118 — 🎶 “Teach Your Children Well” 🎶 (Fall 1999)

    After serving the northern Chicago suburbs of Highland Park, Glencoe and Wilmette for two decades, Congregation Hakafa (Hebrew for “the circle”) still didn’t have a synagogue building.  These northern suburbs were among the most affluent of all of Illinois, so they certainly had the necessary financial resources.  Rather than investing in a building, they had opted to invest in the Jewish education—especially of their children—in response to the instruction to “teach these things diligently to your children” [Deut 6:4-7, The Koren Jerusalem Bible].  This passage which starts with the Shema is the one thing that stuck with me from my own Jewish education.  

Pegi and I had been consciously following HaShem as adults for two decades.  Abi had only recently turned 13.  She had not had much exposure to life from a Jewish perspective.  Most significantly, since Pegi and I had been hanging out in the Christian world up until this time, she had never been around other Jewish kids her age.  She had a nascent instinct concerning her Jewish identity, but that needed to grow.  As parents, we hadn’t provided her instruction as to what her budding Jewish identity was all about.  We need to “diligently” teach her the “things” she would need for her own life with HaShem.  

As I wrote this today, I was reminded of the Crosby, Stills & Nash song from 1970, that says, “Teach your children well.”  The lyrics paint a scene of living by a code while traveling the road of life.  Parents are encouraged to, “Feed them on your dreams” so that they can find their own way.  The interesting lyric which follows reverses the flow to where the children feed their parents on their dreams.  The parents inspire the child who in-turn inspires the parent as they all travel the road of life.  

You can’t teach what you don’t know and you can’t demonstrate what you haven’t experienced.  Anything else is just theory.  To teach Abi well, Pegi and I would need to learn more and experience Jewish life more deeply.  But, to just dive into the pool of Jewish life was risky.  My father had tried just tossing me in that pool, but when I came up for air, I couldn’t stay afloat for long just dog-paddling!  A better solution would to have been to start me wading in the shallow water where I could progress at my own pace.  Neither were Pegi and I ready to just dive into the deep waters of 3500 years of Jewish learning.  All of us needed to spend some time in the shallow end of the pool.  It turned out, that Hakafa was that shallow entrance to Jewish life that we all needed.  That is not to say that there wasn’t depth there—there was depth, but the approach/entrance was right at the level that we needed at that time.  It was the ideal context for us to begin our reentry to Judaism.

(To this day, this “circle of friends” continues to rent space in the Glencoe Recreation Center and Winnetka Community House, so that they can devote resources to teaching their children well.)  

In 1999, after our meeting with Rabbi Marx, we made our first visit as a family at the Glencoe Recreation Center on a Sunday morning in September.  Pegi, Abi and I were “dressed up” rather than in casual attire as we were accustomed to do when visiting any type of gathering for the first time.  Better to be overdressed than underdressed!  After parking, we were wandering through the mostly empty recreation center.  We were about 20 minutes early—better early than late!  [When we lived in Israel with 9 million other Jews we discovered that “being late” was a feature of Jewish life.  After all, each one of us is in a personal relationship with HaShem and should we rush Him just to please everyone else?]    

As we looked for signs of life or even just a literal sign to point us in the right direction, we ran into a nice looking twenty-something man wearing a kippah (skullcap).  His face lit up with a smile when he saw that we were visitors and he introduced himself as the youth rabbi.  Rabbi Bruce Elder would be a pivotal character in Abi’s life in the coming days and years.  He would later become our rabbi when Rabbi Marx retired.  So, not only did he assist us in teaching Abi, but he was instrumental in our learning as well.  For Pegi, who had not had any Jewish education, he would guide her through full immersion into Jewish living.

Noticing our business casual attire, Bruce told us that in this “circle” you just “come as you are—no need to dress up.”  That welcoming spirit was characteristic of Hakafa.  There was no need to put on airs.  Everyone was accepted as they were.  Everyone was welcome no matter their background, Jewish or Gentile, rich or poor, attractive or not, religious or secular, etc.  Hakafa invited all who desired to walk through life with God.  Consequently, Hakafa was populated with a broad range of people with diverse histories.  It was filled with the sounds of life, but it was not an echo chamber.  

