given how far in advance of this supposed storm they were canceling the flight.

As I settled into bed, my mind was churning over the grim news of my brother. I wondered how and when I would see him again. I also was preoccupied with the logistics of extending our stay in Columbus two days. Eventually I fell asleep. When I finished my fitful night I felt the lingering awareness of a dream. The only part that I could recall involved someone leaning over me, whispering something about Jeff. That seemed to be all I needed, upon coming to full consciousness, to be inspired with an idea that only seems obvious in retrospect. Since we would not be getting home before Saturday, and since we had essentially accomplished all that we had set out to do in Columbus—what if United could get us to Huntsville to spend these two extra days of our trip there? This would give us the unanticipated opportunity to visit Jeff and Ann Lois.

When the temperature that day proved to be in the forties in Chicago with the mere chance of rain, I knew for sure that United had not leveled with me all along. I called the “friendly skies” again and offered the agent the opportunity to make amends by rewriting our Columbus-D.C.-Chicago-San Fran return tickets to take us to Huntsville immediately and home to San Francisco on Saturday at no additional charge. One more hour listening to Rhapsody in Blue on the phone, and the deed was done.

Oh, there were some subsequent occurrences that seemed more like curses than blessings—such as arriving at the Columbus airport and discovering that the acquiescent agent had not written the ticket in the prescribed manner, thus making it nearly impossible to get our boarding passes. As the clocked ticked away the minutes before our flight, a hapless airport attendant finally allowed another agent to press the magic keys to fix the problem.

From there we ran through the airport, barging ahead of the security line, dashing to the most distant gate, only to discover that I had somehow been cleared though the initial identification check without a true boarding pass. Apparently and inexplicably the TSA agent had initialed my itinerary card. The boarding attendant was unsympathetic. They were minutes from closing the door and he demonstrated no concern that I was standing before him without a boarding pass. There would be no way I could retrace all my steps and get back in time for the flight. He just impassively said he had to deal with other customers and seemed to derive pleasure from exacting as much anguish from us as he could before nonchalantly printing out a new pass for me and allowing us to board. Whew!!!  

Of course inconveniences such as these quickly pale in the light of my brother and sister-in-law’s daily struggle with his increasing infirmity. His simplest acts have become major undertakings enabled largely by the enduring patience, strength, and determination of Ann Lois. Many of Jeff’s abilities have diminished. He either has had some mild strokes or the lesions have affected his ability to move about freely and to communicate clearly. Every action, every utterance is an effort. Often at issue is whether to use a cane, a walker, or a wheelchair for his transport—all viable options under certain circumstances, although increasingly, the wheelchair seems most appropriate.  He is most comfortable sitting in a new motor-controlled recliner. Often he lies back in it idly playing with the up and down buttons—seeming to exercise control over the small part of his universe that succumbs to his will.

His understanding of the world about him varies—or at least our understanding of his understanding does. Occasionally his words are sharp and clear—more often not. Sometimes unintelligible. Sometime nonsense. He has been disinhibited for much of his illness—anger, frustration, sadness, joy always on the surface. He is also still amazingly clever and funny at times—knowing when he has broken through the dim translucent wall surrounding him, making the silly grin that we used to see so often.

Thursday night, after dinner, I pulled a chair alongside his recliner and patiently panned for meaning in his intermittent stream of ramblings. He was able to clarify his intent somewhat. He definitely wanted a copy of the twenty-third psalm that I quickly found in a weathered Rabbi’s Manual in his office. He seemed to be asking me to study the psalm with Adam Stein, a recently ordained rabbi and young friend of our family since birth.

“What does it mean,” he probed, “Adonai ro-ee, lo echsar. (The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.)?”

“...they all say they know this, but none of them [really know] any of it!”

“After I’m gone...in the home, at the house...even once...a little bit of...a lesson—it must be done....”—a clear mandate not only to read the Twenty-third Psalm at his shiva, but to study it as well.

“Lo echsar! Lo echsar! (I shall not want! I shall not want!)” he kept exclaiming.

His lesson seemed to be that people want more and more. If they really felt the protection of the Lord as their shepherd they would want for nothing. Some of his words suggested that he was criticizing young rabbis, but I suspect this was as much a commentary on his own life as much as the next generation. Jeff, throughout his illness has often quoted the Twenty-seventh Psalm as a reflection of his condition—“Though armies be arrayed against me, I will have no fear.” Now, as the traditional mourners’ psalm seems increasingly imminent, I believe he truly feels the guiding hand of the shepherd and knows what it is to want nothing more.

