From Generation to Generation

Two score, ten years, and six months ago, Malcolm Cosgrove was invited to Shabbat dinner. The setting was the London young professional Jewish scene: twenty-something transplants from the provinces gathering in each other’s homes for community, a home-cooked meal, maybe a shidduch. Malcolm, a newly minted physician from Glasgow, was in need of all three.

He entered the home and was greeted by his hosts, who quickly scurried away to set an extra place. Why the extra place? Malcolm, it seems, had not been invited for that Shabbat, but for the prior one. His hosts were gracious. Despite his social gaffe, they insisted he stay. He took his place, somewhat embarrassed, hoping to regain both his mojo and his appetite. It’s a good thing he stayed, because at the table that night sat a lovely young lassie from Manchester, Gay Lapidus. Having come for the dinner to which she had actually been invited, she must have taken pity on this kind, slightly pathetic son of Scotland. The dinner ended, Malcolm offered Gay a ride home. (In those days, in that community, you parked your car around the corner when invited to a Shabbat dinner.) Malcolm couldn’t find the car and Gay, for the second time that evening, experienced what would become a recurring sensation throughout her life – a combination of amusement and frustration at Malcolm’s benign absentmindedness. Gay was escorted safely to her flat and Malcolm introduced to the flatmates. Malcolm took a look around and announced those nine magic words that every woman waits to hear: “I think I will have dinner here next Shabbat!” Gay would have none of it – she had game herself – informing Malcolm that she had a prior commitment. Numbers were exchanged, intentions made clear. The tension palpable, Malcolm bid Gay good night. As the door closed, Helen the flatmate turned to Gay with a smile and said, “Gay – that is the one!” Helen was right. Six months after Malcolm showed up a week late for dinner, Malcolm and Gay stood under the huppah. That day was precisely fifty years ago today. Mom and Dad, Happy Fiftieth Anniversary!

To have my parents here in shul on their fiftieth is the sweetest of feelings. I also want to welcome Debbie’s parents, my in-laws. It is a gift like no other to have a mother-in-law who visits with the frequency and love that mine does. And my father-in-law, on this my tenth High Holidays at Park Avenue Synagogue, continues to share the quiet remark the late Cardinal Egan whispered to him as they sat together watching me installed as Senior Rabbi here: “Behind every successful son-in-law, there sits a shocked father-in-law.” Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad – you are individually and collectively my favorite palindromes and it means the world to me, to Debbie, and the kids that you make the trip to be with us for the new year.

At risk of stating the obvious, having parents is the common denominator we all share. Not all our parents are married, nor for that matter, alive. Not everyone has a relationship with a parent that is loving or functional, nor is every parent-child relationship necessarily biological. In this room and in this community we are blessed with many single-parent families, and not every person in this, or any room, is a parent. But until medical science proves otherwise, all of us here, Jewish or non-Jewish, tall or short, young, old, or somewhere in between, share the simple and indisputable fact that we come from somewhere, our arrival in this world preceded by someone and our identities – by way of nature or nurture – a reflection of and sometimes a reaction to that which came before.

This inescapable fact that binds us together as human beings also connects us here this evening as we usher in the new year and the High Holiday season. It is a fact that helps explain one of the great curiosities regarding the Torah and haftarah readings that we will encounter over the next forty-eight hours. It would be far more sensible, we might think, to read of the world coming into being in Genesis chapter 1, with a selection from the prophets expressing awe and gratitude for the wonders of creation. But we don’t. On this holiday we turn our focus to the first families of our people. Tomorrow we will read of the long-sought birth of Isaac to Abraham and Sarah and the ensuing drama of the handmaiden Hagar and her son Ishmael, cast out at Sarah’s insistence. The haftarah describes the plight of Hannah, the family tensions and existential loneliness resulting from her barrenness, and the joyous arrival of a child. Second day we will first read the harrowing tale of Isaac’s near death at the behest of God and the hand of his father Abraham, and then, in what I believe to be the most heart-wrenching haftarah of them all, Rachel’s tearful longing for the return of her children. The selection of texts sends a unified and unmistakable message – a common frame of reference for us all. Our ticket to the themes of the season is not some catechism on the nature of creation, nor, for that matter, a meditation on what defines an ethical life. Rather, it seems we are being told that before we do anything else, we must consider that one thing we all share in common, anniversary or not, namely, those people who brought us into this world.

Theologically speaking, there are two reasons why we focus on our parents on this day. First, as Jews we believe in the concept of z’khut avot, the merit of our ancestors. As God opens up the divine ledger – the book of life – should the measure of our own deeds fall short, we hope that the righteousness of our predecessors will tip the scales of divine mercy in our favor. Second, we imagine God as the divine parent (avinu malkeinu), and ourselves as God’s treasured child (ha-ben yakir li). Despite our missteps, we hope God will take us back with the mercy of a parent to a child (k’rahem av al banim). The same self-sacrificing, unconditional, and forgiving love a parent demonstrates for child – that is what we hope for from God.

Beyond the theology, and of course, the mitzvah of honoring one’s parents, I do believe that the act of reflecting on the stories of our families of origin is a trigger meant to prompt the critical work that lies ahead of us in the days to come. First and foremost, to do so reminds us where the heavy lifting of the season really lies. It is far easier to apologize to or reconcile with a colleague or co-worker than it is to an estranged parent, a disaffected child, alienated sibling, or spouse. Family dynamics are hard – the hardest of all – which is probably why the prophet Malachi states that Elijah will come announcing the messianic days when and only when the hearts of parents turn to their children and those of children to their parents. We read about families because the tradition is warning us not to leapfrog over the innermost circle of our existence, the circle that matters most.

