The Blessing of Making Aliyah at Age 79

Published October 13, 2010 issue of “The Forward”

Two years ago, at age 79, my mother became an olah hadashah, a new immigrant to Israel. We moved her to live in the small apartment above my sister Ruth’s home within the Old City in Jerusalem. In the years preceding her move to Israel she had descended into the fog of Alzheimer’s disease. Her engagement with the world had diminished; her memories were dissolving. All that she was and all that she represented was replaced by the poignant image of who she had become: frail, confused, angry and profoundly dependent. Thus, in a decision filled with pain and anguish, our family decided my mother should spend the remainder of her days in Israel.

Memories of that day of leave-taking are so clear: We had told her time and again that she was going to visit my sister Ruth in Israel. But we had not told her the full truth. Her husband, Leon, and I had round-trip tickets; my mother’s ticket was one-way. We settled into our seats in the 56th row of our El Al airplane and, riddled with anxiety, I wondered how we would manage the 11-hour flight; would my mother become agitated and begin ranting as she had done in past months? But Leon dispensed three small pills into her mouth and the flight passed far more smoothly than I anticipated.

The wheels touched down at Ben Gurion Airport and the other passengers applauded. I did not know what to feel. When it was finally our turn to approach the agent in the passport control booth we declared that my mother was an olah hadasha. Our passports were dutifully stamped and we were directed to a telephone in a corner of the arrival lobby. We dialed immigration control and, within minutes, a handsome middle-age man arrived and accompanied us into the elevator, to the second floor and into the small immigration office.

All this time, my mother repeated incessantly “I want to go home, I want to go home.” Leon and I worked hard to keep her calm and the immigration officials were thoughtful and patient. Within a half hour, all forms had been filled out. Each thump of the official stamp proclaimed the magnitude and finality of this life transition. “Thump” — my relationship with my mother has changed forever; “thump” — I will rarely see her, “thump” — will she know me next time I come and visit? One last thump and my mother was an Israeli citizen.

As my sister Ruth and Leon unpacked my mother’s belongings in her apartment, I stepped outside to catch my breath on the deck. I turned to the left and peered at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Moving to the railing to the right of the door I shielded my eyes from the sun and marveled at the gold-clad Dome of the Rock. I turned to the right to observe the construction on the rebuilding of the Hurva Synagogue. It was a beautiful, clear day in Jerusalem. My mother will spend her final days surrounded by the world’s holiest sites, the epicenter of Western faith and the focus of thousands of turbulent years of history. She has no awareness of this.

On the day of my departure I said goodbye to my mother. Who knew when I would be able to return to Israel? Would this be the last time I saw her? If I came again, would she know me?

There is no happy ending with Alzheimer’s disease. But within the sadness and pain, there is a blessing for us. In the warmth of the Jerusalem sun, in the shadow of sacred spaces, my mother is well cared for and well nurtured. Doctors traverse the narrow cobblestone streets of Jerusalem and climb the steep steps to her apartment to make home visits. An occupational therapist comes once a week to flex stiffening joints and to guide Adelpha, mother’s fulltime caregiver, on how to best maneuver her increasingly frail body. A geriatric psychiatrist monitors her psychotropic medicine to maximize its benefits and minimize their side effects.

I do not have the expertise to assess the technical quality of medical care that my mother is receiving in Israel relative to health care in the United States. However, what is so profoundly evident is the remarkable human dimension of her care: home visits, after-hour calls, a gentle touch, a kind word. She is treated as if she were a member of an extended family.

As a child growing up in the 1950’s and 60’s, Israel was a miracle and a dream to me. Wrapped within this miracle was the Law of Return: All Jews are welcome to live in Israel and benefit from all it offers its citizens — security, support and human services. At the Solomon Schechter School, I sat transfixed as teachers spoke of homeless wanderers from across the globe embraced by Israel. They have come by millions and have built this remarkable nation. But my mother will never be a nation builder; she cannot contribute to this society. She can only be a ward of its protective and supportive services. It is a remarkable gift.

Israel is an unfinished and, as of yet, still flawed experiment. Perhaps all nations, all societies, are. While we stand in awe at its survival, marvel at its accomplishments we may also at times find ourselves cringing at policies and practices that offend our political or cultural sensitivities. It is not difficult to feel conflicted and confused about the latest challenging news emanating from Israel.