It was an amazing teaching from a man barely able to make his simplest thoughts understood. Jeff chatted with great animation for about an hour, late into the night, well past his normal bedtime. His words cause me to reflect on my own “wants” and the effects the shepherd’s hand may have had on this very trip—flights moved ahead, flight moved back, seemingly what we least wanted becoming what we most needed.

Was it the shepherd’s whisper that spoke to me Thursday morning and inspired me to turn the inconvenience of a cancelled flight into an opportunity to share precious moments with my brother? By what divine providence did we come to witness acts of loving kindness such as the extraordinary efforts of Ann Lois who everyday defines the word mitzvah with her unrelenting physical and emotional support of her husband. How did it come to pass that we were present to hear the garbled words of a rabbi and teacher striving to give one more lesson?

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

Now I must study.

The Great Chicago Hot Dog—or Why I May Never Be Thin

I had just finished facilitating a challenging two-day training session at our corporate headquarters in the Aon Center in downtown Chicago. The focus of our work was a project our firm is currently engaged in—a retrofit of the Empire State Building that will lower its energy use approximately forty per cent. It’s a model energy project. The owner of the iconic building has expressly made the tools and processes we used public information in hopes of encouraging other building owners to follow suit.

Some of the processes are only marginally different than conventional processes, but significantly more effective. I spent months studying the technological and financial drivers, and the interrelationship between them. As an avowed art major, my appeal to technical subject matter experts is always: “If you can get me to understand this, I can get anyone to understand it.” Part of my approach is to simplify the jargon and offer engaging analogies and activities to help cement the concepts in the minds of others.

One analogy I tried out was intended to suggest the difference between a normal energy audit and the robust, comprehensive, holistic energy audits that we performed. I compared these to the difference between an order of McDonald’s fries and a “super-sized” order. I passed this concept by one energy manager who said I had gotten it wrong. I needed a metaphor that suggested adding different features not merely providing more of the same. The next time we met I showed him a PowerPoint slide that graphically demonstrated that if the typical service is a plain hot dog, then the robust, comprehensive, holistic, service is a Chicago dog with the works.

Chicago dog with the works.

I presented these images to the workshop participants during each of three “webinars” that I led in the weeks prior to our gathering in Chicago. Admittedly it may have been a bit of a stretch. I’m not sure how effective it was in making the distinction between the levels of service. I do know that it generated a thirst for Chicago hot dogs in myself if not the rest of the group.

Chicago is a great food city. Throughout my years of travel here I’ve had the opportunity to sample many of its restaurants. One benefit and hazard of frequent travel is frequent dining out. This trip, however, was not destined to bring me to any of the “finer” establishments. Our management had decided to have a department holiday party on the eve of the training sessions, so I cancelled reservations at The Girl and the Goat to take one for the team that night. The party featured some pleasant, if not spectacular, hors d'oeuvres, most of which featured either pork or shellfish, neither of which I eat. So it goes. The following night, after our first day of training and in a further effort to create some team bonding, I was hosting a bowling party. We had ample party food there as well, but face it—this was a bowling alley. I had even ordered some mini-Chicago dogs, somewhat tasty, a bit on the cold side—and again, nothing to get excited about.

On my final morning in Chicago, I was okay about having missed an elegant meal during my visit, but what really stuck in my craw was not having had a truly great Chicago dog. I figured I could remedy that with a stop at Portillo's on the way out of town. Portillo’s had been introduced to me by some locals a few years ago. I had been there once. Loved the Chicago dog. Not so impressed by the fries covered with melted cheese that was no improvement over ketchup.

I wheeled my carry-on down the sidewalk outside the Fairmont and flagged the first taxi in line. “Portillo’s,” I requested and we headed off. Immediately he asked, a propos of nothing, if I were Italian or Jewish. After I replied, he asked if Hanukkah was over yet—apparently he never does well on Jewish Holidays—business is too quiet on LaSalle Street for the lack of Jewish bankers. I wasn’t entirely sure if that was blatant anti-Semitism or an accurate assessment based on empirical evidence. I let it go.