I think we all struggle with how we will be perceived when we encounter others.  It is important to know that God accepts you as you are.  After all, He created you in His image and likeness:  

וַיִּבְרָ֨א אֱלֹהִ֤ים ׀ אֶת־הָֽאָדָם֙ בְּצַלְמ֔וֹ בְּצֶ֥לֶם אֱלֹהִ֖ים בָּרָ֣א אֹת֑וֹ זָכָ֥ר וּנְקֵבָ֖ה בָּרָ֥א אֹתָֽם׃

And God created humankind in his image, in the image of God did he create it, male and female he created them.

[Gen 1:26 — The Schocken Bible, Everett Fox, 1995]

As we entered the new millennium, we were together as a family in the midst of a circle of families that was part of the larger circle of families — “B'nai Yisrael" (בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל) - the children of Israel — no longer “wandering” down the path of life alone.   

117 — Meeting the Rabbi (1999)

    Pegi and I set up a meeting with the rabbi of Congregation Hakafa, Dr. Robert Marx.  I was self-conscious about my non-kosher history.  As people got to know us, would we be welcomed or shunned? After all, we had actually been missionaries and I had written my dissertation on present-day Jewish Jesus-followers!  There was every reason to suspect our motives.  

You see, this wasn’t my first encounter with a rabbi.  Of course, I had attended my father's Orthodox synagogue, Anshei Sfard on major Jewish holidays.  I never really had a conversation with Rabbi Rudman, but was present for some “hallway” conversations he had with my father as well as hearing the occasional remarks he would make from the Bema (pulpit).  He was always accommodating and seemingly genuinely happy to see me.  I remember his pleasant smile and gentle humor.  

My father rarely attended synagogue functions. When I was about 15, I was with him at the synagogue on one Shabbat (Saturday) morning.  As we were leaving, we had one of those “hallway” conversations with Rabbi Rudman.  My father was recounting all of his recent charitable work with the congregations of a number of African-American pastors in the Louisville area.  As he recounted all his activities, he asked, “Rabbi, I have been doing all these things to help out these church congregations.  What can I do to help my congregation?”  Rabbi Rudman paused and then smiling, answered, “Show-up once and a while!”

Five years later, I returned home from my Jesus Freak summer in California (chapters 3-12) just before leaving for Navy basic training.  My secular Jewish mother was pleased that I was no longer dabbling in psychedelic culture, but was not equipped to engage my theological interests.  She suggested I go see my high school rabbi at Adath Israel, Dr. Chester Diamond. 

I hadn’t seen Rabbi Diamond since my “confirmation” in 10th grade.  He tried to help me understand why Jews did not accept Jesus as Messiah, but this was 1969 and I think I was his first encounter with a dizzy Jewish/psychedelic/Jesus Freak! Years later, in 1995, I met with him again as I was starting my doctoral research on Jewish Christians. Dr. Diamond was now very experienced dealing with the impact of the Jews for Jesus phenomenon.  His perspective became an important part of my dissertation.   

In 1978, I was a chaplain in the Rhodesian Army stationed at Llewellyn Barracks in Bulawayo [Chap 50 — “Muck” and Mire].  This was the national training center for all the Rhodesian draftees.  I was responsible for conducting weekly services for them.  Of the several hundred trainees, there were five who were Jewish.  I didn’t feel that they should have to participate in Christian services, but neither was I equipped to help them.  So, I asked the rabbi from the Bulawayo synagogue [https://zjc.org.il/bulawayo-hebrew-congregation/] to visit them during “Padre’s Hour” on Wednesday afternoons.  He quickly identified me as a Jew—even though I was serving as a Christian chaplain.  He invited Pegi and me to the Friday evening synagogue services followed by a Shabbat meal with his family. 

We were welcomed into his home to meet his wife, children and her brother (also a rabbi) and sister-in-law who were visiting from Israel. I had been concerned that my identification with Christianity would be a source of tension.  To the contrary, we were warmly received.  It was just what I had experienced at my Uncle Herman’s Shabbat table during my teens—good food, interesting conversations and a feeling of being part of the family.  There was no tension, only warmth and kindness.  Even when our after dinner conversation turned to theological topics, our different perspectives were gently and respectfully validated as genuine.  