But I think of my mother, sitting in a small apartment in the shadow of some of the holiest places on earth. She sits in the sun, her memories fading, perhaps being absorbed into the stones of this city of memories. She has been welcomed to this home. She has been embraced by these people, our people. She is a Jew living in the land of the Law of Return.

Rethinking the Akedah

Perhaps no narrative in the Tanach challenges us more than the Akedah – the Binding of Isaac.  How are we to find meaning in this tale?  Even though Isaac is saved at the last moment by an Angel of God, how can we not be outraged by a God who would ask a father to sacrifice his only son?  How can we not be heartbroken for the days of terror and anguish that God has inflicted upon Abraham and Isaac?  How are we to embrace a God and a religion that causes such heartbreak?

Perhaps, the wisdom of the Akedah comes by viewing it not as the story of an individual, but part of the story of the evolution of our people.

The Akedah begins with the words:

א  וַיְהִי, אַחַר הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה, וְהָאֱלֹהִים, נִסָּה אֶת-אַבְרָהָם; וַיֹּאמֶר אֵלָיו, אַבְרָהָם וַיֹּאמֶר הִנֵּנִי.

The standard translation is as follows: “And it came to pass after these things, that God tested Abraham, and said unto him: 'Abraham'; and he said: Here am I."

In this verse, the Hebrew word for God is HaElohim”.  The word HaElohim is used in two additional verses:  In verse three:

ג  וַיַּשְׁכֵּם אַבְרָהָם בַּבֹּקֶר, וַיַּחֲבֹשׁ אֶת-חֲמֹרוֹ, וַיִּקַּח אֶת-שְׁנֵי נְעָרָיו אִתּוֹ, וְאֵת יִצְחָק בְּנוֹ; וַיְבַקַּע, עֲצֵי עֹלָה, וַיָּקָם אֶל-הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר-אָמַר-לוֹ הָאֱלֹהוַיֵּלֶךְ, 

“And Abraham rose early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son; and he cleaved the wood for the burnt-offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.”

Again in verse 9:

ט  וַיָּבֹאוּ, אֶל-הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר אָמַר-לוֹ הָאֱלֹהִים, וַיִּבֶן שָׁם אַבְרָהָם אֶת-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ, וַיַּעֲרֹךְ אֶת-הָעֵצִים; וַיַּעֲקֹד, אֶת-יִצְחָק בְּנוֹ, וַיָּשֶׂם אֹתוֹ עַל-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ, מִמַּעַל לָעֵצִים.

9 And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built the altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar, upon the wood."

But a literal translation of the Hebrew word “HaElohim” is quite different than “God” as generally presented in the English translation.  It literally means ‘the gods”  “The Hebrew letter hey -  הָ  translates as “the”  and the word Elohim  אֱלֹהִים - is plural - gods. What are we to make of this?

Jews began their evolution as a nomadic tribe dwelling in and around the Judean hills of the Levant.  They lived amongst tribes and peoples who engaged in paganistic practices, including human, and most notably, child sacrifice. 

We know that the ancient Canaanites and Phoenicians worshipped the god Moloch and that this worship was marked by child sacrifice.  Moloch is mentioned in the Book of Deuteronomy and in the Book of Leviticus: Leviticus 18:21: "And thou shalt not let any of thy seed pass through the fire to Moloch”.

We also know that the Valley of Hinnom on the southern edge of Jerusalem was the site of ancient child sacrificial rites. 

In Second Chronicles 28 we read regarding King Ahaz:

"He walked in the ways of the kings of Israel, and made also molten images for the Baalim. 3 Moreover he offered in the valley of the son of Hinnom, and burnt his children in the fire, according to the abominations of the heathen, whom the LORD cast out before the children of Israel."

In Jeremiah chapter 7 we read:

"And they have built the high places of Topheth, which is in the valley of the son of Hinnom, to burn their sons and their daughters in the fire; which I commanded not, neither came it into My mind."

Our Jewish tradition tells us that Mount Moriah in Jerusalem, the site of the first and second Temples and the current site of the Dome of the Rock, is where Abraham brought Isaac to be sacrificed.  Thus, when “On the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off” (Genesis 22:4), he would have been overlooking the Valley of Hinnom the site of child sacrifices to Moloch.

In translating the word הָאֱלֹהִים in the Akedah, what if we read it as “the gods” and, in this context, the gods refer to the pagan gods worshipped in Canaan during the time of Abraham.  In this reading, it would not be unusual to be told that the gods asked Abraham to sacrifice his son.  That is what the gods – specifically Moloch - did at that time. 

