Los Angeles Jewish Home

I'm looking forward to a good 2014. Are you? Or are you more of a pessimist? Some people look to the future with a positive sense of how life will be; for others, thoughts of the future fill them with fear and anxiety. I had a group discussion with residents the other day about what it meant to be an optimist or a pessimist, and whether our attitude to the future affects how we live our life.

As some residents pointed out, there are situations where a level of fear about the future may be appropriate, and may lead to taking useful precautions. For instance, it would be foolhardy to let a small child play with a pot of boiling water bubbling on the stove. And many people are careful not to spend too much time in the sun without protection. But taking proper precautions in a situation where the danger is real does not make one a pessimist — just a careful person.

However, if we are always fearing that the future will go wrong for us (or for those we love) — for example that every small ache and pain is a certain sign of the most horrendous illness, or that whatever we set out to do, we are sure to fail — that really is a picture of a pessimistic nature.

On the other hand, if one's natural assumption is that things will turn out right, it's as though one is facing the future with a smile. It is perfectly possible to be a careful person, taking note of dangers in our path, and still hold a rosy view of the future. Indeed, isn't our future more likely to be rosy if we take sensible note of real dangers?

One resident pointed out that being an optimist or a pessimist makes a significant difference to how we live our lives. An optimist is much more willing to try things, to take risks. Life is expanded that way, and can feel like an adventure. Pessimists, on the other hand, would be more likely to avoid unnecessary risks, and stay with the activities that are most safe and familiar to them.

So why am I thinking now about attitudes to the future? Is it just that we are about to embark on all the unknowns of 2014? A bigger reason is that I am at an age when it's impossible to ignore the fragility of life. With each further step I take into my seventies, I am ever more aware of all the things that can turn out in unwelcome ways. If being optimistic means believing that those things won't happen to me... well, how can I possibly be confident of that? Working at the Home provides a constant reminder of the hardships that accompany getting older — and of our residents' courage in facing those challenges.

And yet, looking into the unknown future, I do feel optimistic. I have come to think there are two kinds of optimism. The first kind of optimism is a trust that for many years the future will hold lots that is good and little that is bad. We can affect that only in limited ways; for although we may have some influence on how life treats us — like the way we eat or exercise — we know we cannot control life's events.

While I pray for good in the future, I know that in the real world I cannot rely on it. This is where the second kind of optimism comes in; and this one is up to us. While we have little control over what happens to us, we do have quite a lot of control over how we respond to life's happenings. If the first kind of optimism is about our trust that life will treat us well, the second is about our trust in ourselves — that we will not let life's events knock us flat. (A pessimist, on the other hand, might believe he would be absolutely devastated by the events he fears.)

So here I am on my life journey. So far it's gone pretty well, but what of the future? And what do I mean when I say I am optimistic? Well, I do trust that things will go well; more importantly, I also trust in my ability to deal positively with what life sends me. It's not a magical belief in a good future. It's a trust that I have the resilience to live a life that is positive and fulfilling with the circumstances that come my way.

May we all have a 2014 full of good, and the ability to meet the year's challenges with a smile.

Labels: For the Spirit, Future, Letter from the Rabbi, Life, Live Life to the Fullest, New Year, Positive Outlook

A few weeks ago I heard a wise and learned rabbi say something that really made me think. How odd, he said, that Judaism gives us first Rosh Hashanah, the New Year, and then Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement! First we celebrate the New Year with apples and honey, and then after just a few days, we spoil the celebration by having to repent and ask forgiveness of all we did wrong the previous year.

Wouldn't it be better to do it the other way around? Shouldn't we first seek atonement, and then — cleansed and joyful — enter into the celebration of the beginning of a fresh new year? Certainly that would make good sense; but there is another way of looking at the sequence, which adds extra power to these High Holy Days.

A major aspect of Rosh Hashanah is celebrating the creation of the world. As the prayer book says, Hayom harat olam — today is the birthday of the world. So let us on this day contemplate and celebrate the beauty and wonder of the world God has created:

• A world where we can look after our environment, so that the atmosphere is free from pollution, the air is clean, and the seas are pure.
• A world where rain is abundant in its due season; where rivers flow full but safe within their riverbanks, irrigating the land and giving human and animal alike plentiful and pure life-giving water.
• A world where people and nations pursue justice, so that every person in the world has his or her share to eat, access to drinking water, and safe shelter.
• A world where rulers and governments are wise and just, assuring a decent and good life for all their citizens.
• A world where women, and people of all sexual orientations and races and religions, are treated honorably and with equality.
• A world where immigrants seeking safety and a good life are respected and enabled to play their part in society.
• A world where war is unknown, as nations know the value of seeking peace and cooperation with their neighbors.
• A world where people have an overwhelming desire to spread happiness and to be compassionate and protective to others.

Just describing this world makes me feel so good, that I want to praise God and to say to everyone; what a wonderful world we live in! ... Wait a minute though! did that sound anything remotely like the world we know? or was it more a description of an idealized Garden of Eden? We have only to contemplate the actual world we live in, and compare it with the world we all know it should be — the world I have just described — to know what a gulf there is between the two.

I understand the creation story as God's gift of a potentially wonderful world. Just as we human beings, created in God's image, have the potential to be so much more than we often manage to be, so too the world is only a beginning of what it could be. Let us, on this Rosh Hashanah, this birthday of the world, celebrate that potentially wonderful world, with an honest recognition of all the ways it falls short.