A humorous moment came as our lively discussions continued into the late evening.   Earlier that morning, I had received an alert of an imminent terrorist attack on the Bulawayo power station.  Alerts such as these were common in 1978, so I was “alerted” not alarmed.  But, as we conversed, suddenly the lights in the house all went out!  Now I was alarmed—huddling with  Pegi as we slid off the sofa to shelter on the floor.  

In the faint light of the street lights that had not gone dark, we saw the two rabbis and their wives calmly sitting as they gazed down at us.  The rabbi then said, “Oh, I am sorry.  Our lights are on a timer since we don’t turn lights on or off on Shabbat.”  I chuckled as I remembered the biblical prohibition of kindling a fire on Shabbat (Exod 35:3).  Wow, I was really distant from my Jewish roots!

We had a good laugh about this and as we decided to call it a night, the Israeli brother-in-law invited us to be their guests in Israel for a few months to learn more about what it meant to be Jewish.   I wasn’t ready yet, but the seed that was planted in my soul that evening began to take root and continued to grow until we moved to Israel 45 years later.

When my father died in 1992, we sat Shivah (7-day mourning period) at his brother Herman’s home.  It had been 25 years since my last Shabbat with Uncle Herman.  This was the occasion that we met the new rabbi of Congregation Ashei Sfard.  This was my first encounter with an Hasidic-Orthodox rabbi who had learned from the Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (1902-1994), the seventh leader in the Chabad-Lubavitch dynasty, affectionately known as “The Rebbe”—probably the most influential Jewish leader of the 20th century.  I was vaguely aware of Chabad movement as one of outreach to secularized Jews like me.  Even though I knew that Chabad was warm and friendly to Jews and gentiles alike, I really didn’t know what to expect from this thirty-something, severe looking man with his full beard, black suit and black-hat.  I was very conscious that we moved in different circles!   Feeling like a fish out of water, I found him to be refreshing pleasant and patiently helpful as I stumbled through reading the Kaddish (Mourner’s Prayer).

As we sat with Rabbi Marx in 1999, I was more conscious than ever of my own lack of Jewish knowledge and experience.  My doctorate in World Religions included deep dives into Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, African Traditional Religions and Islam, but only one 3-credit class on Judaism. I was made an adjunct professor of biblical Hebrew just because I was Jewish.  My Hebrew language studies (20 credits undergraduate/6 credits graduate), meant that I was qualified to teach how to read the Bible in the original language.  However, it didn’t mean that I really knew much about living as a Jew!  

In addition to his rabbinic education and six decades of experience leading a congregation, Rabbi Marx was Yale-educated with a doctorate in Philosophy.  It sounds kind of funny to say that he had was a Doctor of Philosophy in “Philosophy”!  And I was a Doctor of Philosophy. in World Religions (minus Judaism). What little knowledge of Judaism that I had was intellectual and theological.  Rabbi Marx was able to relate to me intellectually and theologically—just what I needed!

Pegi and I set up a meeting with the rabbi of Congregation Hakafa, Dr. Robert Marx.  I was self-conscious about my non-kosher history.  As people got to know us, would we be welcomed or shunned? After all, we had actually been missionaries and I had written my dissertation on present-day Jewish Jesus-followers!  There was every reason to suspect our motives.  

You see, this wasn’t my first encounter with a rabbi.  Of course, I had attended my father's Orthodox synagogue, Anshei Sfard on major Jewish holidays.  I never really had a conversation with Rabbi Rudman, but was present for some “hallway” conversations he had with my father as well as hearing the occasional remarks he would make from the Bema (pulpit).  He was always accommodating and seemingly genuinely happy to see me.  I remember his pleasant smile and gentle humor.  

My father had rarely attended synagogue functions. When I was about 15, I was with him at the synagogue on one Shabbat (Saturday) morning.  As we were leaving, we had one of those “hallway” conversations with Rabbi Rudman.  My father was recounting all of his recent charitable work with the congregations of a number of African-American pastors in the Louisville area.  As he recounted all his activities, he asked, “Rabbi, I have been doing all these things to help out these church congregations.  What can I do to help my congregation?”  Rabbi Rudman paused and then smiling, answered, “Show-up once and a while!”