He was Greek—in this country since he was eleven years old. He engaged me in animated conversation on a variety of topics most of the journey. We talked about the freezing weather. We talked about our families. He proclaimed that he was happily divorced. Not long ago he flew to San Francisco to meet a beautiful wealthy woman from San Francisco who he met on the Internet. En route, apparently, she suddenly had moved to Stockton, gained 300 pounds, and lost her fortune. Funny how that worked out.

Eventually the conversation turned to my quest for the great Chicago dog. Soon he offered a suggestion. While he had never eaten there himself, he knew a hot dog place on the way to O’Hare to which he had taken many people, including a guy who was actually flying out of Midway and for whom the excursion to this part of town added significant dollars to the cost of the dog. If someone thought that highly of the place, I was game.

We rolled up to the corner of Roscoe and California to “Hot Doug’s”! I was immediately taken by the name. By this time the driver had already described the vast menu that includes different meats, toppings, and even choices of cooking medium. You want it steamed? Fried? Grilled? Fried and grilled? The cabbie considered whether to join me inside, but opted to wait for me in the car—with no idling charge. The line would normally have been out the door and around the block if the temperature were not in the teens. As it was, I waited long enough to make some friends in line, and watch a lot of happy faces walking out the door or gathered around the tables inside.

We rolled up to the corner of Roscoe and California to “Hot Doug’s”!

The guys ahead of me let me know I had not been led astray by my cabbie, that he had extricated me from the tourist trap in town to an authentic joint in an authentic neighborhood. I perused the menu, eschewed such options as The Elvis: Polish Sausage, smoked and savory, just like the King; The Frankie “Five Angels” Pentangeli (formerly The Virgil “The Turk” Sollozzo and The Luca Brasi): Italian sausage—“keep your friends close, your sausage closer; The Keira Knightley: (formerly The Jennifer Garner and The Britney Spears): fire dog, mighty hot!; The Salma Hayek (formerly The Madonna, The Raquel Welch and The Ann-Margret): Andouille sausage: mighty, mighty, mighty hot! The list went on with aptly named selections of Bratwurst, Thuringer, vegetarian dogs, chicken sausage, corn dogs, etc.

I stuck to my plan—two orders of the classic, simply named “The Dog—Chicago-Style Hot Dogs with all the trimmings: 'nuff said.” I added the optional sport peppers, a small fry, a Diet Coke and a Hot Doug’s t-shirt. The friendly guy behind the counter said, “Make it twenty bucks.” I assumed he had done some rounding, probably down. He was the kind of guy who told someone ahead of me to order a small Coke if he was dining in, since they were refillable. When he asked if I wanted my dogs steamed or grilled, he only waited a second as I contemplated these options. “Grilled” he proclaimed.

 “The Dog—Chicago-Style Hot Dogs with all the trimmings: 'nuff said.”

I took in the ambiance. Animated diners filled the joint. Brightly painted walls were covered with colorful paraphernalia. There was one guy whose job was expediting the orders to the tables. He brought me a tray with two robust, comprehensive, holistic dogs, covered with relish, mustard, sautéed onions, tomatoes, the aforementioned peppers, and a big dill pickle spear. The Chicago dog is often judged by its “snap” and I’m pretty sure grilled is the way to go to enhance that quality. The fries alone were worth the trip—bronze toned, skins on, just the right amount of grease. I savored every bite of dog and fry.

When I told the server how I happened to arrive for my first meal at his place he didn’t hesitate to order a dog, on the house, that I dutifully ran out to the waiting taxi and handed through the open window to a grateful driver. By the time he and I got to O’Hare he had dictated a tidy list of places to eat the best hamburger, the best pizza, and the best Greek food in Chicago, but it was the amazing visit to Hot Doug's! Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium for which I will be ever grateful.

An amazing visit to Hot Doug's! Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium.

A Khaki Hat

In October 2009 fifty men had gathered at the Isabella Freedman Jewish Retreat Center in Falls Village, Connecticut to spend a weekend exploring issues of Jewish masculinity. Sounds like the setup for a joke. There was plenty of humor. There were many other emotions as well. I have participated in so-called “men’s work” since 1991 when I attended my first Gathering of Men hosted by the poet Robert Bly. Jewish Men’s Work may not be so very different from non-sectarian Men’s Work. That’s really a topic for another essay. The motivation for attending this workshop at this time was simply an opportunity to spend some time with my brother (see my January 27, 2011 post: Tribute to My Brother).