At this season, we are not only celebrating, we also are starting the process that culminates on the day of Atonement, a process of looking at what we have achieved, both personally and collectively, and what we have failed to achieve; what we have done for the good of the world, and the negative things we have done that contribute to the world's shortcomings. Every act we do or don't do makes a difference to the health of the world we are passing to our children and grand-children.

As well as enjoying the good and the love in our lives, and wishing each other a new year filled with sweetness and good, we can hold in mind that idealized picture of the world, and know that it is within the power of every one of us to move this imperfect world an inch or two towards that beautiful potential.

Labels: Elman, For the Spirit, High Holidays, Letter from the Rabbi, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur

I’ve been asking this question in synagogue and in classes over the last couple of weeks, for we have just started reading Deuteronomy, the last book of the Torah. Moses knows that he is very close to the time of his death, and that the Israelite people will then cross into the Promised Land without him. In a series of speeches, Moses reminds the people of the major events of their travels, goes over many of the laws he has taught them, and implores them to walk in God’s ways when they are in their new land. He is making a gift to them of his values.

Moses is impassioned in his teaching and in his pleas. He fully recognizes that the people, naturally endowed with free will, are prone to choosing to go their own ways, rather than follow the spiritual and ethical path he has taught them.

We all have a sense of what is good and worthwhile, and what is not. Just as Moses urged his people to follow God’s ways and lead an ethical life, shouldn’t we give our children and grandchildren guidance based on the fruits of our own experiences? Of course it’s most important to teach by example; but many people, as they reach advanced years, quite rightly want to be more explicit in the values they pass on.

One resident surprised me by saying we shouldn’t try to teach the next generation anything, as they know more than we do. It is true that, in many cases, the children and grandchildren of residents have been blessed with more education that the residents had, and have gone further in the world of careers; but what the older generation has is a lifetime of experience, wisdom, and knowledge of what it means to live a life that is good and worthwhile.

As we get older, most of us have a clearer sense of what is really important in life. I remember someone approaching the end of her life who said that now she realized that what really mattered were relationships with family and with friends. This person now saw how nurturing our connection with others was a higher value than all the measures of success in the world, like money or fame.

At one class, when I asked what values residents would want to pass on to later generations, one said: Work for society. It was a call to pursue fairness and justice in society, perhaps the major theme of Torah. Another talked of kindness, another of generosity. We touched on gratitude. (In recent years, gratitude for the blessings in life has become for me one of the strongest aspects of what it means to be religious).

One resident spoke from the heart when she called out: Be forgiving. This is wonderful advice to pass on, and especially good to think about as we approach the High Holy Days.

Then there are values like honesty; or courage; or humility. As the story of Moses shows, even a strong leader can have humility. Or would you emphasize respect for all other human beings, and want to teach the importance of listening to people and seeking to understand them? There are residents who are very communal-minded, and stress the importance of love for the Jewish People and support for its causes and institutions.

A number of residents talked of faith in God as paramount; I know that such faith has been the essential support to many people in meeting life’s challenges, including surviving years in concentration camp.

Do you remember the values your own parents taught you? A resident spoke movingly of his parents’ last words to him when they put him on the kindertransport at the age of 11. His mother’s simple words to him were: Be good! He never saw his mother or father again, but those words have remained a guiding light to him his whole life.

Each one of us has had our own experiences which have helped develop our values. We all have much that’s worthwhile to pass on to the younger generations. Let’s take the time to do it.

Labels: For the Spirit, Legacy, Letter from the Rabbi, Torah, Values

Do you ever feel uncomfortable about things you have said? I think sometimes we all do. If we wanted to avoid ever saying things we later regret, we’d probably have to keep silent all the time! Our Sages recognized how common it is for us to speak “evil” – to say things our better self wishes we hadn’t said. That is why they placed at the end of the silent Amidah, the set of blessings which is central to Jewish prayer, a personal meditation that starts: My God, help me keep my tongue from speaking evil. If only God, or some watchful personal angel sitting on our shoulder, could check our words before we utter them!

These thoughts came to me in connection with a very odd story in one of the Torah readings this month. The Israelites are on their way to the Promised Land, and are passing close to the territory of a local king. This king, Balak, is frightened by the strength of the Israelites and fears they may attack his country. So he commissions a seer, or prophet, from a far-off land, to come and curse the Israelite people. That way, the king thinks, they will be weakened and easy to defeat. Curses were seen in those days as powerful weapons to put down another person or even a whole people.

Now the prophet, whose name is Balaam, would be quite happy to do as the king is asking him, especially as he will be well paid for his trouble. It seems he has no great love for the Israelites, and no moral problem with cursing them. His problem is God! During their time in the wilderness since leaving Egypt, the Children of Israel have often behaved badly, and have grumbled a great deal, but God is not going to let them be harmed either by curses or by foreign armies.

So God warns Balaam repeatedly that he must speak only the words that God puts in his mouth. Whatever Balaam’s bad intentions may be, God makes sure his tongue speaks only good words. Three times the king orders Balaam to curse the Israelites, and three times Balaam utters words of blessing. In speeches that infuriate King Balak, the prophet Balaam praises the Children of Israel, recognizes that God is with them, and prophesies that they will have success in their endeavors.

