For over 50 years, my father preached one, and often two sermons every Shabbat. He had a lifelong love affair with Torah and was fascinated and delighted by the myriad tales spun by the rabbis over the generations. As he re-encountered the same parshiot every year, he never failed to uncover new gems and jewels. Through them, he would bring the Torah to life anew, bringing its message to bear on the issues of the day and touching the lives of all who heard his masterful words. Some of my most treasured memories are of sitting side by side with my father in the “barcalounger” in his study, as he patiently and skillfully taught me Chumash and Talmud – in the process making the content ever so much more compelling than suggested by my classroom experience.
So as I attempt to pay tribute to this extraordinary Abba of mine, I find myself turning to Torah – in the form of this week’s parsha. Thankfully, since I am not remotely of the same caliber, I was given one rich with meaning and resonating with themes that reflect his life.
In Ki Tavo, in the book of Devarim Moses reaffirms how the Children of Israel are expected to live their lives once they enter the land of Israel, and after he has left them on their own. They are promised unending bounty if they walk in God’s ways and warned of unimaginable trauma, if they go astray. The Torah describes a scene of high drama, with the tribes ascending two different mountains; from Har Greezeem they would hear blessings and from Har Aival, curses.
My father fully and deeply appreciated all of the blessings that he received from God during his long life. In fact, he was not only profoundly grateful – he was utterly amazed by the many blessings of his life. His entire life was a fulfillment of the command; V’Samachta b’chol hatov asher natan lecha adonati elohechah u’l'vaitechah. And you shall enjoy all the bounty – all the good – that the Lord your God has bestowed upon you. And in keeping with the blessing of the parsha, baruch pri bitn’chah, Blessed be the fruit of your womb, he treasured the blessing of his family most of all.
But in fact, for periods of his life, he lived squarely in this valley between har Greezeem and Har Aival, between blessings and curses. My father was only seven years old when he came home from school one day to find his father’s small neighborhood grocery store inexplicably dark and closed. With no warning or preparation, he lost his cherished mother, Leah. His childhood, such as it was, living in a hard working immigrant family, ended that day.The other formative event of my father’s life took place in the early years of his rabbinic career, when his commitment to serve the Jewish people led him to encounter the ashes of Dachau and the broken bodies and spirits of those who survived the darkest chapter of modern Jewish history. They had been tortured by a monstrous regime – one that fits the description of this parsha’s curses when it describes God bringing a nation to oppose Israel from afar; “… a ruthless nation that will show the old no regard and the young no mercy”.
My father’s experiences in Europe shook him to his core and for a brief period, even challenged his faith. But in the end, he emerged with a heightened sense of urgency about Jewish continuity and spiritual survival. And though we never talked about it, I wonder if living through that nightmare, seeing the devastation and despair brought about by such depravity, left him with the impulse to thank God anew for each act of human kindness, and each moment of beauty and meaning.
His brushes with Har Aival left him with an appreciation not just for the preciousness of life’s blessings, but also for their fragility. And it may also may have explained some curious paradoxes about him. My father exhibited fierce strength and courage in many ways, but he was also the parent who checked our breathing before we went to sleep every night, who wept when we left for summer camp and who couldn’t keep himself from reminding us to “look over our left shoulder for turning cars” every time we left the house. Just a month or 2 ago, he told me to watch my own girls (18 and 21!) in the ocean when I told him we were going to Cape Cod for the weekend.
But there was also a lightness, charm and humor to my father’s private side that was not apparent to those who saw the imposing, at times even intimidating public presence. My father, who rarely, if ever left the house without a suit and was known by precious few by anything other than Rabbi, showed a different side altogether to his young children (many years ago). I remember many a shabbat morning, after he had wished the last congregant Shabbat shalom. He would don his homburg, head for home and when he was sure no one was looking, skip as high as he could, holding me tight and springing me with him into the sky (or so it felt).
His appreciation for the blessing of his children qualified him uniquely for the role of parent and he adapted to our needs as we grew. Riding in the car with him as he chauffeured me around as a teenager, I insisted on commandeering the radio dial, (as do my children now) My father clearly would have preferred his classical station but he tolerated my choice. He joked that what he liked most about rock and roll was how good it felt when you shut it off. I tried to teach him about my music, holding forth at length on one particular day about the brilliance of Don McLean’s American Pie album. I came home the next day to find it on my bed. It wasn’t my birthday or Chanukah, just the sign of a father’s love and respect.
My father may have shared a different side of himself with us but he was always the same person, guided by the same deeply held convictions and profound faith, by his belief in God and commitment to his family and people. The common thread in the sins of this parsha is that they are committed in secrecy, when people can’t be held accountable to anyone but God. My father lived through darkness but absorbed none of it – he lived a life without secrets or hypocrisy, and provided the kind of model that all of us strive to be for our own children.
Ki tavo’s blessings include the words, baruch atah b’vo-echah uvaruch atah b’tzaytechech, Blessed shall you be in your comings and blessed shall you be your goings. According to the commentator Chatam Sofer, only if you leave this world in righteousness can you truly be said to have been blessed – and this can be said only of the fewest. My father’s life was blessed – and was a blessing for all of us touched by him.
Tzaytechah l’shalom Abba.
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