An important feature of these retreats are the breakout sessions called “Mishpacha Groups.” Each of the three days in residence we split off into eight-man sub-groups structured carefully to engender intimate conversations that otherwise would be almost impossible in the larger group. On the final morning the substance of the conversation typically focuses on what each man, based on his experiences of the weekend, commits to go forth and do in his life that will make a difference. When it was my turn my comments included my aspiration to end my long procrastination of studying biblical and prayer book Hebrew.

There I sat, in our intimate circle of brothers, averring (once again) my intention to learn Hebrew. Across from me sat one of the retreat leaders—Yosaif—a man who had attended all of the seventeen previous Jewish Men’s Retreats.  His white bearded face and shaggy mop of white hair was adorned by a khaki hat. Printed in yellow Hebrew letters across the front of the hat were the words Lech L’cha. These are words that God spoke to Abraham—“Get up, and go forth!” These were appropriate words for the getaway day of the retreat, all the more appropriate given that Jews all over the world would be reading that very passage of Torah the ensuing week.

Then, Yosaif took the hat off his head and presented it to me! He said he wanted me to go forth and fulfill this intention. As an incentive he said I should keep this hat until I fulfilled the pledge, and then return it to him. I was stunned to receive this object that clearly had special meaning to Yosaif.  I was amazed that this veteran leader showed such concern for a man who he had only met less than 48 hours earlier. I was honored that he entrusted me in this manner. Sure it was just a hat, but it was also much more than a hat. I put the hat on. I thanked him and accepted his challenge.

...across the front of the hat were the words Lech L’cha.

When I returned home I displayed the hat prominently in my home office letting it be a reminder in the days and months ahead. During those months life happened. Something always seemed to get in the way of initiating my study. The Lech L’cha cap continued to hang tantalizingly above my desk.

It would be unusual, if not absurd, for me to fly from California to the East Coast just for a weekend retreat, so when a high school reunion turned out to be the week before the next annual Jewish Men’s Retreat in October 2010, the opportunity to go back and attend both events was irresistible. That also meant I would have the opportunity, if not the obligation, to personally return the cap to Yosaif. I had never lost sight of the cap, nor my agreement with him that hung before me with as much presence as the cap itself.

As the summer of 2010 waned, one morning during my ritual walking meditation I found the inspiration to contact a local Hebrew tutor and ask to schedule lessons. She was about to go to Israel for a few weeks. We would make arangements upon her return. Then the chaggim interfered. Then it was some other travel or something, etc., etc. We never seemed to connect. As the October retreat loomed I became increasingly insistent that we start the lessons. She kept looking at her full calendar and suggested putting it off. Finally I had to tell her about the hat and my determination to at least get started before I departed for the East Coast. She understood. One day before I flew east we finally began. I was relieved to fulfill my pledge even as I was feeling somewhat daunted by the awesome task that lay ahead--of actually learning Hebrew.

I took off on my trip with great anticipation of the reunion I would have with Yosaif. I entertained various options of how to spring it on him that I had met the challenge and would redeem my pledge by returning his hat. Would I just show up at camp wearing the hat? Would I wait until the final morning as Yosaif had done the year before? All of this became very moot. Several days after I had arrived in New York I woke up in the middle of the night with a start. Earlier, when I had laid out the clothes I would need for the next day, I didn’t recall seeing the cap in my luggage. Oh, no! I had already made a few stops on this trip—staying with a classmate in Westchester before the class reunion, staying out on Long Island for the reunion itself, now at my son’s apartment in the city. Come to think of it, I didn’t remember seeing the cap at all on the trip. Had I left it home or lost it along the way? How could I have done either? I had been so careful to lay it out with my things before packing for my trip. I frantically called home and asked my wife to look in my office. Sure enough there it lay on my desk! How could I have forgotten it? Now what? Did it make sense to FedEx it? If not, how would I explain my unrealized intentions to Yosaif?

Friday afternoon I rode from Manhattan to Falls Village with a friend who had been to many of these retreats. For some reason I felt compelled to tell him the story of the cap. It seemed simple enough to him—of course I should have had the cap FedExed as soon as I knew I had forgotten it. I couldn’t admit that I had been too cheap to do so; although I had also rationalized that putting the cap in the mail when I was moving from place to place would have put it at risk. Regardless, there was nothing I could do about it now but tell Yosaif the story, and mail it to him after returning to California.

