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

The thoughts for this letter came to me while walking in a beautiful rainforest in Costa Rica. There are so many different kinds of trees in the forest, trees of all heights and kinds, and vines and creepers. And beneath those trees and vines and creepers, the ground is covered with fallen leaves, twigs, branches, whole tree-trunks … all part of the rich life of the forest.

In the midst of the towering trees and the fallen logs, it struck me that there is no clear distinction between what is alive and what is dead. Rather, there is an astonishingly complex pattern of interdependence and regeneration. The creatures and the plant life need each other, and the so-called “dead” branches and leaves are part of that pattern. They are far from useless: they provide home and nourishment to insects and small animals and other organisms, and gradually they break down to fertilize the soil, giving new growth, new life. In fact they are essential to the life and health of the new trees.

In that way, what is fallen seems as alive as the tall majestic trees. Certainly in the grand scheme of nature, the fallen, the “dead”, seem just as valuable. How odd that we human beings don't regard our dead as alive and valuable and nourishing! But that's exactly what they are.

In the Jewish tradition, we place great value on life: this life. It is not, as in some cultures, merely a preparation for a future life after death. This life, what we do in it, how we behave towards others, what we do to help bring about a better world – these are what count.

So once we die, do we become irrelevant to the rich pattern of life? Do we lose all value? That is how many people think about death, but I believe they are wrong. Just like those fallen trees and branches in the forest, what we have been in our lives will continue to affect those we leave behind, contributing to their lives.

Let me give an example. I continue to be inspired by the man I still regard as "my rabbi", several years after his death. He was a deeply spiritual man, who would speak and sing to God with all his heart and soul, but he combined that with a passion for changing the world for the good. His example taught me that spirituality – our relationship with God – has little value unless it is reflected in how we try to bring good unto the world. Like a great fallen tree in the forest, my rabbi continues to affect the lives of so many people who knew him or studied with him.

It is not just the “big” people in our lives (like parents and significant teachers) who make a lasting difference. Don’t you find that when someone shows trust in you, it adds to your confidence? Or when someone laughs at you, or treats you badly, it makes you feel smaller and less confident in the world? Just think back on the love your parents gave you, or some act of kindness or nobility shown by a friend – how that made you a better person. Whatever we do in our lifetimes affects others, and that effect remains after we have gone.

Where do these reflections lead me? On the one hand, I feel I must try to live up to the good bequeathed to me by so many who have gone before. After all, my life has been enriched enormously by countless people who are no longer alive – not just people I knew, but also people who died even before I was born, like all those men and women over the centuries who contributed to Jewish life and culture.

On the other hand, I think it’s important for me to be aware that every act of mine, for good or for bad – like a leaf on the floor of the rainforest – will continue to do its good or its bad long after my physical death.

I have come to realize that I want to leave behind a real (even if invisible) legacy for good in the lives of others. When my earthly life comes to an end, my hidden influence will continue. And I want that continuing influence to be for the good.

Don’t you feel the same way?

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: Costa Rica, Death, Ecosystem, Elman, Influence, Jewish, Judaism, Life, Rainforest

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

Skirball Hospice chaplain Rabbi Aviva Winocur Erlick wrote an amazing article for The Jewish Journal. We decided to share it.

I work as an on-call hospice chaplain, and I am often paged following the death of a patient. I was called recently to support a rather large group who had just witnessed the death of a woman in her 90s, whom I’ll call Bea.

Bea had been not just a mother, a grandmother and a great-grandmother to family members, but a surrogate grandmother to others, who came to cry with the family.

I shared a prayer written to be read following a death, which includes the phrase: “even though her life was incomplete.”

Bea’s loved ones thanked me but then shared that they disagreed with the prayer. Bea’s life had been absolutely complete. There wasn’t a thing more that she or anyone else had wished she had achieved. They even showed me a video taken the morning of her death. Bea could be seen speaking calmly from her bed, wishing blessings to all of her loved ones, by name. She was clearly at peace with her circumstances and wanted everyone to feel the same.

This week’s portion, Chayei Sara (The Life of Sara), actually begins with her death. The second sentence of the portion reads: “Sarah died in … Canaan; Abraham began to eulogize for her, and to weep for her” (Genesis 23:2).

Commentators often take time this week to eulogize Sara, too. As it says in the Talmud, “Three days are for crying, and seven for eulogizing.” Weeping is essential, but eulogizing, telling the story of a person’s life, must not be put off too long. It is essential to the grieving process to experience both our sadness at the loss, and our faith that the life lived was good, worthy of recollection, an inspiration going forward.

The first sentence of the parasha seems to teach this point. To translate literally, it says: “And the life of Sara was the 100 years and 20 years and 7 years of Sara’s life” (Genesis 3:1).

Why the odd repetitiveness? Rashi, a medieval commentator, writes that it is because all of Sara’s years were equally good. The Sfat Emet, a Chasidic teacher, adds that this doesn’t just mean that no days were especially bad. For a righteous person, no day is any less spectacular than the most amazing day of one’s life. Every year, every day for Sara, was fantastic!

So how do we square this with what we know about Sara’s life: the pain of famine; the disgrace of having to bed local kings to save her husband’s life; the frustration of waiting into her 90s to birth Isaac; and the humiliation of growing to despise, and eventually evict, her servant Hagar and her husband’s first son, Ishmael, from their camp?

Apparently, despite all these hardships, Sara was also consistently happy. According to Jewish teachings, happiness is not the result of good news or pleasant circumstances. It is a matter of perspective. “Aizeh hu ashir? Hasameach b’chelko,” it says in the Mishna: Who is rich? The one that is happy with his lot.” Similarly, the Psalmist writes, “Mi haish hechafetz chayim? Ohev yamim lirot tov.” Who among you loves life? The one who wants to see good all his days.

Sara lived every day as a good day not because good things happened, but because she wanted to see them this way. She chose to be satisfied, to find reason for gratitude — as Bea did even on her deathbed. It is a mental exercise that these women model for us all, both on the physical and spiritual planes.

Being “happy with our lot” usually brings to mind the idea of being aware of, and satisfied with, our circumstances. If we choose to, we can find opportunities to appreciate, rather than take for granted or be chronically discontent. Call it an “attitude of gratitude,” a mindfulness practice or a legacy in the making.

Beyond this is the question of calling. Our “lot” or “portion” could just as easily mean our truest work, our destiny. God speaks to our hearts, and if we listen, we can live God’s work through our own. Sara served as half of the partnership that founded our religion, helping her husband Abraham to teach the word of the One God. According to Rashi, when Genesis says the couple traveled with the “souls they had made,” it meant the people who had been won over to the faith that was yet to be named Judaism. Sara was a Teacher of Israel.

May we all learn to live the life of the righteous taught by Sara and by Bea. When we pass away, may there be many who gather to weep, eulogize and dedicate their lives to what we taught, just by how we chose to live.

Shabbat Shalom.



The Skirball Hospice is a program within the Los Angeles Jewish Home's continuum of care.

Labels: Chaplain, Chayei Sara, Complete, Cross Post, Death, For the Spirit, Hospice Care, Jewish Journal, Life, Rabbi Aviva Winocur Erlick, Share, Skirball Hospice, Staff, Torah