The idea of cursing may seem very old-fashioned, but words do matter: Our tongues have great power to deeply affect the world of others. We can raise others up, as Balaam did; or we can bring them low, as Balaam would have done if God had let him. We see ourselves as good, loving people, and most of the time it is true. We may not realize it when our words, or our tone of voice, or the expression on our face, cause hurt to another. Even silence can hurt, for instance when I withhold appreciation for something good that has been done for me. I know for myself that I can be impatient and my words may come out more harshly than I would want. If only we could find the right words and the right tone at the moment we need them! It doesn’t mean there is no proper place for anger or for criticism. Of course there is. But we can still do our best, in the way we talk, to make sure the other person is not made to feel small.

Just think how good it feels when someone speaks kindly to you, or even just smiles at you. Doesn’t it add to your sense of wellbeing; or if you are feeling bad, doesn’t it brighten your life a little? And if we have said something silly, how much better it is to be responded to with understanding rather than with contempt!

Many of us know the words lashon hara – saying bad things about someone else behind his or her back. Most people love gossiping, which often means saying negative things about others. Even if those people never hear of it, their good name is being stolen from them, making them the subject of ridicule or contempt.

The tongue we have in our mouth is an instrument that can bring great good or great harm. May God help us to make all our words, and the way we speak them, a source of blessing to others, and never a source of curse!

Labels: Evil Tongue, For the Spirit, Lashon Hara, Letter from the Rabbi, Power of Words, Speak, Torah

Sometimes life is hard, desperate even. I am thinking of the times when everything seems to have gone wrong. Whether or not that is literally true, the effect is the same: we feel miserable, hate our lives, and there seems to be no way forward. Have you ever felt like this? It may have been during a prolonged disability, or after a dear person in your life has passed away and you feel terribly alone.

We may try to find a way forward, perhaps by meeting with a psychologist or some other wise listening person, perhaps by prayer, perhaps by throwing ourselves into activity. Over recent weeks, through my teaching in preparation for the festival of Shavuot, I have been inspired by another kind of key to unlock the gates that seem to keep us trapped.

Let’s look at the miserable situation of Naomi, as told in the biblical Book of Ruth (read every year on the second day of Shavuot). She has left Bethlehem in the Land of Israel, together with her husband Elimelech and their two sons Machlon and Chilion, and settled in the Land of Moab. But in the months and years that follow, disaster strikes – again and again and again! First Naomi’s husband dies. Her sons marry Moabite women, Orpah and Ruth, but after some years both sons die, and Naomi is left with only her daughters-in-law.

It is not hard, I think, to imagine just how desolate Naomi is, having lost her husband and both her sons. Naomi feels that life in Moab has nothing to offer her now, and decides to go back to Bethlehem. She tries to persuade her two daughters-in-law, Orpah and Ruth, each to return to her family home, where they might marry Moabite husbands, and find security. At first both young women insist on staying with Naomi, but in the end Orpah gives away and reluctantly returns to her family home.

As for Ruth, her words must be among the most beautiful expressions of love and loyalty in all the Bible, indeed in all literature: Wherever you go I will go and wherever you stay I will stay. Your people shall be my people and your God my God. Wherever you die will I die, and beside you will I be buried. How can Naomi argue against such love and such absolute determination?

Why does Ruth make such an astonishing and moving pledge? She can have no expectation of reward, and must know that Naomi is right: Ruth would have a much better chance of security and happiness if she returns to her family and lives among her own people. What is so beautiful about Ruth’s pledge to Naomi is that it is pure giving, pure love.

So the two women go on to Bethlehem together, where the turns of the story lead Ruth to a good man called Boaz. Ruth and Boaz marry, and Ruth gives birth to a son – the grandchild Naomi never expected to hold. Through that son, two generations later, comes the great King David. How did such misery, as Naomi had experienced in Moab, turn to such nachas (joy)?

Surely it is Ruth’s selfless kindness towards her mother-in-law, with no expectation of reward, which brings about the change in the universe of these two women. Is there a lesson for us? Can our own selfless generosity change the world we live in?

When I raised this in my discussion groups, many residents were absolutely clear: yes we can change our world for the better; we can turn our life around. Some said it is because we change when we are particularly kind to others; others said that our own generosity can make others treat us better. I myself do believe that a selfless act of kindness and giving, without any expectation of reward, changes the universe for both the giver and the person who receives the act of kindness. We are no longer stuck in misery: we are in a new world.

Chag Shavuot Sameach - Happy Shavuot!

Labels: Book of Ruth, Elman, For the Spirit, Letter from the Rabbi, Naomi, Shavuot

Have you ever been hurt or damaged by what someone has done to you? Do you remember how it felt – and perhaps how the memory still upsets you? Were you treated brutally? Or taken advantage of financially? Were you teased or hurt by cruel things said to you? Were you damaged because someone was prejudiced against your people? Were you ignored or laughed at in conversation?

I think most of us can recall all sorts of ways we've been hurt, in our feelings, our body or our pocketbook. What do we do with these hurts? For some, what comes naturally is to take them out on others – to damage others like we've been damaged. Others may see the best thing to do is put aside our hurts (if not quite forgive and forget), and get on with our lives.