We arrived at the retreat center just minutes before Yosaif. When he emerged from his car I greeted him immediately. I asked him if he was ready to hear a story. He politely thanked me for asking, since after his long drive from Philadelphia he was not ready. We would find another time.

The weekend began with a beautiful energetic Kabbalat Shabbat service followed by a great Shabbat dinner and then vigorous drumming and chanting. Saturday morning a few of us who had volunteered to lead the morning service gathered early at breakfast to review our plans for the morning. As I sat there I saw Yosaif walk in remarkably wearing a cap identical to the one he had entrusted to me! How many of these must he have? Does he hand one out every year? Why is he wearing it on Saturday—this is not the “Lech L’cha” day?! I didn’t know what to say. The friend with whom I had shared the story on the drive up, quipped, “Well I guess you don’t have to worry about returning his hat!” He clearly didn’t recognize the symbolic importance to me of this. Yosaif walked past our table and I got his attention. “We’ve got to talk,” I implored him. “Perhaps this afternoon,” he replied.

Later our morning service accomplished the unimaginable—we finished well before the scheduled time for lunch! Yosaif turned to me and suggested we take a walk. I was delighted.

On a cool sunny morning we walked the perimeter of the pond. I began. “Tell me about the cap you wore at breakfast (he had replaced it with a large knitted kippah for the morning service). Yosaif explained that it was designed and created as a keepsake for an earlier men’s retreat. “I guess you must have quite a few of these hats.” Yosaif told be he had 2 or 3 at home. He had given one to a young friend for his bar mitzvah or something. Maybe another somewhere in his house. He wasn’t sure where.

It was now clear to me that Yosaif had forgotten about our transaction. I pressed the point. “You sure you don’t know where the other hat is?” Yosaif hesitated. He started to become perplexed if not agitated; later explaining that he was feeling a bit pressured, that I was apparently coveting his hat. Then I merely blurted out, “I have your hat!” I reminded him of his generosity and thanked him for being the inspiration that brought an end to my prolonged procrastination.

Yosaif was overwhelmed. He profusely expressed his gratitude to me—not for knowing the location of his cap, but for demonstrating that one of his greatest desires had been fulfilled. Yosaif is a motivational coach. He was moved to learn what a difference he had made in helping me achieve my goal.

We continued to walk and revel in the poetry of our exchange. Had I remembered the cap we might not have walked the same path of discovery. We contemplated the subconscious reasons that I might have had for leaving the cap behind. Yosaif commented that as difficult as a first step is, sometimes the second step is even harder. Now I have to continue my study to bring my goal to true fruition. Yosaif chuckled all the way back to the main hall. We embraced as friends. There would be no mailing the cap to him with a false sense of completion. I have much work to do.

Repent!

Delivered at the "alternative" Kol Nidre service
Congregation Beth Jacob
Redwood City CA

Repent one day before your death!

These are the words of Rabbi Eliezer recorded in Pirke Avot.

Repent one day before your death!

Not knowing when that day will arrive, we are left to repent every day. In other words, every day could be, and perhaps should be like Yom Kippur.

What would your life be like if you lived it as if death were imminent? As a rule most of us don’t think much about the inevitability of death. We are pretty much loath to even consider the subject. Even if we were willing to entertain such thoughts, the idea of our own death is still a concept most find almost impossible to truly comprehend. (If you think this seems a bit disturbing or morbid a topic, you may be as surprised, as I was, to learn that Rabbi Ezray quite independently has also chosen this very topic to address in the main sanctuary this Yom Kippur.)

Why think about our death? What would such morbid thoughts do to improve our life in the here and now? Morrie Schwartz, the subject of Mitch Albom’s bestselling book Tuesdays With Morrie said it well: “Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently.” Since doing things differently is the goal of the High Holy Day observance, accepting the inevitability of our death may be a powerful point of entry to making tshuvah.

Consider the rituals surrounding this Day of Atonement. Yom Kippur is a day of physical deprivation, of fasting. Traditionally men wear a kittel—the white robe that also serves as our burial shroud. We spend much of the day in confession, urgently seeking to be inscribed in the Book of Life before the final gates close, not so different from the vidui, the deathbed confessional. All of these images are designed to heighten our awareness of our mortality. In a sense Yom Kippur is a dress rehearsal for our death.

Let’s see how this rehearsal can help us change our lives. I will suggest three ways we could do things differently as a consequence of facing our mortality.

The first thing we might do differently is to live more fully the life we are truly meant to live.

