Off the Pulpit

In his short story “Scheherazade,” novelist John Barth writes that “the key to the treasure is the treasure.”

I think about this sometimes when I listen to the Torah reader on Shabbat. The ability to read an ancient text seems as great a gift as the meaning itself. For a tradition to remain accessible after thousands of years is itself an extraordinary blessing. We hold the key, and holding it is itself a treasure.

The Rabbis understood and dramatized this lesson. We are told that when the ancient Temple was burning the Cohanim climbed to the roof and threw the keys to the Temple toward the heavens, and a hand emerged to receive them (Ta’anit 29b).

Many years ago I heard my father comment on this Midrash that while the Priests threw the keys to the Temple, they did not throw the keys to the Torah. That remained in our hands, because with it we could one day rebuild what we had lost. Learning is our key, as precious in itself as the lessons it unlocks.

In the past week very heavy winds struck Los Angeles, and in our chapel a window broke and the Ner Tamid came crashing down. Ner Tamid is usually translated as “eternal light” and it is supposed to be perpetually lit as inspired by the menorah in the ancient Temple, and some say, as a reminder of God’s eternal presence.

So what happens when such a light is extinguished? In our chapel, what happened was that the children who witnessed it continued their service and our prayer minyan continues morning and evening each day while it is being repaired. The light is a symbol; the behavior it is intended to inspire is what counts most of all.

Throughout Jewish history, synagogues have been destroyed or abandoned and ‘eternal’ lights extinguished. The true eternal light is in the heart of each Jew who takes up the words of the tradition and offers them back to God. Despite the winds, the window and the crash, the light did not go out in our chapel; prayer and God’s presence still shine bright.

Recently I was asked what I would say to a secular Jew who wondered why he should donate to Jewish causes. This was my answer:If you travel throughout the United States, indeed throughout the world, you will see that Jews have given vast sums to cultivate the arts, sciences, medical research and so forth. The amount given is wildly disproportionate to our very small numbers. Why? Because centuries of Jewish teaching have implanted in our spiritual DNA the necessity of supporting such causes.

Now you – the secular Jew – may not believe in the teachings that shaped you. Nonetheless, they did shape you. As the generous person you have become is a boon to the world, you should want more to be like you. So support the places that will produce more Jews who will give. No one can force belief, but we can very effectively cultivate values. If you are proud of who you have become, give others the same chance. Jewish schools, camps, Federations and synagogues need support not only for the good of Judaism, but for the good of the world.

The rabbis teach that Abraham was the first who had the merit of looking old. Notice the word — “merit.” It was considered, by our tradition, a good thing; it meant you had lived and learned. We compliment people by saying, “You look so young!” Accomplishment and wisdom counted more to our ancestors than vitality; innocence was not as valued as experience. For our tradition, what lay before you was not as important as what was behind you.

Recently in my synagogue, we celebrated three remarkable individuals who reached their 100th birthdays. One hundred years is a long time when measuring a human life. Each was distinguished in different fields, and together, they summed up the Jewish experience of the 20th century.

I am proud and privileged to introduce you to the star, the scientist and the survivor.

It is a privilege and a blessing to know each of them. The first is the star: Kirk Douglas, born Issur Danielovitch.

One day in the mid-’90s, I was preparing to move back to New York to teach at the Jewish Theological Seminary. The phone rang and when I answered, the voice on the other end of the line said, “This is Kirk Douglas.”

Yes, I wanted to say, and I’m the queen of England.

But it was! He had seen me on a TV show about the Bible and wanted to study together. But I was leaving. Two years later, when I came to Sinai Temple, we reconnected and have been studying together ever since.

The first time I met him, he told me that because of his stroke, he spoke slowly and felt a little guilty for it. I said, “Don’t feel guilty, everyone uses what they have. Didn’t you always use the fact that you were handsome and charming?” I asked. “You know,” Douglas answered, “I never thought I was handsome.”

“Really?” I marveled, “and what about charming?”

“Oh,” he said, “I always knew I was charming.”

