Rabbi Harold M. Schulweis Sermons

April 16, 2010

by Harold M. Schulweis

Rabbi Feinstein was born on April 16. I was born on April 14. What a difference only two days can make. 

My colleague, co-celebrant and dear friend, Rabbi Feinstein, and I have grown older together. Our pictures shown side-by-side on the Andy Warhol invitation was like a commercial for hair growth: "Before and After." 

Aging is irreversible and universal. And all of us are challenged by the same psychological quandary: How old would I be if you hadn't told me how old I was? Without counting the candles on the cake, how old are we? 

The Jewish French philosopher Henri Bergson said that there are two different kinds of time: one he called "chronological time," the other he called "sentimental time." 

Chronological time is frozen -- defined by a watch or a clock or a calendar. Sentimental time is liquid -- defined by feeling, excitement, elan vital, or, contrariwise, by listlessness, lassitude and boredom. How old you are depends on what measure of time you use to determine how old you really are.

When they asked a venerable Talmudic sage in his nineties, "What is the Jewish law halacha of aging?" he paused and answered in Yiddish, "Jewish law states 'men tor nisht verren alt.' " "It is forbidden to be old." But, the disciples asked, "Rabbi, how is it possible not to become old? What is the secret?" 

The sage replied, "If you count your years like you count the circles around the trunk of a tree, then your gait will slow down, and your eyes will grow dimmer, and your energy will be ambienated and valiumated." (These words I learned from the Koleinu crossword puzzle.) 

"But, if you count time by the pulse of your passion, the rhythm of your Sabbaths, the excitement of your dreams, the enthusiasm of your beliefs, and the loves in your life, the old within you becomes young, the bent in you straightened, the wrinkles in you smoothened, the scowl in you is turned into a smile." 

The sage was right. He winked, "There is a Jewish way of counting. In Yiddish, if I ask you "Vi alt sehnt ihr?" you answer in Yiddish, "Fumf und ahtig" –  five and eighty. Remember, in Hebrew and Yiddish, we read from right to left. Not 85, but 58. It is the secret of Yiddish dyslexia. Think Yiddish! 

The other month, I was asked to speak at USY. They played the game of "20 questions" -- What were my favorite desserts, colors? Then they guessed: "What was the "M" initial in my name – H.M.S ?" A hand of a youngster went up in glee: "I know," she said. "'M' is for Malkah!" 

Malkah is part of my name, part of our unending conversation, part of my longevity, part of the rejuvenation of my spirit. Judging by sentimental time, my birthday anniversary is intertwined with my wedding anniversary, which makes me 62. 

Malkah and I found our family extended in yours. MISHPACHAH. Family is the pulsating heart of community and community is the systolic and diastolic heart of Judaism. 

Nothing lifts me to heights more than sharing our prayers for a healed world. Nothing invigorates me more than you and I learning together, feeling together, acting together.

We are not segregated.
We are not "them" and "us."
We are not clergy and laity.
We are not leaders and followers.
We are "B'nai Yisroel" – children of Israel. 
"Mishpachah" is our strength, the foundation of our faith and fate.

Together, we have celebrated births and confirmations; visited those who are ill; counseled each others' bereavement; and walked arm in arm around the block after the shiva is over, to lead the bereaved from the private, insulated home of mourning into the engagement with community. These are the memories of sacred sentiment, not registered by chronological time. 

Because the key motif in Judaism is not "I" or "Thou" but "With." Our prayers are written in the plural. Of course, I can pray without you, and celebrate without you and commemorate without you. And so can you without me. But with you, I am different. With you, my laughter is different; with you, my tears are different; with you, my Yom Tov is different; with you, my Yizkor is different. My immortality is with you. As the Talmud writes, "Ain tzibar maytim" –  a community does not die. 

There is a section in the Talmud which asks whether if you are reciting the Sh'ma in praise of God and someone greets you, you answer him or her -- or continue reciting the Sh'ma? The Rabbis answered: Discontinue the Sh'ma and greet the person who speaks to you! Do not ignore the human other. Do not shame him by not answering. In responding to the human other, you answer God. 

Greater than welcoming the face of the Shechinah is welcoming the human being. Our Godliness is acted out in human personal relationship. 

With you, my ideals are stronger. With you, my visions are larger, my dreams deeper. Without you, I am shriveled. 

No one grows old by living a number of years. People grow old only by deserting their ideals. 

Let us turn our eyes away from the mechanical hands of the clock, and look to the uplifting arms of our people's embrace. When we reach out beyond ourselves, we touch the hem of immortality. The philosopher said whoever has a "why" can endure any "what." Together we have found the whisper of our sacred "why." We are the immortality in each other. 

Come now, dear friends. Let us grow young together.

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