Five years later, I returned home from my Jesus Freak summer in California (chapters 3-12) just before leaving for Navy basic training.  My secular Jewish mother was pleased that I was no longer dabbling in psychedelic culture, but was not equipped to engage my theological interests.  She suggested I go see my high school rabbi at Adath Israel, Dr. Chester Diamond. 

I hadn’t seen Rabbi Diamond since my “confirmation” in 10th grade.  He tried to help me understand why Jews did not accept Jesus as Messiah, but this was 1969 and I think I was his first encounter with a dizzy Jewish/psychedelic/Jesus Freak! Years later, in 1995, I met with him again as I was starting my doctoral research on Jewish Christians. Dr. Diamond was now very experienced dealing with the impact of the Jews for Jesus phenomenon, and his perspective became an important part of my dissertation.   

In 1978, I was a chaplain in the Rhodesian Army stationed at Llewellyn Barracks in Bulawayo [Chap 50 — “Muck” and Mire].  This was the national training center for all the Rhodesian draftees.  I was responsible for conducting weekly services for them.  Of the several hundred trainees, there were five who were Jewish.  I didn’t feel that they should have to participate in Christian services, but neither was I equipped to help them.  So, I asked the rabbi from the Bulawayo synagogue [https://zjc.org.il/bulawayo-hebrew-congregation/] to visit them during “Padre’s Hour” on Wednesday afternoons.  He quickly identified me as a Jew—even though I was serving as a Christian chaplain.  He invited Pegi and me to the Friday evening synagogue services followed by a Shabbat meal with his family. 

We were welcomed into his home to meet his wife, children and her brother (also a rabbi) and sister-in-law who were visiting from Israel. I had been concerned that my identification with Christianity would be a source of tension.  To the contrary, we were warmly received.  It was just what I had experienced at my Uncle Herman’s Shabbat table during my teens—good food, interesting conversations and a feeling of being part of the family.  There was no tension, only warmth and kindness.  Even when our after dinner conversation turned to theological topics, our different perspectives were gently and respectfully validated as genuine.  

A humorous moment came as our lively discussions continued into the late evening.   Earlier that morning, I had received an alert of an imminent terrorist attack on the Bulawayo power station.  Alerts such as these were common in 1978, so I was “alerted” not alarmed.  But, as we conversed, suddenly the lights in the house all went out!  Now I was alarmed—huddling with  Pegi as we slid off the sofa to shelter on the floor.  

In the faint light of the street lights that had not gone dark, we saw the two rabbis and their wives calmly sitting as they gazed down at us.  The rabbi then said, “Oh, I am sorry.  Our lights are on a timer since we don’t turn lights on or off on Shabbat.”  I chuckled as I remembered the biblical prohibition of kindling a fire on Shabbat (Exod 35:3).  Wow, I was really distant from my Jewish roots!

We had a good laugh about this and as we decided to call it a night, the Israeli brother-in-law invited us to be their guests in Israel for a few months to learn more about what it meant to be Jewish.   I wasn’t ready yet, but the seed that was planted in my soul that evening began to take root and continued to grow until we did move to Israel about 45 years later.

When my father died in 1992, we sat Shivah (7-day mourning period) at his brother Herman’s home.  It had been 25 years since my last Shabbat with Uncle Herman.  This was the occasion that we met the new rabbi of Congregation Ashei Sfard.  This was my first encounter with an Hasidic-Orthodox rabbi who had learned from the Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (1902-1994), the seventh leader in the Chabad-Lubavitch dynasty, affectionately known as “The Rebbe”—probably the most influential Jewish leader of the 20th century.  I was vaguely aware of the Chabad movement as one of outreach to secularized Jews like me.  Even though I knew that Chabad was warm and friendly to Jews and gentiles alike, I really didn’t know what to expect from this thirty-something, severe looking man with his full beard, black suit and black-hat.  I was very conscious that we moved in different circles!   Feeling like a fish out of water, I found him to be refreshingly pleasant and patiently helpful as I stumbled through reading the Kaddish (Mourner’s Prayer).

Now as we sat with Rabbi Marx of Congregation Hakafa in 1999, I was more conscious than ever of my own lack of Jewish knowledge and experience.  My doctorate in World Religions had included deep dives into Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, African Traditional Religions and Islam, but only one 3-credit class on Judaism. I was made an adjunct professor of biblical Hebrew just because I was Jewish.  My Hebrew language studies (20 credits undergraduate/6 credits graduate), meant that I was qualified to teach how to read the Bible in the original language.  However, it didn’t mean that I really knew much about living as a Jew!  