Kirk Douglas grew up so poor that his father would pick up rags off the street and resell them. On a hot day when I was marveling at air conditioning, I said to him, “My God, in your day, you had a block of ice and a fan.” He fixed me with his famous stare and said, “Who had a fan?”

But he roared out of Brooklyn and onto the stage and screen. He named his production company after his mother, Bryna. She lived to see it in lights on Broadway. Surrounded by friends and family, he celebrated his 100th birthday.

He and his wife, Anne, have dedicated almost 500 playgrounds, enabling kids from poor neighborhoods to have beautiful, modern facilities on which to play. In addition to his other charities, they named the Early Childhood Center here at Sinai Temple.

The scientist, Abe Zarem, was born in Chicago. Abe is among the dwindling number of surviving people who worked on the Manhattan Project, the greatest cooperative scientific endeavor of modern times. Physicist Robert Oppenheimer directed the Los Alamos Laboratory in New Mexico, where scientists dedicated themselves to building an atomic bomb before our enemies accomplished it.

After such an auspicious beginning, Abe went on to the Stanford Research Institute and became vice president of Xerox. He is also responsible for the invention of the camera with the fastest shutter speed in the world.

But Abe is gifted not only with an extraordinary scientific mind. His mother told him when he was young that his life’s mission was to meet gifted people and make them better than they would have been if they hadn’t met him. So Abe mentored thousands of people — scientists and CEOs and more than a couple of rabbis.

When Abe first took me under his wing, he told me he was a mentor and a tormentor. He pushed, encouraged and gave honest feedback.

Our Chumashim are dedicated by Abe and Esther as a legacy of this man. Each time we follow along in the Torah, it is because of the philanthropy of Abe Zarem, whose foundation gives to causes near and far.

On Yom Kippur, this then-99-year-old man chanted the Book of Jonah — the entire book — in a voice the entire congregation could hear. It rang out, and we were stunned by the vitality and skill of someone who has seen so much and done so much.
And the survivor: Max Webb. Max was born in Lodz, Poland. He and his family were taken by the Nazis. He trained himself as a medic and survived 18 concentration camps. He saw the worst of human beings.

But he knew he would survive if it was possible. He told his mother when the Nazis were coming that if she heard he was shot or hanged, it might be true, but if she heard he starved, don’t believe it. He knew he had the smarts and resources to survive.

After the war, he became a dance instructor. And the same grace and spirit that animated his dance has woven throughout his life.

Max’s success as a builder touches all areas of his life. He promised that if he survived, he would help rebuild Jewish life. And he has — here and in Israel. Apart from the actual buildings he has created, many synagogues, schools and even university programs owe their existence to this remarkable man.

I could not be more proud to be the Max Webb Senior Rabbi of Sinai Temple.

No life can be adequately summarized in a few sentences. Even more, no 100-year-old life can. And most of all, not lives as rich and fascinating as those of Kirk, Abe and Max.

In these three lives is the story of our people. The star, the scientist, the survivor. One created works of art that millions admire. The second created products and ideas that benefited the lives of countless people. The third supported Jewish life here and abroad and told the story of our people over and over again to young and old.

All three have unbelievable life force. These are men who, even at 100, sparkle with life and give you life when you are with them. They have seen incredible changes; they were born at the end of World War I, an era of trench warfare and silent pictures. These men and a few others like them took that world and brought it kicking and screaming into the 21st century.

Not only their talents, but their longevity enabled these three titans to contribute so much to our community and to the world. We are fortunate to be the beneficiaries of their goodness, generosity and wisdom. The rabbis were right: The blessings of age are often greater than the blessings of youth.

Many Hasidic passages teach that true worship of God comes from inside oneself. Rabbi Bunim commenting on a passage in the Talmud, said that if one wishes to be stringent solely because his father was stringent, he is not allowed to do so. Authenticity and not imitation is the standard of devotion.

If that is so, what do we do with the many teachings that are inheritances? Surely most of Judaism is what we learn from others, not what we arrive at ourselves.