Because of a Torah reading this month that contains that powerful principle, Love your neighbor as yourself (sometimes called the Golden Rule), I have been thinking about a famous variation of it. Some of you may be familiar with the story about Hillel, the great Jewish sage who lived two thousand years ago: a non-Jewish person came before Hillel wanting to be converted, on condition that Hillel would teach him the whole of Torah while the man was standing on one foot. Hillel said to him, "What is hateful to you, do not do to others: that is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary; go and learn it."


What Hillel is doing here is taking the Golden Rule and making it much easier to understand and use. Love your neighbor as yourself is a wonderful principle from which all other moral rules derives, but it is not always easy to know how to apply to our lives. However, if we can hold in our minds the words of Hillel – What is hateful to you, do not do to others – we have a ready guide to behavior. For this principle tells us what to do with our own feelings about how we like, or hate, to be treated, and what to do with all those hurts we have suffered: not to put them aside, not to take them out on others, but instead to use them to guide our life and our actions for the good.

For instance, if I know how horrible it was for me to be teased or subjected to cruel words, I must never do that to others. If I recall the hurt I felt as a child being called a "dirty Jew" (thankfully that was not a frequent happening), then that must guide how I think about other peoples, or religions, or races, or nationalities: not ascribe negative characteristics to those groups, and not treat members of them badly because of those imagined characteristics.

If I have felt ignored when I was in need or distress, or when I had something to say, then I need to be especially careful not to ignore others. If I have found my reputation damaged because people have been gossiping about me, I must guard against gossiping about others. Of course there are many wrongs that I personally haven’t suffered, but I can imagine how much I'd hate the experience, and that should be a warning bell for me not to cause such wrongs to others.

Hillel's demand that we use our own experience and feelings as a guide to action is reflects a teaching found frequently in Torah, about how we should treat the "stranger" – i.e. the immigrant from another land who lives amongst us. The Torah teaches: "When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. He shall be to you as one of your citizens: you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." We are to use our own bad experiences as strangers (and slaves) in Egypt – or wherever we have lived as a minority community in a country not our own – to ensure that strangers among us are treated much better.

While this is how Torah tells us to treat the stranger, Hillel's teaching, What is hateful to you, do not do to others, is a powerful reminder about all our actions. Our experiences, bad experiences in particular, are to be central to our moral stance in the world; and we cannot claim to be living ethically if we ignore those experiences in how we treat others.

Labels: Elman, For the Spirit, Hillel, Letter from the Rabbi, Love your neighbor, Torah

What does the Passover Seder mean to you? Is the special thing having the family gather for the Seder? Do you love the rituals of the Seder and the reading of the Haggada? Maybe for you the highlight is the meal? Perhaps we focus on our ancestors’ departure from slavery to freedom; or on the need to end the slavery that still exists in our modern world.

The Haggada, the book we read from at the Passover Seder, is primarily about the Exodus from Egypt, when we were brought out (“redeemed”) from slavery to freedom. But the Rabbis, who wrote the Haggada at a time of exile from the Land of Israel, were also praying for a future redemption: that the Jews should be gathered from the four corners of the earth and brought to a sovereign Land of Israel. For two thousand years, that prayer sustained our ancestors in so many countries of the world. In a sense, living in exile was like being in slavery.

The Passover Seder takes us a journey from something degrading to something wonderful. Thus we read early on in the Haggada: At present we are here (that means we are in exile); next year may we be in Israel. At present we are slaves; next year may we be free men and women.

At this point, we are still slaves, we are still in exile; but we are hoping and praying that we will be taken to a better place, to freedom, to sovereignty in our own land. By the end of the Seder, we have made the journey, and read the joyful lines: God took us out of slavery into freedom; out of grief into joy; out of mourning into festivity; out of darkness into a great light…

This had led me to think about the journeys from darkness to light we have made in own lives. Haven’t we all at some time gone from misery to joy, or from fear to relief to thanksgiving? For some it might be recovery from a difficult and frightening illness; for others it might be when we have moved beyond grief for the loss of a loved one, to enjoyment in life again – that discovery that there is light at the end of the tunnel. The most powerful stories come from those of our residents who are Holocaust survivors, who talk of moments in the camps that saved their lives, or when they lived the amazing moment of liberation.

I recently heard the story of someone who continued to live at home after her husband had passed away. She was lonely and unhappy; life was going nowhere. Still she fought against her daughter’s wish to bring her to the Jewish Home. (Did that seem like going from freedom to slavery?) Finally she agreed and entered the Home, and her life changed beyond belief. She became very close friends with her room-mate and, with her help, she developed a wider circle of friends. She attended discussion groups and language classes. This intelligent woman discovered that she had much to give, and she was widely liked and appreciated. This story is not unique. Others too have found their lives greatly enriched here. Out of grief into joy, out of mourning into festivity.

And if we look into the future, what is our dream for ourselves and for our world? One challenge lies in believing things can get better; it is all too easy to get stuck in pessimism that there is no way forward. That was true of the Children of Israel when they faced the Red Sea, which blocked their escape from the Egyptians. But tradition tells us of one man, Nachshon, who walked into the Red Sea and kept going forward step by step until the water rose almost to his nostrils. Firmly believing that there was a way forward to life and freedom, he took one more step – and the Sea parted for the Israelites to cross to safety. The story tells us that change does not just happen; we have to make it happen.

