Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau tells about a speech he heard as a 10 year old
child, in a displaced children’s center in Ecoius, France. A group of local
politicians came to visit the center, filled with the youngest survivors of the
Holocaust. The children did not want to listen to the politicians, and sat
stone silent, ignoring the speakers. But then the final speaker got up. As
Rabbi Lau describes him, the man “was a
Jew who had survived Auschwitz, where he had lost his wife and children. Since the liberation, he had dedicated all
his time, energy, and resources to war orphans.”
Rabbi Lau describes what happened next:
“At that moment,
without any advance planning, five hundred pairs of eyes lifted in a look of
solidarity toward the Jew standing on the stage. He was one of us. We looked at him, and he saw hundreds of
pairs of eyes fixed on him in a powerful gesture of empathy. Tears choked his throat. He gripped the microphone, and for several
long seconds, the microphone broadcast only the sounds of his hands
shaking. He tried to control himself,
but managed to say only three words in Yiddish:
“Kinder, taiyereh kinder” (“Children, dear children”). Then he burst
into tears.…...We all considered it unmanly to cry, since, after all, we had
survived the concentration camps. Yet
each boy sitting on the grassy plaza stealthily wiped his eyes with his
sleeve….then the dam broke. All at once,
the lawn of [the orphanage] was transformed into a literal vale of tears.”
This Holocaust survivor, alone in the world, has devoted himself to
the remaining Jewish children in Europe. In three tear choked words, he can
summarize his mission: “Kinder, taiyereh
kinder”.
This mission is the theme of Rosh Hashanah. The Torah Reading and
Haftorah of Rosh Hashanah are unlike
that of any other holiday; they are not about the rituals and sacrifices of the
day, nor are they about the essence of the day, such at creation or judgement.
Instead, these two readings are about two infertile women, Sarah and Hannah,
struggling to conceive. The lesson is simple; on the one day when we focus on
our dreams for the future, we need to remember that the way we get there is by
the love we give our children, our dear children.
This lesson may seem simple, but it is not.
The first part of this lesson begins in the text; building a child
centered community only magnifies the pain of those who struggle with
infertility. Sarah and Hannah are role models, and lead successful lives. Yet
nothing quite stings like their inability to conceive, and the insensitive
attempts by others to offer them “perspective” makes their pain worse. I
hesitated more than once before writing this for the bulletin, worried that it
might be misunderstood and cause pain to some of the people reading it. The
Torah and Haftorah readings have a clear message: we cannot talk about our
dreams for family without praying for, and embracing, those who struggle to
build families of their own; and I hope this sermon is understood in a similar
fashion.
The second lesson is that our children are a sacred trust. The text
makes it clear that the babies born to Sarah and Hannah are a divine gift; and
so is every baby. Therefore, we must
cherish them, protect them and love them unconditionally. They are our “tayereh
kinder”, our dear, dear children.
This love might seem universal, but it is not; children were not loved
in every culture and era. At times, entire societies showed marked indifference
to children. Phillipe Aries[1] has argued that deep bonds of love between
parent and child were uncommon in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. While his
point of view has many detractors, Aries has some significant evidence. In one
example, a woman in the 17th century gives comfort to her neighbor who had just
had her fifth child by saying: “before
they are old enough to bother you, you will have lost half of them, or perhaps
all of them”[2]. Aries’ insight is that parental instinct
alone isn’t enough to ensure that parents love their children; the culture of
the community plays a significant role as well.
Jewish culture was very different. Ephraim Kanarfogel[3]
points to multiple sources, both Jewish and Christian, that portray a different
picture of the Jewish home. One is a
comment of Rabbeinu Asher[4],
(1259 – 1327) the 13th century German Rabbi, who comments on the common phrase
“the pain of raising children” (tzaar giddul banim) by
saying that “children do not bring one pain, only joy”. Even when children are
a challenge for us, we must see them as a joy.
The next lesson of holding children dear is we need to cherish them
for who they are. This too might seem obvious, but it is not.