In addition to his rabbinic education and six decades of experience leading a congregation, Rabbi Marx was Yale-educated with a doctorate in Philosophy.  It sounds kind of funny to say that he had was a Doctor of Philosophy in “Philosophy”!  And I was a Doctor of Philosophy. in World Religions (minus Judaism). What little knowledge of Judaism that I had was intellectual and theological.  Rabbi Marx was able to relate to me intellectually and theologically—just what I needed!

During our meeting Pegi and I shared the broad outline of our journeys from childhood to middle age.  No, I didn’t bore him with all the details that I have written here!  He understood that the journey had taken us through many struggles, but that those very struggles had led us to the present.  The past was the past.  What we experienced in the past had brought us to where we were.  Where we had been wasn’t the point.  It was where were now and more importantly, it was where we were heading.  

Rabbi Marx assured us that we were welcome to join with a mixed multitude of fellow-travelers who had “interesting” histories themselves. And so, began the next phase of the journey that had begun in the late 60s.  We were no longer alone—we were together with Bnei Yisrael (בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל - children of Israel) journeying to the place of God’s promise. 

My perspective today after another three decades is this:  It is not even where you are.  It is who you are wherever you are.  Who you are will take form as you move towards HaShem.  Keep looking to Him and let your past be your past.  That is spiritual growth.  That is what I understand from the first of the Ten Commandments:

לֹֽ֣א־יִהְיֶ֥͏ֽה־לְךָ֛֩ אֱלֹהִ֥֨ים אֲחֵרִ֖֜ים עַל־פָּנָֽ͏ַ֗י׃ 

You shall have no other gods besides Me.

I prefer to translate “besides Me” עַל־פָּנָֽ͏ַ֗י more literally, “before My face.”  In other words, don’t let anything be a roadblock to your approach to the very face/presence of God.  The  journey is not only about self-discovery, self-connection, self-improvement or becoming “religious.”  The goal of the journey is to draw close to HaShem.  Just keep moving forward!

Together with other wandering Jews in the “circle” of Hakafa, we were ready to continue our journey under the gentle guidance of Rabbi Marx.

116 — Don’t hurry, but pick up the pace! (1991-1999)

I had abandoned my university studies in 1969.  Two decades later, I was a student again—this time working towards my doctorate.  Maybe I took the advice about not being “in a hurry to be an old man” too literally—Ya think?  

Actually, my quest for understanding never went away.  I just slowed my pace in recognition that there was no shortcut to wisdom and rushing ahead meant tumbling back down mountain peaks that you weren’t ready to climb—usually landing on your backside!  If you have tried to climb to the peak of a mountain, you know that there are many intermediate peaks and valleys that you can not see from your start at ground level.  It is not a straightforward climb to the top.

By the 1990s, I was ready to conquer the last peak of my academic studies.  I accelerated my effort—finishing my B.A., M.Div. and Ph.D.  During my Ph.D. studies I served as an Adjunct  Professor, teaching Masters level courses in World Religions and Biblical Hebrew. By 1997 I had developed proficiency in the languages, theologies, methodologies and historical/cultural contexts of human religious experience.  More importantly, I now had the basic tools to more objectively examine my own subjective religious experience.  I was an “older” man!  

Along the way, I had sorted through all the baggage I had acquired, discarding the misconceptions and false gods that had weighed me down or impeded my progress.  This meant abandoning efforts to find common cause with evangelical Christians who insisted that it was their way or the highway!  We had experienced meaningful connections with many of the Christians we  had encountered, but our paths diverged.  They insisted on asserting that Jesus was the way to get to God and the full manifestation of God in human form.  After two decades, I could no longer tolerate that assertion.  For me, Jesus was just a human being whose story evidenced a desire to live for God, but Jesus was not God.  In addition, he did not meet the biblical qualifications nor fulfill the expectations of a messiah (משיח “anointed one” - used for significant leaders).  