I think of all those people of vision, generosity and hard work who made the Jewish Home what it is today, step by step. I think of the new resident and her room-mate who together turned mourning into joy. When we feel we are stuck in Egypt, let us have the courage to believe that we can, step by step, start on the journey to liberation.

Labels: For the Spirit, Haggada, Letter from the Rabbi, Passover, Personal Growth, Pesach, Seder, Slavery

It’s funny how many people are quite sure their first meeting with their future husband or wife was beshert (it was “meant to be”), even though many of those same people insist that God plays no part of their lives. Most of our residents look back on 60 or more years of wonderful marriage, and it is hard to believe the way they met their husband- or wife-to-be could have been chance.

I’ve noticed how residents talk with delight about the way that first meeting came about, while their wedding itself hardly gets a mention. That’s true for me too. Just a few days ago my wife and I celebrated the tenth anniversary of the day we met (in Jerusalem). A day like that fundamentally changes the course of one’s life, while a wedding perhaps only confirms a course one has already decided on.

When we say “it was meant to be” or “God intended it” we are expressing our sense that life has meaning that is hidden beneath ordinary circumstances, in coincidences, even in silly mistakes. But why do we think a wonderful happening, like the one that led to a good marriage, is beshert, while we find it harder to say that about a tragedy? When something terrible happens, we are more likely to say God was absent, or God didn’t care, or God doesn’t exist. It would challenge our idea of a good God to suggest that God intended, or wanted, us to suffer hardship or pain.

I would never say to someone suffering loss or illness that God intended this to happen to them. That would be cruel and insensitive, and how can I know, anyway? And yet as we reflect on challenges in our own lives, we may experience trust that there is rightness to what happens, and out of that trust can come positive developments. Is that trust fanciful? That I can’t answer for sure. But my own faith, that there is meaning to the events in my life, has helped me grow from negative happenings, such as illness, so that I bring new changes to my life for the good.

In a few days we will be celebrating the Jewish festival of Purim, which is based on the Book of Esther. Now we all know that the Bible is largely about God, but in this strange biblical book, God doesn’t get a mention. The characters go through their events with the most human mix of silliness, chance, ambition, revenge, fear and courage. Yes, just like we tend to see our own lives.

But the name “Esther”, even though it is derived from a Persian name, connects to the Hebrew word for hidden. It is a hint that even in that very human Purim story, there may be meanings (and God) hidden under the everyday events. This is certainly what our Sages taught. In the Yiddish word we are used to, maybe the events – like the young Jewish girl Esther marrying the Persian King – are beshert.

I think this is what her cousin Mordechai believes. When he learns that the Jewish people face destruction at the hand of the wicked Haman, he seeks to persuade Esther not to be cowardly but to risk her life to get the king to save the Jews. Mordechai says, "Who knows if it is not for this purpose that you are here?"

I think it is that question that prompts Esther to overcome her fear, to wonder if perhaps it was beshert that the king divorced his previous wife and chose Esther to be his new wife. Out of those events grew the opportunity for Esther to save her people. She rose to the occasion, transforming both the situation and herself. Instead of being someone who things happened to, she became a person who made things happen. If we look at the events in our lives as beshert, that we are here at this moment for a purpose, how might we too transform ourselves so that we bring good to ourselves and the world about us?

When we are not making a noise to drown out the name of Haman (who stands for negativity and destructiveness) let’s ponder how Esther can inspire us to new creativity.

Labels: Beshert, Elman, For the Spirit, Letter from the Rabbi, Purim

Talking with residents throughout the beautiful festival of Chanukah this year gave me a lot to think about. Remember how we light the lights on the menorah: one the first night, two the second, and so on till all eight lights are burning on the eighth night. What starts out as single point of light ends as a glorious display. Night by night, light increases.

So one of the questions I have been raising with residents is whether our light – the light that shines within us – increases as time goes on. I focused particularly on wisdom. As every resident knows, our memory certainly doesn’t improve with passing years, but wisdom is something that may live on within us quite independently of memory.

Some people said that experience made them wiser. As the years pass, we live through so many experiences, for good and for bad; and of course we all make mistakes, which – in theory – we learn from. One resident joked that she is allowed to make the same mistake twice, but twice is the limit! Another said that she always tries to ask herself: what did I learn from that mistake?

I think she’s right. Experience teaches us to make better decisions in how we live our lives only if we can reflect on what we have been through. For that, we need to know ourselves and what is really important for us. If we don’t, we can re-live patterns that don’t help us at all. We grow in wisdom when experience teaches us to understand ourselves and the world around us; that way, we are more able to make judgments that are good and healthy.

When we see our own goodness and also our own failings, and recognize these in others too, we are better able to face life’s challenges without being filled with negativity. It is my belief that love and compassion for ourselves and for all humanity are major elements in wisdom; indeed they are a basis for the biblical injunction to "Love your neighbor as yourself".

As we talked of the increase in light with the passing years, many residents felt that they were more compassionate than they used to be. Surely that compassion arises out of the knowledge that we human beings all share a certain frailty, all are struggling to do the best we can, and none of us can get it right all the time. Isn’t it true that a wise person recognizes and appreciates that shared humanity?

A growing wisdom many bring a deeper sense of what is important to us. It is interesting that, for many of us, our priorities change during our lifetimes. It is not, I think, just because circumstances change: it is also because we change. When residents talk of what is important to them now, they focus frequently on relationships and, most of all, family.