Kanarfogel notes that one of the greatest contrasts between medieval
Jews and Christians is in the area of education. In the early 12th century, a
student of Peter Abelard writes[5]
that unlike Christians, “a Jew, however
poor, would put even ten sons to letters, not for gain, as Christians do, but
for the understanding of God’s Law, and not only his sons but also his
daughters.” (Even Jewish daughters are being taught in the 1100’s in
France, and that is notable.)
This intense emphasis on education is rooted in the commandment to
study Torah. From it, a powerful culture of educational excellence grew. Yet at
the same time, a strong awareness arose that not every child is the same, and
that excellence in education means educating each child differently. The 12th
century Sefer Chasidim[6]
offers the following educational directives. First, you can’t have students of
different abilities in the same class. And if a student is not adept at Talmud,
have him study Bible, or basic laws instead. Every student deserves an
education on their own level.
But this is not easy to do, because we want naches.
There is a Jewish joke about a birth announcement in the newspaper
that reads: "Mr. and Mrs. Marvin
Rosenberg are pleased to announce the birth of their son, Dr. Jonathan
Rosenberg." Unfortunately, too often the education of children is more
about the parent than the child. What the child learns becomes part of
“achievement by proxy syndrome”, where the parent lives in the child’s
reflected glory. And too often, naches becomes oversized expectations. To this
point, the comedian David Bader wrote a haiku entitled the “Jewish Mother’s
Lament”:
Is one Nobel Prize
so much to ask from a child
after all I've done?
so much to ask from a child
after all I've done?
But what about the children who won't win Nobel Prizes, and do not fit
the standard definition of naches? And what about the boy who doesn’t belong in
an elite educational program? Samson Raphael Hirsch[7] raises this
point in an essay about Esau and Jacob. He faults their parents, Isaac and
Rebecca, for assuming that they both could be educated in the same intellectual
Yeshiva style. He argues that Esau lost his way because his parents didn’t
appreciate that he was not the same as his brother:
“Had Isaac and
Rebecca studied Esau's nature and character early enough, and asked themselves,
how can even an Esau, how can all the strength and energy, agility and courage
that lies slumbering in this child be won over to be used in the service of God
… then Jacob and Esau, with their totally different natures could still have
remained twin brothers in spirit and life; quite early in life Esau's
"sword" and Jacob's "spirit" could have worked hand in
hand...”
Not every child is meant to be a Talmud prodigy, and there isn’t just
one path for them. And whatever career they choose, they still are our dear,
dear children.
One final lesson must be mentioned.
We might think that a desire for children is obvious. But it is not.
Many people don’t want to have more children.
These words are not intended to preach. Every parent thinks twice
before deciding to have another child, and spouses often argue about family
size. But it is often the best and brightest who decide against having more
children, and those who opt to have more children are seen as strange. Mark
Oppenheimer[8],
writes about having a fifth child that “among
people we know, this makes us a bit odd.” When friends would ask him why he
was having another child, and his pithy answer was “we think five will be better than four.” He elaborated on his
answer with a beautiful essay about the joy of parenting. One point in his
essay caught my eye, a reminder that for Jews having a child is much more than
just having a child:
“Because I want
there to be more Jews in the world. My people suffered a huge demographic
catastrophe within my parents’ lifetime, and I like the idea of doing my small
part to repair that damage.”
With these words, Oppenheimer is echoing what the tear choked
Holocaust survivor said 70 years before: they are our “kinder, tayereh kinder”.
Nothing is more dear than another link in the chain of tradition, nothing is
more dear than a gift from God.
Yes, they are our dear children. They are our future. Please cherish
them.
(Delivered - Rosh Hashanah 2018)
[1] Philippe Aries, Centuries of Childhood: A
Social History of Family Life, Penguin, 1962
[2] Aries, page 37.
[3] Ephraim Kanarfogel, Jewish Education and
Society in the High Middle Ages, Wayne University Press, pages 34-40
[4] Tosafot HaRosh Sanhedrin 19b, s.v.”shepadau”
[5] Kanarfogel, page 16
[6] Parma edition, 823-825
[7] Collected Writings of Rabbi Samson Raphael
Hirsch, Volume 7, Feldheim, 1997 pages 319–32
[8] “Yes, We Really Do Want to Have a Fifth
Child” by Mark Oppenheimer, Wall Street Journal, Aug. 24, 2018
