”In time, the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble, they’re only made of clay. But our love is here to stay.” – George Gershwin (in his final composition)
I’m thinking about… death. Now, I don’t want to be morbid or add any more depression to what we all are already dealing with, but I gotta tell it like it is and unburden a bit. And, since its deadline time, I chose to share it with you, dear reader.
Last week, I lost one of my best friends. Gittel and I talked almost every day for the last quarter-century, talked about anything and everything, from bad puns to bad politicians, from family to frivolities, from cataclysmic world affairs to the silliest of subjects. With good friends who care, you always have what to share. Folks who know me know that I’m not allowed to have any vices: I don’t smoke and I don’t drink, and I have to watch my language. But my dear wife magnanimously permitted me one “girlfriend” – and so, when Gittel Makby died at the age of 100 and a half, even that was lost to me.
I thank Hashem (God) that Gittel was reasonably healthy until she passed. On her last day, she had a full lunch in the assisted living center where she resided, she said her prayers – she was devoutly observant and prayed three times a day – and she went to sleep. God then bestowed upon her the nishikat ha’mavet, the benevolent “kiss of death” and she woke up, I am fully confident, in the next world.
Because Gittel had no living relatives – she was an only child, married late, and her husband died 13 years ago – I took it upon myself to recite Kaddish in her memory. And since she was never blessed with children, I have also pledged that her name will be carried on in a wing of Ra’anana’s Ohel Ari synagogue that will be devoted to the many children of the community.
BUT NOW I am overwhelmed with existential thoughts. Why did God create each of us with an incurable illness called…”Life”?! Is it not cruel that even the greatest of people are destined to die, that we only exist for the tiniest slice of history? That, in an instant, everything we have labored to create disappears from our consciousness forever? Will our great-grandchildren and future generations beyond even know that we once existed? I hear the lament of King Solomon – the wisest person ever to have lived – when he cries out in Kohelet (Ecclesiastes): “I look out on all the things I have done and all the energy I expended in doing them, and it it’s clear that it was all futile; that nothing is gained under the sun.”
And my thoughts then turn to our holy chayalim (soldiers) who have fallen in this latest war of ours – 574 of them, reported as of this writing – may that number not increase. And that doesn’t include the police, EMTs and others who have fallen in selfless service to their compatriots. Each one a hero, each a pure and righteous soul with an entire life that was waiting to be lived to its fullest. Each a shining light that was extinguished before its time, tragically casting its shadow upon all the survivors who knew and loved them. Their devotion to the nation, their willingness – even eagerness – to sacrifice for the good of others is almost beyond comprehension, beyond appreciation.
And I inwardly berate myself for being so nonchalant about their deaths, for treating them as if they are just “the statistics of the day.” I remember that before the war, whenever we would hear about a soldier falling – especially after our own son Ari was killed in battle 20+ years ago – we would stop in our tracks and hug each other; we would cry real tears, and we would try to visit the bereaved family.
Now, I’m ashamed to say, we gloss over the headlines – sometimes we even shy away from them in desperation – and bemoan the fact that what was once a horrendous shock to the system has now become “routine.” Can it be that over the years, we as a people have become jaded? Have our comfortable lives, our high standard of living, our luxurious lifestyle within insular borders filled us with emotional numbness and a false sense of security?
SUDDENLY, INCREDULOUSLY, we are reliving the reality that our ancestors of ages past experienced on almost a daily basis: the fragility of life, the specter of unknown danger lurking just around the bend, the terrible fear that we are vulnerable, that perhaps we are not the almighty masters of our own fate. And we are downright scared.
Turning to God
When all is said and done, there is really only one place to turn – and that, of course, is God. This paper has recently reported on the upsurge of people who have come closer to God since the war began: “secular” Jews who have adopted or observant Jews who have accelerated their pursuit of the spiritual, along with the material. People who are rediscovering prayer, returning to synagogues, engaging in acts of hessed (lovingkindness) and good deeds that they may never have performed before.
I have always maintained that there is a partnership between God and humanity. We each have a responsibility to the other, and miracles only happen when we join forces with one another and actually make them happen. The redemption from Egypt begins when we cry out to God; the sea splits when Nachshon bravely jumps in; the State of Israel comes into being when Herzl, and many others, finally push the envelope. Yes, we believe in God; but it’s no less important that God believes in us.
THIS WAR we are waging is a godly war. It is a fight against evil, against those who stand for everything that God abhors. And so we must continue that fight, despite the terrible trauma and loss that war invariably brings. We must love our fellow Jews with a true and sincere love. And we must stand strong in the face of worldwide ignorance and hate. Like the first Jew, the revolutionary Abraham, we stand on the right side of the divide and must take on the world if need be, in the struggle for justice. And we will prevail.
The Talmud (Pesachim 50a) tells the story of the mystic Rav Yehoshua ben Levi, whose son Yosef became critically ill and had a near-death experience. When the boy regained consciousness, Rav Yehoshua asked him, “What did you see when you were about to die?” His son replied: “I saw a topsy-turvy, inverted world. Those who are ‘above’ in this world were ‘below’ over there, and those who are ‘below’ over here are ‘above’ there.” Rav Yehoshua told him, “My son, you have seen a clear and true world.”
We in this world, for as long as we are granted life, have our righteous mission to accomplish. And we shall be assisted from beyond by the souls of all the good people – our loved ones, Gittel, our courageous soldiers who died sanctifying the Almighty – who will join in our struggle. Together, with the help of God, we will achieve victory in this world, and eternity in the next.
The writer is director of the Ra’anana Jewish Outreach Center and leads the annual Pesach program at Ramot in the Golan.