But, as we read in the text in Genesis, at the last moment, an angel of God tells Abraham not to sacrifice his son.

יא  וַיִּקְרָא אֵלָיו מַלְאַךְ יְהוָה, מִן-הַשָּׁמַיִם, וַיֹּאמֶר, אַבְרָהָם אַבְרָהָם; וַיֹּאמֶר, הִנֵּנִי. יב  וַיֹּאמֶר, אַל-תִּשְׁלַח יָדְךָ אֶל-הַנַּעַר, וְאַל-תַּעַשׂ לוֹ, מְאוּמָה:  כִּי עַתָּה יָדַעְתִּי, כִּי-יְרֵא אֱלֹהִים אַתָּה, וְלֹא חָשַׂכְתָּ אֶת-בִּנְךָ אֶת-יְחִידְךָ, מִמֶּנִּי

11 And the angel of the LORD called unto him out of heaven, and said: 'Abraham, Abraham.' And he said: 'Here am I.' 

12 And he said: 'Lay not thy hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him; for now I know that thou art a God-fearing man, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, from Me.'

But here’s the thing, in this verse and in each subsequent verse in the accounting of the Akedah in the Tanach, the Hebrew name for God is the tetragrammaton, YHWH.  One can argue that it is a different God whose angel now tells Abraham not to sacrifice his son Isaac.  It is a God who desires to steer Abraham away from the horrific practices of child sacrifice.  And thus:

14 And Abraham called the name of that place Adonai-jireh; as it is said to this day: 'In the mount where the LORD is seen.'

We can unpack the Akedah a bit further by looking at the word   נִסָּה   “to test” as in “And it came to pass after these things, that God tested Abraham”.  But what if we change our translation to: “And it came to pass after these things, that the gods tested Abraham” – as in testing Abraham’s resolve.  We can also translate נִסָּה as “tempted”.  Thus, Abraham, the first believer in the one God was tempted to return to worshiping those pagan gods that were popular among other nations.  

While the historical accuracy of the Tanach can be questioned and debated, what cannot be denied is that it recounts and frames the evolution of our people from a wandering tribe immersed in paganistic culture and beliefs to a nation, guided by an omnipotent divinity and framed by laws and values that guide our lives. 

This evolution is recounted through the myriad of laws and statues that, according to the Torah, are handed down from God through Moses.   But we also know that the Torah seeks to guide the mores and values of the Jewish people through stories of our ancestors.  And critical to the evolution of the Jewish people is the transition of our system of belief; the way we worship and honor God.  Perhaps the Akedah not only speaks of that transition but it was, in fact, a tale told thousands of years ago to our ancestors to wean them away from the barbaric practices of child sacrifice; Just like Abraham, you will be tempted to worship pagan gods, but you must resist the temptation. 

Perhaps the evolution of Abraham’s belief is reflective of the evolution of the religious belief of the Jewish people.  Abraham, thus, represents not only the “proto-Jew”, the first of our fore-parents, but, more broadly, a literary construct to represent the religious and cultural evolution of our people.

Thus, gods that that demand human sacrifices speaks of a system of belief grounded in misguided superstition and purposeless and inhumane practices.  But that is not the God of our people.  Our God seeks not human or animal sacrifices but asks that we: “Learn to do well; seek justice, relieve the oppressed, judge the fatherless, plead for the widow” (Isaiah, I;17)

God, Dog and the Meaning of Life - A D'var Torah from Past Years

I turned 60 this year, a notable accomplishment marked by great family joy, personal self reflection and an accelerated schedule of colonoscopies.  In the world of numbers, while 59 was a prime year, that is one that can only be divided by one and itself, 60 lends itself multiple divisions (30X2; 15X4; 5X12…..). Thus, these past months have provided me with an opportunity to divide my years and look at my life in stages or segment; for example, those spent single and those spent married, and those spent without children and those spent with.  And without question, the second halves of these life stages have been far more rich, rewarding and meaningful than the first.  On this coming Jewish New Year, as we collectively reflect on the years that have passed  and plan for those to come, I send my wishes that  each segment your life that awaits you is richer, more meaningful and more filled with peace and joy.

