Round ‘em Like Mantle

When it comes to counting the Omer, the days between the second night of Pesah and Shavuot, as many of you may know, I count the days according to different professional athletes and their jersey numbers. Two days ago, day 5: Albert Pujols. Yesterday, day 6: Bill Russell, Lebron James or if you like, Dr. J. Today: Day 7, means one name and one name only: Mickey Mantle. Now Mickey Mantle had more vices than I care to list, and he himself was quick to point out that as a role model, he should stand as an example of what not to do and how not to act. But there was one thing that he did – that he became known for – from which I think we can all learn. If you can recall, or if you have ever seen footage of him rounding the bases after hitting a home run, he would do so with his head down, shoulders limp. No fist pump, no self-aggrandizing strut in his stride. At that moment of achievement, at the moment of triumph, he comported himself, well, like a mensch. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to show up the pitcher; maybe it was because he knew that his next at bat could easily be a strikeout – I don’t know. But maybe something in that self-deprecating jog around the bases reflected an awareness of where he came from – the idea that even at our moments of glory, we never forget our modest origins – and if you know a bit about Mantle, an Oklahoma boy from a coal mining family, nobody had origins more humble.

If there is a message of Passover, a message for this moment of Yizkor, it is the request that we, as it were, round the bases like Mantle. What I mean by this is that even at our moment of redemption, even at the time of our greatest victory, we keep our head down, we don’t stick out our chests, we always remember our origins, which for us are as modest as they come.

Think about the sedarim that we celebrated this past week. The reminder of our humble beginnings is repeated over and over again. “This is the bread of affliction,” “our father was a wandering Aramean,” “from the beginning our ancestors were idol worshippers.” It is remarkable that the seder, which has the ostensible goal to communicate the thrilling story of our redemption from Egypt, should repeatedly reference our earliest pre-redemptive beginnings. Yes, we celebrate our liberation. And yes, we are grateful that we are free, but we never forget that once we were not. Even at the height of our joy, we always remember our roots, we always remember where we came from, we never become so enthralled with our miraculous liberation that we become untethered from where it all began.

Passover teaches that the act of visiting our origins is actually the key to opening the door to our present and future. As for Moses going out to see his brethren that fateful day, to remember where you came from is actually the first step towards a future redemption. It is not that we seek a return to some long-gone yesteryear; after all, we are happy and filled with gratitude for our present blessings. But a reminder of where we came from is the rudder that steadies us as we steer towards the future.

For me, much of the thrill of being home for sedarim was exactly this – the reminder that who I am today is an extension of and a reaction to my beginnings. When you sit at your parents’ seder for Passover, with your brothers and sisters-in-law and your children in attendance, your sense of perspective radically shifts. In my case, I sat where my mother told me to, I cleared the dishes when I was told to do so and I tried to keep my kids moderately well-behaved. From Jewish day school, to Jewish studies, to rabbinical school to a doctorate, more money has been poured into my Jewish education than is helpful to count, but at my father’s seder you better believe that I only read when I am called on to do so. And frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way – for a day or two. That is the table at which my Jewish identity took shape. I don’t live at that table, I don’t seek to return to it, but that visit, that reminder of where it all began, is critically important to keeping me moored. It reminds me that I am who I am only because I had the blessing of beginning where I began. Mark Twain once quipped that a self-made man is about as likely as a self-laid egg. A return to one’s origins is more than a nostalgic walk down memory lane. To return to one’s origins has the effect of both expanding and narrowing your lens of self perception. It puts focus on what really matters, on who and why we are who we are and for what we are truly grateful.

Which is exactly what this moment of Yizkor is about. We return to the tables that gave us life, only in this case, the journey comes by way of the gift of memory. Yizkor is our chance, for a brief moment in time, to visit the memories of those we love and who loved us most. Whether years have gone by, or the loss is recent, the mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands and wives, sons and daughters we recall are the ones who made us who we are. Yizkor gives us permission to recall a few of the hundreds if not thousands of memories that have made us who we are today. It reminds us that none of us are self-made. We are all extensions of and reactions to the tables of our past, without which we would not be who we are. I suspect that for most of us, these memories are the most quiet and intimate sort, memories held privately and tenderly – quiet conversations, life lessons learned, years of partnership, the model of a life we seek to emulate or perhaps the shattered reality of a love taken too soon. Today we recall not the titles or awards, but the loving lives of quiet dignity, the relationships of infinite worth to which we return at this time.

There are those go into the great outdoors, or to meditation retreats or elsewhere to find their center. This is well and good, but the Jewish way to get our bearings is Yizkor. Some of us come from humble origins, some of us don’t. Some of us have realized our dreams, some of us chase them without respite. Yizkor reminds us what really matters. It reminds us how we should lead our lives, because after all, it reminds us, that some day, please God, someone will recite Yizkor for us and I promise you, it will not be fancy titles that they will remember.

Last week I had a meeting with a major figure in New York life. His office sits at the top of a big building with views of the entire city, with multiple assistants running around, an anteroom filled with pictures of famous people and more signs of being a macher than I can list. My host greeted me and must have seen that I was a bit starstruck by it all. He said: “You know, Rabbi, I always remind myself, that at the end of all this, there are only four people who will be saying kaddish for me.” It was a beautiful sentiment for me, this man somehow embodying Kipling’s comment that while some of us may walk with kings, one must never lose the common touch. Aware of our own mortality, we realize that what really matters are the relationships by which we will be remembered. It is the very knowledge that our time in this world is limited, that reminds us again and again, that no matter who we are, no matter what our station in life may be, we always round the bases like Mantle. We always remember where we came from and we never forget the shared fate that awaits us all.

I began with a story about one number, and I will conclude with a story about another number, one of my favorites – number 36. According to rabbinic tradition, the characteristic most associated with the number 36 is humility. Talmudic legend tells that there are 36 people, called the Lamed-vavniks – lamed, the Hebrew letter for 30 and vav, the letter for 6. Thirty-six people who live quiet, unassuming lives, whose righteousness is of such a noble quality that without them, the world itself would cease to exist. Nobody knows who they are - most importantly, not even the Lamed-vavniks themselves. To think that one is, or God forbid, to declare oneself to be a Lamed-vavnik, would result in immediately forfeiting the claim, because such lack of humility would be a sure sign that you are not worthy of the name.

For all of their praiseworthiness in this world, the tradition tells us nothing about the Lamed-vavniks in death. Perhaps for us at this moment of Yizkor, we will grant that those being remembered today are, at least for each of us, the individuals without whom our worlds would not exist. Their love, their commitments, their lives granted us the ability to be who we are. We are grateful, we never forget them and in their passing, we assign them the status that is their due.

And here in this world, who knows? Our deeds in the years ahead will tell the story. The best we can do, the only thing we can do, is to seek to lead lives of modest and humble compassion, to keep our heads down as we round ‘em, acting with love and kindness to those who matter most and who are most dependent on our care, so that we, in the generations to come will, like those we remember today, be remembered for a blessing.