I was fascinated when one resident talked about the importance of compromise. What she meant was that we can’t always have things just as we want. That is true throughout our lives, but comes to the fore particularly as we encounter new situations, such as aging and disability. If you stick to your old view of how things ought to be, you get nowhere. In the words of one person, a lady who had spent years in Auschwitz: "You have to live life as it is, and thank God every day for your life and blessings". This was a theme for several people, and some noted that not every resident is able to adjust to life as it is.

I asked one person, whom I have known since the time she was still walking with ease, how she had managed her transition to having to use a wheelchair. I knew she would give me a thoughtful response; in fact what she said brought tears to my eyes. She said: "I had to face the truth – the truth of my situation. Once I could do that, the rest was easy." She was putting into words what so many residents know, reminding us that wisdom also involves courage – the courage to shine light on our lives and our situations, and face truths we might prefer to ignore.

Labels: Chanukah, Elman, For the Spirit, Hanukkah, Letter from the Rabbi, Wisdom

There are moments when I see something so simple, so everyday – but yet so beautiful it brings tears to my eyes. Like noticing a nursing assistant gently combing a resident’s hair; or an activities person stroking an anxious resident’s arm; or a physical therapist walking with someone who is uncertain of her steps, gently encouraging her, while chatting away to keep her calm. At our regular memorial services for residents who have passed away, one of the staff may talk of a resident we have lost with such tenderness that her voice breaks.

And then there are those times when residents express wholehearted appreciation for staff, like when someone at a residents’ council meeting says that, say, Housekeeping or Maintenance or Activities are “wonderful” – and lots of other people agree. Around Thanksgiving, I asked in various groups what residents were thankful for. Top of the list for so many people was the Jewish Home!

It’s interesting to think what this means. We could look at the Home as distinct groups of people, each with their own separate role: those who live here (or receive the Home’s services in other ways); and those who are employed here; those who volunteer their time and energy and skills, and those who donate financially. Yes that’s one way of looking at the Home, but in fact it is much richer than that.

I have been asking myself the question: what makes a community? I believe it is much more than, say, a group of people who live in the same place; or a group of people who work in the same place. A community (just like a family) is held together by invisible bonds – they may be bonds of love and caring; or, just as important, bonds of obligation.

Then we may look at the common purpose that brings a group of people together. The purpose of the Home is to bring the highest standards of care to seniors, in keeping with Jewish values. All efforts are aimed at giving the best to residents and to others who receive the Home’s services. In this way, the Jewish Home is an organization with a purpose. It meets that purpose to a pretty high standard – which is a prime reason residents are so thankful for it.

But the Home is not just an organization; it is also a community. Certainly it is there for the residents, but it also plays an important role in the lives of staff and volunteers and donors (and let’s include those who give their time to serve on the Home’s governing bodies).

All have the potential to give to others, and all have the potential to have their lives enriched by the web of relationships, the obligations and the caring, the warmth and the friendship, the sense of belonging that membership of a community like this can bring.

Some of the employees have been with the Home for 20 or 30 or more years. Some stay in the same jobs over the years, while others take advantage of the opportunity the Home offers to move up to more satisfying or senior roles. Those who work here enjoy their relationships with each other and with the residents; and many experience a fulfillment that comes from being able to contribute to the life and wellbeing of others. And I know how much most of our residents enjoy their connections with the staff and appreciate what they do.

I have just had the privilege of participating in events that gave me a new sense of this Jewish Home family. On the days before Thanksgiving, Rabbi Rita and I co-hosted interfaith services on both campuses for employees of the Home, alongside a Catholic Priest and a Protestant Pastor. I found this coming together of staff members and clergy from different backgrounds very moving.

Here at the Home, people fill different roles – residents, nurses, dietary or maintenance staff, administrators, and many more – and come from many backgrounds and traditions. What I have come to see more clearly than ever before, is that there is so much more that unites us than divides us. Together, we are a community, and I am thankful to be part of it.

Labels: Community, Elman, Jewish Home, Letter from the Rabbi

In some of my classes I have been discussing the subject of courage, following the recent Torah readings about the exodus from Egypt and the crossing of the Red Sea. Throughout that period the faith of the Israelites, that they can and will escape their Egyptian slave-masters and become a free people, swings wildly between moments of trust and confidence – Yes, God is on our side! – and times when they want only to remain slaves, for freedom is just too risky.

When the Israelites complain to Moses – Why don’t you leave us alone, to remain in Egypt as slaves? – they want to stay in the world they know, rather than take all the risks of freedom. Freedom carries the dignity of making choices, and the possibility of good and new things in our lives, but also it means we live without knowing what tomorrow brings. Willingness to face the uncertainties and the difficulties of life, as well as its possibilities, is what courage is all about. The alternative, in the words of one resident, is: Just give up, stay in bed, and pull the blankets over your head.

Does growing older call on us to have courage? A resident answered: Yes we need courage, because we never know what’s going to happen. Perhaps she was thinking about the sudden change in health she had recently gone through – without a negative word! Another resident told us her first words on waking each morning: No surprises today please!

