Rabbi For A Day

When my father, well into his eighties, decided to voluntarily give up his car keys, it was, at first, a welcome decision. He had just moved from Newton to Billerica after selling his house in desirable Oak Hill Park to developers, one more domino in the transition of that neighborhood from a gridiron of slab foundation ranch houses built en masse for returning World War II veterans, to a garish collection of mismatched McMansions. My father had difficulty walking and hearing, and I think he was afraid that being away from the city he had lived in for nearly five decades, he was bound to get himself lost.

It soon became clear that while my two sisters were taking care of his needs in their own ways, I was not yet as engaged in his care as I should be. We decided I should be his wheels. That meant taking him to his volunteer gig at the Shriner’s Hospital in Boston a couple of days a week, and to Torah Class at his temple in Newton on Sunday mornings. Never mind that I lived nowhere near Billerica, Boston, or Newton. It had to be done so I did it.

Driving to the Shriner’s wasn’t so bad, except that he wanted to arrive at seven in the morning, which meant I had to be up and ready to go by six in the morning. Actually, driving him to the Shriner’s sucked. I much preferred the less-hectic Sunday morning drive to Newton for Torah Class. I didn’t just drive him there, I participated in the class as well. And every class was augmented by bagels, lox, coffee, and sometimes fruit. For a host of reasons it was worth it.

My own Jewish observance has been very variable throughout my adult life, but the older I get, the more seriously I take it. Not every Friday, but many, we light candles for Shabbat and bless the light, the wine, and the challah. On Passover, we do the full seder. I fast on Yom Kippur, eat latkes on Hanukkah, and have always enjoyed reading the Bible. New Testament, too. I don’t consider the Torah to be the literal Word of God, but, as a writer, I marvel at it as literature, the font of just about any story you could ever want to tell. Torah Class has provided me with an intellectual means of wrestling with a text that is often unpleasant and incongruous with modern mores. I ask questions, appreciate the Rabbi’s responses, and always come away feeling I had learned something.

With my father in tow, I had the dual role of participant and caretaker. Before I made my bagel, I would assemble a plate for my father and bring him a cup of coffee (and the inevitable refill). I would help him in and help him out. This wasn’t always easy. Once, I parked the car and helped him out, then he made the bad decision to try step off the curb into the street on his own. He lost his balance and fell. Instinctively, I lunged to try to catch him; in doing so, I tore my right hamstring. He hit the ground but was not badly hurt, whereas I was in excruciating pain for the entire class.

My father’s condition worsened, and then the pandemic hit. We tried Torah Class on Zoom but he never quite got the hang of it. All anyone could see of him was his forehead, and he couldn’t hear what people were saying, but at least I didn’t have to drive from Malden to Billerica to Newton and from Newton to Billerica to Malden.

Then he and my younger sister moved to Florida, where he died a year later. But I never stopped driving to Newton. I think many in Torah Class were surprised that I continued to attend even after my father moved and passed away. But I enjoyed it and they were happy to have me. When my father and I would go together, my active participation in asking questions and sharing opinions seemed to have the curious effect of stifling my father’s participation. He would occasionally offer a thought but my sense is that he felt I was representing the two of us, and he was enjoying the naches of watching me engage so enthusiastically with Jewish learning. His primary role, for the most part, seemed to have devolved to eating a bagel and kvelling over his son.

Today, four-and-a-half years since my father died, I led Torah Class. Our Rabbi is sick and the president of the temple, who apparently has been impressed with what I bring to class discussions, picked me to take over as facilitator. I was clear that I did not feel qualified for the task. Rabbi Stern is brilliant and humanistic, pragmatic and inspiring. He almost never gives yes or no answers; there are always nuances to consider. He acknowledges that there is scant archaeological evidence to support that what we read in the text actually occurred. Under his leadership, we are not trying to prove anything, just to understand it.

I began my remarks by saying, “Typically, we read some text, then ask questions of the Rabbi. We’re not doing that today because while there are no stupid questions, there are stupid answers and that’s all I would be capable of providing.” That loosened things up and we were off. I assigned three different people to read (Leviticus 25, if you want to catch up) and the discussion was free and insightful. I saw my role as providing text-based prompts to keep the flow going and, if a topic seemed to reach its conclusion, to move us along to another section where there were more interesting nuggets to chip away at.

This was the final Torah Class of the season and our tradition is that at the first and last classes, and whenever we move from one book to the next, we drink a shot of whisky. So we toasted and drank, and many in the class came up to me and said I’d done a great job. One older woman said, “When I heard that the Rabbi was sick I was disappointed, but you were fantastic.” Of course, this doesn’t qualify me to be a rabbi, but it was an interesting experience, even though in the throes of it I couldn’t judge whether or not I was being at all effective.

Still, I felt my father’s presence, and offered part of my toast to him. I think he would have been very proud to see me leading Torah Class, and if he was listening, I hope he heard everything very clearly. My father wasn’t the most demonstrative man I’ve ever met, but in his own way he modeled Jewish learning for me. Even though, as I said before, I read Torah primarily as literature, the class is probably the closest connection I’ve ever had with my father. Well, that and the New England Patriots. But for now, I yield the gavel back to Rabbi Stern. I am grateful for having had the experience and look forward to Torah Class resuming in the fall. L’chaim!