“Hours. We climbed all night and arrived at sunrise.”
I glanced at his aging body. Such a trip would be impossible now. His narrow shoulders were hunched over, and the skin at his wrists was wrinkled and loose.
As he walked on to his office, I noticed a small detail in the photo. Along with his white shirt and a prayer shawl, the Reb was wearing the traditional
He said he climbed all night.
Which meant he had taken them up with him.
Such ritual was a major part of the Reb’s life. Morning prayers. Evening prayers. Eating certain foods. Denying himself others. On Sabbath, he walked to synagogue, rain or shine, not operating a car, as per Jewish law. On holidays and festivals, he took part in traditional practices, hosting a Seder meal on Passover, or casting bread into a stream on Rosh Hashanah, symbolic of casting away your sins.
Like Catholicism, with its vespers, sacraments, and communions-or Islam, with its five-times-daily
I remember, as a kid, the Reb admonishing the congregation-gently, and sometimes not so gently-for letting rituals lapse or disappear, for eschewing traditional acts like lighting candles or saying blessings, even neglecting the Kaddish prayer for loved ones who had died.
But even as he pleaded for a tighter grip, year after year, his members opened their fingers and let a little more go. They skipped a prayer here. They skipped a holiday there. They intermarried-as I did.
I wondered, now that his days were dwindling, how important ritual still was.
“Vital,” he said.
But why? Deep inside, you know your convictions.
“Mitch,” he said, “faith is about doing. You are how you act, not just how you believe.”
Now, the Reb didn’t merely practice his rituals; he carved his daily life from them. If he wasn’t praying, he was studying-a major part of his faith-or doing charity or visiting the sick. It made for a more predictable life, perhaps even a dull one by American standards. After all, we are conditioned to reject the “same old routine.” We’re supposed to keep things new, fresh. The Reb wasn’t into fresh. He never took up fads. He didn’t do Pilates, he didn’t golf (someone gave him a single club once; it sat in his garage for years).
But there was something calming about his pious life, the way he puttered from one custom to the next; the way certain hours held certain acts; the way every autumn he built a
“My grandparents did these things. My parents, too. If I take the pattern and throw it out, what does that say about their lives? Or mine? From generation to generation, these rituals are how we remain…”
He rolled his hand, searching for the word.
Connected? I said.
“Ah.” He smiled at me. “Connected.”
The End of Spring
As we walked to the front door that day, I felt a wave of guilt. I’d once had rituals; I’d ignored them for decades. These days, I didn’t do a single thing that tied me to my faith. Oh, I had an exciting life. Traveled a lot. Met interesting people. But my daily routines-work out, scan the news, check e-mail-were self-serving, not roped to tradition. To what was I connected? A favorite TV show? The morning paper? My work demanded flexibility. Ritual was the opposite.
Besides, I saw religious customs as sweet but outdated, like typing with carbon paper. To be honest, the closest thing I had to a religious routine was visiting the Reb. I had now seen him at work and at home, in laughter and in repose. I had seen him in Bermuda shorts.
I had also seen him more this one spring than I normally would in three years. I still didn’t get it. I was one of those disappointing congregants. Why had he chosen me to be part of his death, when I had probably let him down in life?
We reached the door.
One more question, I said.
“One mooore,” he sang, “at the doooor…”
How do you not get cynical?
He stopped.
“There is no room for cynicism in this line of work.”
But people are so flawed. They ignore ritual, they ignore faith-they even ignore you. Don’t you get tired of trying?
He studied me sympathetically. Maybe he realized what I was really asking: Why me?
“Let me answer with a story,” he said. “There’s this salesman, see? And he knocks on a door. The man who answers says, ‘I don’t need anything today.’
“The next day, the salesman returns.
“‘Stay away,’ he is told.
“The next day, the salesman is back.
“The man yells, ‘You again! I warned you!’ He gets so angry, he spits in the salesman’s face.
“The salesman smiles, wipes the spit with a handkerchief, then looks to the sky and says, ‘Must be raining.’
“Mitch, that’s what faith is. If they spit in your face, you say it must be raining. But you still come back tomorrow.”
He smiled.
“So, you’ll come back, too? Maybe not
He opened his arms as if expecting an incoming package. And for the first time in my life, I did the opposite of running away.
I gave him a hug.
It was a fast one. Clumsy. But I felt the sharp bones in his back and his whiskered cheek against mine. And in that brief embrace, it was as if a larger-than-life Man of God was shrinking down to human size.
I think, looking back, that was the moment the eulogy request turned into something else.
SUMMER
IT IS 1971…
I am thirteen. This is the big day. I lean over the holy scrolls, holding a silver pointer; its tip is the shape of a hand. I follow the ancient text, chanting the words. My teenage voice squeaks.
In the front row sit my parents, siblings, and grandparents. Behind them, more family, friends, the kids from school.
Just look down,
I go on for a while. I do pretty well. When I am finished, the group of men around me shake my wet hand. They mumble, “Yishar co-ach”-congratulations-and then I turn and take the long walk across the pulpit to where