It is not just the unknown. Some residents live in almost constant pain or discomfort; others get on as best they can despite physical difficulties. Most know the loneliness of life following the death of their long-time husband or wife. As I see how the majority of residents make the best of life without complaint, it strikes me that courage is indeed an important factor in making senior years a positive time of life. Here at the Home, the staff does a wonderful job in making the life of residents as comfortable, dignified and enjoyable as possible. What is sometimes overlooked is that the residents do a wonderful job too. For me, to see such courage is both humbling and inspiring.

The Torah expresses courage as faith in God. For instance, when the Israelites are facing the Red Sea, with the Egyptian army coming up behind them, they initially complain to Moses who tells them: Have no fear, stand by and watch how God will save you! While many people have courage which is not based on faith is God, there are others for whom faith can be a source of courage. Psalm 23 puts it: Though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. A sense that one is not alone can give great strength.

I have very great respect for those who came through years in the Nazi death camps or work camps. I know from my reading that not everyone kept their determination to survive; some just gave up. I am not surprised, so I asked the Holocaust survivors in my groups what gave them the courage to keep going. All without exception told me their faith was very important to them. One said his recitation of psalms sustained him. Another said she felt God by her side as she volunteered for work – which turned out to be her route to survival. Another said her religion was important to her, but she also believed a person’s childhood upbringing made a big difference. She herself had had a very poor childhood, and that difficult time gave her the strength she needed to face the enormous challenge of life in the camps. I understand that; although we all want an easy life, it is very often difficult experiences that strengthen us to face even greater challenges in the future.

We talked a little about the courage to face death. One resident was sad about the relative shortness of the time still left for her, wishing she had achieved more. But not one person expressed fear about the future.

Perhaps that is why I love being a rabbi at the Jewish Home: while I am no longer young myself, I work amongst my seniors and my teachers, who help me to think that maybe I too will be able to face all the uncertainties and hardships that lie ahead. For that I am grateful.

Labels: Aging, Bible, Courage, Death, Elman, For the Spirit, Holocaust survivors, Inspiring, Israelites, Jewish, Judaism, Letter from the Rabbi, Moses, Rabbi

One of the Torah readings this month includes two stories that look like they are heading for a disastrous conclusion. The stories concern the fate of one or other of Abraham’s sons, Ishmael and Isaac.

At the urging of his wife Sarah, Abraham sends away his concubine Hagar and her child Ishmael (Abraham’s elder son). Mother and child set off into the desert carrying food and water, but before very long, the water bottle is empty. Hagar cannot bear to see her son die, so she puts him under a bush, goes to sit some distance away, and weeps bitterly. As for us, at this point in the story we have feelings of distress, of doom. There is no future.

Let’s leave that story for a moment and look at the other – the horrific tale we call the Akeda, the binding of Isaac. We are told that God tests Abraham, instructing him to take his beloved son Isaac and sacrifice him as a burnt offering. We watch with horror as Abraham prepares for the journey, without a word of protest. He and Isaac arrive at the designated place. Abraham builds the altar, binds up Isaac and lays him on the altar; he takes the knife and makes ready to slay his son.

Again, as in the story of Hagar and her son Ishmael, we feel so helpless, as it seems the story must take its inevitable, painful, course. It’s partly that in each case, the adult sees no alternative. Each is blinded to other alternatives. Hagar is wailing as her son faces certain death. Abraham is determinedly doing what he believes is the will of God, seemingly unable to shift course and put life before death.

I believe we have all had moments when we feel there is no way forward. A sense that life – real living – has come to a stop. But in these stories new inspiration and new life intervene.

God interrupts Hagar’s wailing and tells her to go back to her son, promising that the boy’s descendants will become a great nation. Well, God speaking is all very well, but let’s not forget Hagar has run out of water. So although she must be heartened by God’s words, she still cannot see a way out of the deathly present, into a life-full future. Isn’t it true for us too? When we’re stuck, we just can’t see a way forward.

So God intervenes in a different way. He “opens Hagar’s eyes”. To her (and our) surprise, where Hagar has seen only desert, she now sees, just a short distance away, a spring of fresh water. She fills the water bottle, goes to her son, and gives him to drink.

Let’s return quickly to that other story. We left Abraham, knife in hand, about to slay his son Isaac, bound on the altar in front of him. Here again, it is God’s voice that interrupts Abraham’s set path, calling to him not to kill his son, not to harm him in any way. God says that, as Abraham has shown his willingness to listen to God’s word, Isaac (like Ishmael in the other story) will be the father of a great nation.

I picture Abraham as still paralyzed, unable to take a step away from the brink, unable to make the move towards life. He still needs to see a way forward. We read then that Abraham lifts up his eyes and sees a ram caught in a thicket by its horns. That’s when he is able to change course: he sacrifices the ram instead of his son Isaac.

So each of these stories has a surprise twist that enables the person to “see” what couldn’t be seen before – a spring of water, or a ram caught in the thicket. Suddenly there are possibilities.

I know that sometimes, for instance after the tragic loss of a loved one, or when one is struck by major illness or disability, there may seem no more possibility of rich and valuable life. But I have seen so many residents find new meaning in their lives, new possibilities of richness and joy. Here is a challenge to us all, to be willing to be surprised – to discover that the course of our own story may have a twist we didn’t expect, one that we couldn’t have dreamt of, one that opens a new path to a life of meaning and richness. Let’s just open our eyes!