Second, in this season of repentance, I think we are meant to focus on the family dynamics of those who came before, because to do so, curiously enough, permits us to judge the flaws and foibles of our present lives more generously. Our families of origin, biblical and actual, are far from perfect, not even close; there is hurt, there is disappointment, there are imperfections for all to see. There is something cathartic in the realization that you are not the first to struggle with the balancing act of career and family, spouse and children, finances, aging, truth-telling and, well, pretty much everything. It is a realization that allows you to be less hard on yourself and those around you, an emotional lever by which we open up that black box secret that we are all just human, none of us the first to face what we face. Moreover, to view our present challenges through the prism of our parents is an act that also allows us to be more forgiving of our parents. They, like us, are just trying to do the best they can. Their flaws, whatever they may be or have been, are merely signs of their shared humanity. As a parent of children, I already long for that future day when my kids experience, as I have, that disarming feeling that they are becoming just like their parents, for maybe on that day they will choose to judge their mother and father a bit more kindly.

Third, and perhaps most dramatically, in focusing on our families of origin, we are given the wakeup call that none of us live forever. As a member of what I believe is called the sandwich generation, I am deeply aware that within my peer group we no longer share updates only about each other and our children. We now ask each other how our parents are doing. Dor holekh v’dor ba, a generation goes and a generation comes, teaches Ecclesiastes (1:4). From Unetaneh tokef’s attention to our mortal condition, to Shema koleinu’s reminder of the onset of old age, to our yizkor prayers on Yom Kippur, we know that our time, like the time of those who came before, is limited, and so we endeavor to make each moment count. If our parents are living, then we must spend those limited hours communicating love, respect, and gratitude, or as may be the case with many, seeking reconciliation or at least understanding. If our parents have passed, then it is during these days that we seek to understand their legacy, the choices they made, and we commit to living by their high ideals. As the Talmud teaches, m’khabdin b‘hayav, m’khabdin b’moto, we honor them in life, and we honor them in their passing. Why focus on family? Quite simple: because life is short and family matters.

Finally, speaking as a father of teenagers, I think the High Holiday focus on our families of origin is meant to direct our attention to the perennial balancing act between our need, on the one hand, to shape our children’s identities, and on the other hand, to let them stand on their own two feet. The other week I took my oldest daughters on their first college visit. Aside from the stomach punch wakeup call to the costs of a college education, what struck me most was the realization of the ever-diminishing amount of time my children have left to live under my roof. It should not be lost on us that every Torah and haftarah reading shares not just the fact of having children, but the fact of their leaving the nest. These stories, no different than our own, are about parents passing down a legacy and about children differentiating themselves physically and emotionally from their families of origin, a pattern dating back to the Garden of Eden. Maybe, just maybe, we read these stories because they are here to remind us that important as it may be to pass on the baton of identity, so too it is important to engage in what the rabbis call tzimtzum, a parental retraction with an eye towards the growth of our children and their physical and emotional self-sufficiency. As Khalil Gibran wrote of parenting, “You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.” We do our best, but we can’t hold on forever; at some point we must let go and face the unnerving fact that the arrows will land wherever they may. It is a difficult balancing act. It is the tension felt by our parents towards us. If we are parents ourselves, it is how we feel about our children. And to end where we began, it is how God feels about all of us.

Ten days from now, on Kol Nidrei evening, we will, as always, rise to chant Sh’ma Yisrael, Hear O Israel, and then, unlike every other recitation of Sh’ma during the year, we will sing aloud Barukh shem k’vod malkhuto l’olam va-ed, Blessed is the name of God’s Kingdom forever. In explaining the origins of this prayer, the rabbis tell the story of our patriarch Jacob, renamed Israel, who calls his children around him on his deathbed in Egypt. The son of Isaac, the grandson of Abraham, Israel understood his place as a link in the generations. Seeing his children and grandchildren dressed as Egyptians and speaking a foreign tongue, Israel grew anxious. He wondered whether this next generation, so different from his, would continue the faith once he was gone. Sensing his angst, the children gathered at his side and affirmed their faith in unison, declaring Sh’ma Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai ehad, Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One. It was almost as if – if not exactly as if – they were saying, “Dad, we know we look different, our methods may not be the same as yours. But our faith, our commitment, our connection to our people is unwavering. Dad, we got it. Your tradition is our tradition, and it is in good hands.” Having heard their words and sensed their conviction, Israel responded Barukh shem k’vod malkhuto l’olam va-ed, Blessed is the name of God’s Kingdom forever. I know now that our covenant is safe, from my generation to yours, and into the generations to come. And with that, Jacob blessed his children and passed from this earth.

Friends, between now and Yom Kippur, there is much work to be done. In our community, among the generations, and between parent and child. No different than Jacob and his children, parents want the assurance that their highest values will live on in the coming generation, and children want to be trusted – in the coin of their day – to do exactly just that. It takes a lot of work, a lot of commitment, and a lot of earned trust for children to look at their parents and say, “Mom, Dad, I got it. The things that matter most to you, I promise, they are in good hands, they will be taken care of and they will be passed down from generation to generation.” It takes, I imagine, strength of an entirely different order for parents to breathe deeply, resting easy in the knowledge that their children will safeguard all that which is dear to them. It is not easy, but that is our task at hand – this year and every year, from strength to strength, from generation to generation, dor l’dor.