In this context of life and its segments, I ponder another division in my life and reflect that the second thirty years of being a dyslexic have been much more pleasant than the first. Two words, two glorious, life altering words that have brought me from great darkness into light and from despair to destiny account for this life transformation.  Those words; ‘spell check’ .

Spell check has transformed my dyslexia from a real disability to more of a nuisance.  I continue to reverse numbers, mistake my left foot for my right and compensate for my continued writing challenges by limiting my hand-written communications to brief, terse messages: “Hello – am fine, David”.  I have come to delight in dyslexic jokes, my favorites being the “dog” “god” variety e.g., “Untied Church of Dog” and the one about the paranoid dyslexic who always has the unsettling feeling that he is following somebody.

I have come to understand that the vestiges of my dyslexia have left an imprint on my world view, my weltanschauung, (bless you spell check) that provides for and, perhaps, encourages perceiving the world in a different way – reversing things, turning things around.  That in a wink of an eye we can transform ‘god’ into ‘dog’ is perhaps a good thing.  God and our understanding of God is now available for further reflection, for reshaping and rethinking.  That one may have the unsettling feeling that he is following somebody is a good thing. Our world would be a profoundly better and more peaceful place if collectively we were more reflective about whom we are following and who we venerate as leaders and heroes.  Political and social change represents the “dyslexic-ing” of the social or political order.  In the sphere of science, in transposing space and time, Einstein demonstrated that he was, perhaps, greatest dyslexic of all.

We dyslexics see a world that is slightly different and sometimes a bit mixed up.  We are, at times, a confused lot, reversing numbers, mistaking our left foot for our right and, of course, advancing new innovations in spelling. But our message that reality, or at least our perceptions of reality, can be plastic, that we have the capacity to reverse and reorder our understanding of our worlds is a good thing – perhaps a necessary thing.

The upcoming High Holidays call for all of us to be open to dyslexic-like reflective flexibility.  What/who is our God? What does God ask us to believe? How does God guide us to act?  How does our God enable us to live a life of meaning, a life that makes sense?  Who are we following?  What values do these individuals advance?  Is the organization, the city, the nation and the world that they envision and that they seek to build one where people are treated with greater humanity and one where peace and harmony can reign?   In the coming year of 5773 let’s celebrate the dyslexics around us and the dyslexics within us and, together, use this capacity to see the world in different ways and to create a better world together.

Love and best wishes for a happy, sweet, healthy, and slightly altered 5773.

Lama Sukkah Zu???

Just a brief fortnight ago we were tossing Cheerios, Wheat Thins and Wonder Bread in to the oceans, creeks and estuaries, watching our sins float away or be consumed by bloated ducks.   Five days ago, Jews around the world twirled chickens and roosters around their head in another symbolic expiating of sins.  (I’m sorry, but wouldn't causing the needless suffering innocent animals be considered sinful?) I checked the Chabad online site and found the following phrase among the guidelines for Kaparot: “One cannot do kaparot with a "used" chicken.”  Another e-commerce idea down the drain.

Just when we thought Judaism couldn’t get any stranger Sukkot arrives. The building supplies come up from the basement or the garage and lie on our decks like a grotesque erector set – metal poles or wood 2 x 4’s; canvas wrapping or plywood panels; bamboo stalks or mats.  Have you tried navigating 30 pound bundles of 10 foot bamboo pole through the kitchen without knocking over the Mr. Coffee machine or displacing the toaster?  Impossible.  Hours are spent assembling.  Instructions, if they ever existed were lost 7 years ago in the last move.  It is the Ikea assembly project from hell. Forget Avraham, Izhak, Yaakov, Yosef, Moshe, Aahron and David – send me Bob Vila. Of course, the minute the sukkah is completed it starts to rain. Down here in Atlanta, Indian summer will be initiated with temperature and humidity that hovers in 3 digits and our Sukkot will become suburban sweat lodges.  Up north, an early winter will set in early with a cold front raging from Canada.  Chicken soup will freeze in bowls; matzo balls will turn into matzo meal icebergs. 

We go to shule the next day and walk around with long palm stalks and $50 lemons.  Seven days later, the sukkah parts are returned to the garage, the palm branches sit in the garbage and the etrog rots on the counter. 