Rabbi Anthony Elman

Rabbi Anthony Elman is the Skirball Director of Spiritual Life at the Jewish Home and also serves as Rabbi of the Home's Grancell Village campus. His professional background is multifaceted, encompassing the fields of law, social work, and psychotherapy. Rabbi Elman has been with the Home since his ordination and graduation from the Academy for Jewish Religion-California in May 2007

Labels: Abraham, Aging, Akeda, Elman, Getting Older, God, Hagar, Isaac, Ishmael, Letter from the Rabbi, Life, New Meaning, No Alternative, Open Your Eyes, Sarah, Torah

One of my classes is called “Conversation with the Rabbi”, and the conversation last week was real and fascinating. Everyone knows the disadvantages of aging: the loss of mobility and other restrictions, the aches and pains, the fact that one is no longer looking forward to a long life of dreams and possibilities, and, in many cases, the lingering loneliness after the death of a husband or wife. But I wanted to know the other side of the coin. I asked each resident present to tell me if there were any advantages to old age. (It’s natural I should want to know, as that stage of my life gets ever closer!)

I expected to get laughed at. But instead, almost every resident in the class was able to talk about some of the blessings of being older. Some talked of being wiser. Others spoke of the joy of watching their families – their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren – and that this time of life was filled with the love they could give to their families, and the love they received from them. With less responsibility now, there was greater time and freedom just for the good things. Another theme emerged, too. There was time and opportunity to reach out and help others here at the Home. Many talked of living in the Jewish Home as a blessing: they received so much, and could also give so much.

None of these residents was being starry-eyed. None pretended that old age was just paradise, without real disadvantages. One woman said: there are good things about being older, but there are more bad things. But even she was happy to tell me about the blessings in her life.

Let me tell you about one of the Torah stories we read this month. The Israelites, on their journey towards the Promised Land, passed through a country whose king was so frightened of them that he called on Balaam, a foreign prophet, to come and curse them. But God made sure that all the words that came out of Balaam’s mouth were not words of curse, but instead words of blessing, telling of the Israelites’ future success.

Just as God turned curse into blessing, we too have the ability – if only we are willing – to turn curse into blessing. I often talk of recognizing God’s blessing in the events of our life – even seemingly negative events. This is not something magical, like kidding ourselves that dark is really light. But we do have greater power over our lives than we often think. Many years ago I was asked, how does one become blessed? I answered that if we feel blessed, then we are blessed. Changing our attitude towards life can actually change the way we experience life. That is the way we turn curse into blessing.

A resident who has recently changed location within the Home has been finding it so painful leaving behind familiar people – both residents and staff – that she can’t enjoy life where she is now. I know this can be painful, but I have also been suggesting to her that each day she try to find one good thing about her new surroundings, one little blessing. She tells me she is still finding it difficult, but I believe she is beginning to experience good, to find blessing in her new life.

Labels: Aging, Around the Home, Blessings, Blog, Conversation with the Rabbi, Elman, Family, For the Spirit, Israelites, Judaism, Letter from the Rabbi, Seniors, Transition

As we celebrate Passover, it is good to ponder on what the holiday is about. Many of us remember the story: the Israelites had been enslaved in Egypt for many generations until Moses, directed and inspired by G-d, led them out to freedom. That coming out, that Exodus, marks the birth of the Jewish people. But the meaning of it has resonated around the world throughout time. In our own era, Martin Luther King, Jr. found inspiration in the story of Moses and the Exodus, as he led his people in their struggle for civil rights.

Passover is known as the season of our freedom. But why is freedom so important? Why are people across the Middle East and North Africa even at this moment struggling, and sometimes dying, for freedom? Watching the news of those struggles has led me to think more about what it means to be a free person, and part of a free people.

People held down by a dictatorship or foreign power cannot fully thrive. It is not just that they cannot choose what to do; something in the soul of a people is beaten down. Their imagination and inventiveness are squashed — they are a people without true dignity.

Is freedom simply about being able to do as one wants? (Can any of us really do everything we want?) In our Jewish story, leaving Egypt meant we did not have taskmasters telling us how to live every minute of our day. We were free from those restrictions, but that didn't mean we were free to live a worthwhile and dignified life.

That is why Passover — the season of our freedom — and Shavuot — the season of the giving of our Torah — are so closely connected. Torah gives us laws and ethical principles, so that we know that real freedom lies in how we interact in our community and our larger society. First and foremost, the Jewish people are obliged by Torah to love our neighbor as ourselves; we must not oppress the widow and the orphan; we are repeatedly told to be respectful of the stranger who lives in our society, remember what it was like when we were strangers in Egypt.

Torah reminds me that in a free society, I have a duty of care and consideration for my fellow men and women. The free society that Torah gives us is one in which we are bound together in relationship.

Ideally we do not celebrate Passover in solitude. We celebrate it in groups, in families, in communities. At the Seder, we read from the Haggada "let all who are needy come and celebrate Passover." It is together that we are able to taste the sweetness of this "season of freedom".

Rabbi Anthony Elman serves as Rabbi of the Jewish Home's Grancell Village Campus. His professional background is multifaceted, encompassing the fields of law, social work, and psychotherapy. Rabbi Elman has been with the Home since his ordination and graduation from the Academy for Jewish Religion-California in May 2007

Labels: Civil Rights, Community, Dignity, Egypt, Elman, For the Spirit, Freedom, holiday, Israelites, Judaism, Letter from the Rabbi, Moses, Passover, Pesach, Torah