Recently, I was listening to an interview by Terry Gross on National Public Radio. She was speaking to psychologist Dan Gottlieb who, when he was a young man, was in a near fatal accident that left him a quadriplegic. Terry asked him how the accident changed his life, and whether it allowed him to live in ways he may have always wanted, but not been able to do before the accident.

Gottlieb responded that this was true. He said, “I live, as Sartre said we should live—with death on my shoulder. The vision I have about my accident is that when my neck broke my soul began to breathe.... ...each time I faced death I became more of who I am and less worried about what others might think of me. ... my only choice was—if I was going to live, I would live as me not as the person I wanted to be ideally. Most people I know spend their lives trying to be the person they think they should be and never get to discover who they are.”

The first powerful benefit of confronting one’s mortality is to let go of trying to be who and what we are not, and to be inspired to be who we are truly meant to be. As Morrie Schwartz also said, “Dying is only one thing to be sad over. Living unhappily is something else.”

A second outcome of acknowledging the inevitability of our death would be to consider the kind of legacy we would leave.

Terry Gross was interviewing Dan Gottlieb to discuss his book Letters to Sam: A Grandfather's Lessons on Love, Loss, and the Gifts of Life. Terry asked Gottlieb what had especially compelled him to write these letters to his newborn grandson.

Gottlieb was 56 years old when his grandson was born, and he sensed, due to his physical condition, that his life expectancy was likely to be shortened, and that he would probably not be a part of his grandson’s world. Gottlieb wanted the boy to know who his grandfather was, and how he saw the world. In other words, he wanted to leave a legacy of his learning and his love.

Gottlieb’s awareness of his mortality led him to write these letters. Although he didn’t label his letters as such, this tangible document of his life lessons is the essence of what is often called an “ethical will”. Ethical wills are an increasingly popular process of writing and sharing your most important thoughts, values, blessings, teachings, love and forgiveness with your family, friends, and community. They can be written at any stage of life, and are usually shared with others while the writer is still alive. An ethical will can take any form--a small paragraph, a poem, a book, an annotated collection of favorite photos or recipes--anything that conveys who you are and what is important to you. For most of us financial wills and trusts provide an important measure of security by passing our physical assets on as we desire. As one who has written and shared my ethical will I can say that it’s a profoundly moving experience and a surprising source of comfort to know that my spiritual legacy is also in order.

So in addition to living our lives more fully, a second action that may come from confronting our mortality is to document and share our spiritual legacy.

A third way we may act differently as a result of facing death is to fill one’s life with compassion, acceptance, and forgiveness.

Consider these verses from a poem by the 13th century Persian poet, Rumi, entitled Die Before You Die —

Everybody in this world is dying.
Everybody is already in their death agony.

So listen to what anyone says as though it were
The last words of a dying father to his son.
Listen with that much compassion, and you’ll
Never feel jealousy or simple anger again.

People say everything that’s coming will come.
Understand this: It’s all here right now.

And me? I’ve been so woven into the mesh
Of my trivial errands
That only now do I begin to hear the mystery
Of dying everywhere.

By listening to what everyone says as though these were their last words, by looking around the congregation on Yom Kippur, in fact by looking at everyone in our lives everyday with this awareness, we may realize that we all have the same fate, we share much of the same hopes and fears, triumphs and struggles.

The founder of the Jewish Renewal movement, Rabbi Zalman Shacter Shalomi, in his book From Age-ing to Sage-ing, writes about facing the end of life. He suggests that we bring the wisdom of our years to reinterpret occurrences in our life that once vexed us, for it does not serve us to condemn others or ourselves for what cannot be undone. Reb Zalman suggests a daily practice of forgiveness—not only to give it, but to seek forgiveness as well—a daily practice of forgiveness!

So in addition to being our true selves and sharing our spiritual legacy, a third way to change our lives that may come from hearing “the mystery of dying everywhere” is to become less judging and more forgiving of one another and of ourselves.

Repent one day before your death!

Were we to heed these words of Rabbi Eliezer, we would carry with us, throughout the year, the heightened awareness that comes from this Day of Atonement.

As we observe this Holy Day, I pray that we let the images of Yom Kippur infuse us with a healthy sense of our finite existence. I pray that this inspires us to go forward to be fully who we are meant to be, to leave a legacy for our loved ones, and to fill our hearts with compassion for all.

Kol Nidre 5771