I so love Sukkot. It is irrational, illogical, unreasonable and unproductive.  And thus, it is so important. We spend our days with metrics, outcome goals and billable hours.  We sit in traffic and, while our cars inch forward, we talk on the phone with clients or bosses. We check our email as we head for bed and as we rise in the morning. Even our recreation becomes task-like – we “workout”.  We don’t stroll, we power walk.  We acculturate our children to this driven lifestyle early on: Music lessons follow ballet lessons follow soccer practice field hockey practice and soccer practice.  Our children no longer play - they compete. In the midst of our focus and driven lives, Sukkot reminds us that among the keys to a purposeful life is to find moments to be purposeless. 

And when the Sukkah is complete and the first night’s meal is over, we sit sipping tea – or perhaps something stronger. Faint stars twinkle through the skach.  The canvas walls offer a sense of protection as is we are wrapped in peacefulness.  We are beyond the reach of the TV.  We have ventured past the boundaries of our wireless internet.  Perhaps we dare to turn off our iphones. We stop, we breathe.  We chat with family and friends. If children cannot be with us we recall times when our they were young and we made paper chains or strung Cheerios, cranberries and ziti noodles and draped them over and through the bamboo poles.

Purposefulness will return in the days ahead, but for now we embrace holy goofiness, and divinely inspired irrationality.  Enjoy!!

Tashlich Take Two

As Rosh Hashanah is “early” this year, I’ll be able to get on with the annual process of expiating my sins sooner.  Fortunately, this phenomenon of Jewish calendaring, precipitated by the aligning of lunar and solar years, also corresponds to the end of a rainy summer in the southeastern United States.  Rivers and streams will be flush, thus providing ample room for the trove of sins that will take the form of stale bread, challah and rice at Tashlich. 

Tashlich, the custom where, on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, Jews cast some form of grain (e.g. bread, rice, Cheerios) upon flowing water, as a metaphorical representation of casting out one’s sins, has always struck me as a cop out.  That we can unburden ourselves, even metaphorically, by tossing week-old challah, stale Wheat Thins or Shredded Wheat, soon to be bound for the disposal in any event, into the waters just seems too easy.  We need something with more bite.  We need to up the ante.  Might we take the ritual tossing of sins more seriously if the stand-in we choose for them was more dear.  For instance, I’d imagine that we’d all be far more pious if, on the afternoon of the first day of Rosh Hashanah, we all were asked to toss our I Pads and I Phones in the water to account for our sins.  Parenthetically, this would work on multiple levels for Anthony Wiener.  (Gevalt, since the days of Vlad the Impaler, has there ever been a more fitting surname).

Inquisitively, I turned to Google, my chief source for spiritual guidance, and typed in the phrase: “the world’s most expensive bread”.  Topping this list was this entry:

Harrods, London’s premier department store, now carries a most luxurious loaf. Britain’s most expensive bread and, if you believe some of the hype surrounding it, the most expensive bread in the world, the Roquefort and Almond sourdough is created with some of the finest ingredients money can buy. The bread, recognized as Britain’s most expensive by the National Association of Master Bakers, will be sold at Harrods for £15 (US $24.50).”

That’s more like it.  At $25 a loaf I’d wager that we’d all be more conscientious about sinning.  Being the consummate capitalist (thus my lucrative Hillel career), I’m thinking that there may be a potential business growth opportunity in “Tashlich” wafers (the hard, flat shape will make tossing easier).  I’m thinking three variations: light, medium and heavy sins, the latter at a minimum of $500 for a box of 10, sold with the assumption that Jews dwelling in SuperMax prisons will have access to some form of flowing water and that Bernie Madoff has some remaining disposable income.

It’s hard for me to see how the act of throwing bread in the water can or should, in any manner, exculpate past bad actions.  Metaphorically casting out past misdeeds may make us feel better but it doesn’t do much for those we’ve ‘misdeeded’ against. Thus, with the operational assumption that the Days of Awe should not just be about mitigating past mistakes but impacting future actions, this coming Rosh Hashanah, I for one, plan on finding my way to the Chattahoochee River and attempt to cast some behaviors on the water.  As the Cheerios flutter through the air and then head downstream, I’ll resolve to make a sincere effort to be less aggressive when I drive and more patient in Trader Joe’s when the customer in front of me brandishes a checkbook.  I’ll click ‘save’ instead of ‘send’ upon completing that snarky email, and will think more charitable thoughts of the parents of the screaming toddler in seats 17 C and D two rows behind me on my flight to the coast.  And literally and metaphorically, I’ll share my bread more often and more graciously so that when Tashlich rolls around next year, I’ll have less, also literally and metaphorically, to toss upon the waters.