As I was finishing my dissertation, I was offered a lectureship in World Religions and Hebrew  Language and Biblical Studies at a Christian graduate program in Singapore.  I hoped that this position might afford me space to continue my journey.  Anyway, I needed to earn a living for my family and this sure beat selling insurance!  So, Pegi, Abi and I packed up our life in Louisville and headed to southeast Asia.  

   Abi’s 13th birthday in Singapore, 1999

Singapore was a fascinating experience, but I quickly became frustrated with content demands made on me as a teacher and the administrative interference in how we lived as a family.  I enjoyed teaching and interacting with the students, but after 18 months of Christian religious bureaucracy, we parted ways for a fresh start as a Jewish family without any Christian connections. 

As we left Singapore, I stood at my academic peak, surveying the path that lay ahead.  Just as my ancestors had trekked from Egypt through the wilderness for decades and faced their future in the land across the Jordan River that God had promised, I too, was looking ahead to experience His promise for me.  Looking back at my own life now that I am an old man, I see the parallels. My years of wandering in the wilderness were over. It was time to move forward to live in the “land” that God had promised.  

We decided not to return to Louisville this time—we needed a fresh start.  Pegi had been offered a surgical nursing position in Highland Park Hospital, a northern suburb of Chicago.  I hoped to find a teaching position in one of the many nearby colleges.  We found a nice apartment just a block away from the hospital and enrolled 13 year old Abi in a nearby middle school.  She made a Jewish friend on the first day of class whose mother introduced us to a nearby Jewish congregation.  We met the rabbi and rapidly found ourselves in a wonderful circle of Jewish families at Congregation Hakafa (“the circle”).

115 — Don’t Be in a Hurry to Be an Old Man

The first part of this story (chap 1-107), covers the years 1967-87.  I wrote that from my perspective in 2009-2014, several decades later as I entered my mid-life.  This second volume reflects my thinking in 2025 and covers the period of 1988-present.  Now, from my viewpoint in my mid-70s, I have a broader perspective on all of this.  

As I have picked up where I left off in telling this story, I have noticed that the wild and crazy rollercoaster ride of my earlier years has slowed.  As a writer, I find the details of my mid-life less interesting.  As a reader, you have probably noticed that the earlier narration had some zest to it as I recounted the unique, interesting, and somewhat humorous experiences.  After our return from Zimbabwe in 1987, the events are more mundane and frankly, a bit boring!  

Parenthood effected a more serious assessment of the meaning and purpose of life.  When it was just Pegi and me, I could experiment — playfully chasing any shiny object.  Once Abi showed up, I had to get real.  It was no longer only a matter of my life with Pegi.  We had to become more focused and intentional in our life decisions.  We couldn’t experiment with Abi’s future.  We had to get more serious about our life choices and their consequences.

So, what I am saying is that the following details are not that much fun for me to recount or for you to read.  Yep, I see that!  It isn’t that I have forgotten the details.  I have a long list of them, but they seem unimportant in the scheme of things and a bit boring.  They are just details—everyone has details!  And, let’s be honest—now as I approach my 77th year, I can’t afford to take another couple of decades to get the story into writing!  Although I would like to live to 120 as did Moses, I understand, “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”  

Way back in 1969, when I was at the beginning of my quest for meaning and purpose in life [12 — Day 7 (May 1969) - Is There a Hangover from Prayer?], I encountered a senior citizen on the boardwalk of the Santa Cruz beach.  I was 20—he was in his 70s.  I don’t remember how we began talking, but he was kind and patient as I enthusiastically and somewhat frantically unloaded on him with a bunch of questions about seeking and following God.  

I do remember how he responded to my eager intensity.  He told me:  “Don’t be in a hurry to be an old man!”   What I heard from him was that the path is long and there is no rush to learn it all.  Don’t race for the finish, but pace yourself one step at a time.   I got a glimpse of the wisdom of his words although I still wanted to know everything immediately!  His admonition has stuck with me all these years.  Now that I am an old man, I hope to suggest a few lessons this old man has learned while walking this path through the years.

So, what should I write about?  The plan is to highlight only significant events of the last four decades.  I will attempt to make this interesting, but my intent is to focus on meaning more than activity.  You will note a more serious tone and a shift of perspective from the physical/material (what) to the metaphysical (meaning) in my reflections.  So, this won’t be so exciting and my facility at writing has diminished in recent years.  But, maybe some of these words will stick with you.