First we must distinguish between commandments, which need not originate with oneself, and practices which are outgrowths of those commandments. Rabbi Bunim spoke of special practices that each individual can cultivate for himself. But also, Judaism teaches us that observance seeps inward: we begin by doing something because we learned it and end by doing it because it has become part of our life-pattern. As we grow into Torah, our authenticity takes the shape of the tradition, each with its own individual variation. Judaism is cast in the shape of the human soul; who we are and what we learn fuse into a Jewish lifestyle.

Why do we open the door for Elijah at the Passover Seder? In the Bible, Elijah does not die (he goes up to heaven in a chariot – see 2 Kings, chapter 2). Therefore he is the prophet our tradition assumes will return to announce the coming of the Messiah.

The cup of Elijah stands on the table because of an unresolved Talmudic dispute over whether there should be four or five cups of wine at the Seder table. We use four. If Elijah drinks, we learn that five is the correct answer. The Rabbis teach that when Elijah comes all remaining disputes of law will be resolved. So keep your eye on that cup.

Finally, there are particular reasons for the special times Elijah is anticipated – at a brit milah, the end of Shabbat, the end of Yom Kippur, and Passover. But also, they are all family times. We are told of the Messiah that: “He will turn the hearts of the parents to their children, and the hearts of the children to their parents” (Malachi 4:6). So if on the night of the Seder you are gathered in joy with family, you have experienced a taste of the Messianic age, even if Elijah has not yet arrived. Chag Kasher V’sameach.

Is it strange to say that Jews don’t read the Bible? We study the Torah, of course, but for many that is an enterprise confined to synagogue. So we read the five books, and the haftaroth, which are passages from the historical and prophetic writings. But even the books that are part of the liturgical calendar — Jonah, Esther, Ecclesiastes and so forth, are too often neglected.

But what riches! To read the book of Job is to understand why it is a touchstone for sufferers throughout the generations. Its eloquence and anger speak for every person in pain. Its arguments feel as if lifted from our own hearts and turned to poems. Ecclesiastes (Koheleth) is a compendium of life wisdom, that grows with the years we bring to it. Ruth is a tale of charm and commitment that draws people to Judaism to this day. This is just a sampling, and all of these books can be read in a very brief time.

Yes, much has changed since the time of the Bible, but not the human heart. Our frustrations were anticipated by Koheleth, our sense of peril by Esther, our exultation at love by the Song of Songs. These books have fed souls for thousands of years. Find out why. Feed your soul.

Everyone knows that the conditions of life make a huge difference to its quality. If you are hungry, or sick, or sad over loss, it is much harder to feel that life is as good as when your needs are met. But we also know that sometimes a shift in attitude can make a dramatic difference. And a wise, loving word can help us see things in a new light.

Rabbi Aryeh Levin was called the holy man of Jerusalem. He spent his adult life visiting prisoners of all sorts, bringing them food, learning and comfort. Once after Passover some of the prisoners said to Rabbi Levin that because they were in prison they could not perform the rite of opening the door for Elijah. Therefore they did not feel they had a real chance at redemption.

Rabbi Levin’s answer: “Every person is in a prison of his own self. He cannot leave by going out of the house, but only by opening the door of the heart. And to make an opening in his own heart – that anyone can do, even a prisoner behind bars. And then he truly will be spiritually free.”

When I ran a library I often had the experience of pulling a book from the shelf, out of idle curiosity, only to discover that no one had looked at that book for many years. Sometimes, as I began to leaf through it I discovered treasures. In the spirit of the marvelous site neglectedbooks.com, things that seemed moribund sprung to life and made a difference.

Such experiences remind me of the mania for preservation that drives the Jewish people. Why do we continually tend vast gardens of old learning? In part because one never knows when a comment, an insight or interpretation, will spring to life in someone’s soul, and give the guidance that makes a difference.

Joseph Brodsky was a Russian-Jewish Nobel prize winning poet. He proposed a vast poetry publishing project: “Books find their readers. And if they will not sell, well, let them lie around, absorb dust, rot, and disintegrate. There is always going to be a child who will fish a book out of the garbage heap. I was such a child, for what it’s worth; so, perhaps, were some of you.” So, I hope, are all of us.