114 — Hating August (1993)

     As I entered my fourth decade, my identity was beginning to solidify.  Pegi had returned to nursing, specializing in cardiovascular surgery, Abi was starting elementary school and I had a meaningful and promising career in life insurance.  My relationships with parents and family had grown. Spiritually, my sense of Jewish identity was developing.  I was sorting through my religious experiences of the previous two decades, discarding what didn’t work for me while intensifying focus on what seemed to be reliable.  I dug more deeply into the valuable strains of my religious experience while acquiring new tools of spiritual inquiry. 

My mom had died in August of 1991 just before I started graduate studies.  My father died in August of 1992.  My great Aunt Selma, the last of my closest family connections, died in August of 1993.  I was beginning to hate August!  However, I began to understand that their lives would be carried forward in mine.  In the same way, Abi would carry Pegi’s and mine.  (She would pass it on to Aiden—for whom I have been writing all of this.)

You would think that experiencing the loss of parents would have a negative effect on personal identity.  Actually, that is not what I experienced.  I was no longer bound by the pressure of parental expectations.  That wasn’t a rejection of their roles in my life.  Instead, I became aware of a deepened and stronger personal identity because of them.  They were not dead—they were very much alive in me.  I was their continuation and would add my story to theirs.  I wasn’t yet fully conscious of this yet, but this long story reached back many generations, not just as a human story, but as a Jewish story.  

After the 40 years of wandering in Sinai, the Jewish people were about to enter the Promised Land.  In his last words in דברים (Deuteronomy), Moses explains the story:   

For you are a people consecrated to the ETERNAL your God: of all the peoples on earth, the ETERNAL your God chose you to be the treasured one.

It is not because you are the most numerous of peoples that GOD grew attached to you and chose you—indeed, you are the smallest of peoples; but it was because GOD favored you and kept the oath made to your fathers that GOD freed you with a mighty hand and rescued you from the house of bondage, from the power of Pharaoh king of Egypt.

Know, therefore, that only the ETERNAL your God is God, the steadfast God who keeps this covenant faithfully to the thousandth generation of those who show love and keep the commandments, 

[Deuteronomy 7:6-9 Revised JPS, 2023]

    I was beginning to see that the Jewish perception of God was based on our direct experience of God as a caring and loving Creator.  His Torah (instruction, teaching, law) and the boundaries it defined were safeguards to allow us to live fully, happily and successfully.  God “treasures” us—not because of our merits, but because of His character—His name/identity/character/essence.  The motivation to keep His commandments is based on our response to His lovingkindness.

Roman Law versus Jewish Law (Torah):

The Roman perspective/idea of Law is rigid, rough and without nuance.  This is because the “gods” who are its source are disconnected from human life and nature.  It is full of hard edges because its gods are arbitrary, self-serving and disinterested (even malevolent) towards human beings.  The Roman gods have no concern for people—they are are only concerned with pleasing themselves.  For someone who grows up in the West (highly molded by Roman thinking), just the word, "Law" conjures up negative boundaries that are brutally enforced.  The point is the boundary--restricting life--only allowing minimal liberties, but the greater purpose or "why" is to enforce and restrict—to minimize freedom to live for some semblance of order which pleases them.

The Torah concept of law is softer, more malleable when it comes to humans and even nature and therefore more powerful.  Jewish thinking is relational--connected to a warm and loving Creator.  Its boundaries protect liberties for purpose of fulfilled living.  Shalom (peace/fulfillment/contentment) is God’s desire for us.  

The systems (religions) that develop out of each are necessarily different:

• The Roman law distorts the “law of life” into restriction and death. 
• Jewish law (Torah) leads to life in its fullness.

    My Jewish identity had been sparked with the birth of Abigail and had expanded by means of reconnection with my family.  The sudden disappearance of my closest familial connections during these three Augusts, strengthened my emerging identity as a Jew.  I began to grasp something of the significance of Moses’ words:

You shall faithfully observe all the Instruction [Torah] that I enjoin upon you today, that you may thrive and increase and be able to possess the land that GOD promised on oath to your fathers.

[Deuteronomy 8:1 Revised JPS, 2023]