Last Saturday morning, we held a service for the victims of the tsunami. We were addressed by The Honourable Irwin Cotler, Minister of Justice and Attorney-General of Canada; Mr. Alain Bonneau, Honourary Consul of Sri Lanka; Mr. Sanat Kaul, the Indian Representative to ICAO; Mr. Aras Martono, the Indonesian Representative to ICAO, the International Civil Aviation Organization; Mr. Marc Attali, Consul General of Israel; Mrs. Ramani Balendra, President of the Quebec chapter of the Canadian Tamil Congress; in attendence were Mr. Bashir Hussain, Executive Director, Alliance of South Asian communities; Mr. Eddie Wolkove, Co-President (with Mr. Hussain) of Muslim-Jewish Dialogue of Montreal; Ms. Laya Alles, Sri Lanka Canada Association of Montreal; Mr. Perry Balendra, President of the Quebec Coalition for Peace in Sri Lanka; Mr. Manjit Singh, chair of the Montreal Interfaith Council a director of the Canadian Sikh Council, and Mr. Jeff Boro, President of the Canadian Jewish Congress, Quebec region.
This is the op-ed I wrote about this:
A Moment of Grace
It was not your average synagogue service. On this particular Saturday morning, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs and Buddhists gathered together in my Montreal synagogue for a service on behalf of the victims of the Asian tsunami. Diplomats from India, Indonesia, Israel and Sri Lanka, as well as the Canadian Minister of Justice, all offered words of sympathy. And indeed, solidarity was in the air. Representatives of the Sinhalese and Tamils both attended, and a representative of the largest Muslim country in the world, Indonesia, thanked the Jewish community for their efforts on behalf of the disaster victims. You could say it was a morning of strange bedfellows; in actuality, it was a true moment of grace.
While it is unfortunate that this solidarity is the product of a disaster, it is not unusual that it is so. Human behavior changes dramatically under pressure. Much like the old adage that “there are no atheists in foxholes”, disasters have the unique ability to unite antagonists in a common cause. As George Elliot, at the end of The Mill on the Floss, notes: “What quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity…?”
That is why when we observe the horrors of this tsunami, we transcend the foolish pettiness that is the foundation of human enmity. The sight of naked human suffering stirs feelings of compassion. We all understand what Ramani (a member of the Sri Lankan community who addressed us) felt, when following the tsunami, she started calling family members in a panic to see how they were. We immediately connect with those who are homeless, and have lost their life savings. As a father, I was overwhelmed as I saw parents searching for their children, hoping against hope that they are still alive. A report on CNN told about parents going to the beach, hoping they could at least recover their children’s bodies for burial; as I watched, I was overtaken by tears.
The prophet Malachi asks “Are we not all children of the same Father? Are we not all created by the same God? Then why are we faithless to each other?”. This indeed is a difficult riddle. How is it that humans can hate each other so much? Yet for much of history, humans are the authors of enormous devastation. The Holocaust, the killing fields of Cambodia, Rwanda and Darfur are all the products of human evil. Frequently, the intensity of hatred is the greatest between those groups that are most closely related. How do we forget that we all have the same father?
In the aftermath of this tsunami, we remember again that all human beings are brothers and sisters. Skin color, ethnic background and religious affiliation don’t change the fact that we are all part of one family. That is why people all around the world are coming forward to help the victims. With this disaster came a worldwide moment of grace.
Yes, catastrophe creates compassion. No, it’s not a good reason to hope for catastrophes. We would be better off if we could learn the lessons of solidarity in a more comfortable classroom. But it is a reminder of how as humans we have the ability to determine our response to whatever life may send our way. We can choose callousness or compassion. The response I saw in my synagogue, and the response I see coming from around the world, is one of caring and concern. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll truly recognize that we’re from the same family.
Now, I’m too cynical to believe things have changed much. I know that tomorrow, a new news story, preferably one that involves celebrities and/or a sex scandal, will push this tsunami off the front pages. (Indeed, the Consul General of Sri Lanka specifically asked us to continue to remember the victims of the tsunami, even after the media has forgotten them.). Just like after 9/11, we’ll forget our newfound ideals and return to small-mindedness.
Even so, a brief moment of grace can make an enduring difference. It allows us to glimpse what mankind could be like at its best. And that glimpse, of a world a bit too perfect for today, can still nourish the idealist inside all of us. If we open our hearts just a little, it can continue to remind us to love more, to give more, and to care more, even in times of tranquility.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Rejection Redefined
“I’m not interested”. “Leave me alone”. “Stop bothering me”. These are among the rejections I’ve received in the last few weeks. I have been canvassing on behalf of the Montreal Federation/CJA, and with canvassing comes rejection. Yes, most people have been polite, some even quite generous, but there were a few people who treated me with contempt. And I must say, those rejections really hurt.
In fact, it is human nature to avoid rejection. Instinctually, we avoid being left out of the group; we try our hardest to fit in. We quickly learn that any behaviour that courts disapproval from others can make us unpopular in general. As a consequence, we train ourselves to avoid anything that invites rejection. This is the basis of the fear of rejection.
This fear of rejection prevents us from doing some things we truly desire. We avoid asking for raises, asking people out on dates, even asking for directions, because we don’t want to be rejected. Indeed, most salesman have to be trained to turn off this deeply rooted instinct so they can do their jobs. It is often important for us to forget our fear of rejection.
But it is not only our fear of rejection that matters. Our understanding of rejection can determine the course of our lives. Rejection is often viewed as the end of a narrative, as in “I applied to Oxford, I was rejected, and therefore I was doomed to a second tier school”. I tried, I was rejected, end of story. Rejection can mean only one thing: the end of our hopes and dreams.
This need not be the way rejection is viewed. One can see failures as temporary setbacks, or even valuable lessons. As Winston Churchill put it “success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm”.
No question, it is difficult to recover from the great rejections in life. A firing, divorce, or bankruptcy are crushing rejections. It is hard to pick yourself up and start again from the bottom, particularly if you have already tasted success. However, the only way to prevent rejection from being the final chapter is if we are willing to write a new one.
Indeed, the most inspiring success stories are the ones in which the protagonist carries on after enduring a crushing defeat, and succeeds. Like the inventor who tries thousands of experiments before realizing a major breakthrough. Or the best selling author who was single mother on welfare. Or the previously failed politician who rallies his country to victory in a world war. Or the lonely, penniless holocaust survivor who, years later, leaves behind a legacy of philanthropy and a loving family. Or for that matter, the nation that was exiled for nearly 2,000 years until it finally returned home. These are all examples of people who saw rejection as a mere obstacle on the road to success.
Rejections are crushing. However, their impact depends a great deal on our perspective. It is up to us to redefine rejection, and struggle to start again. Because a failure is only final when we give up hope.
“I’m not interested”. “Leave me alone”. “Stop bothering me”. These are among the rejections I’ve received in the last few weeks. I have been canvassing on behalf of the Montreal Federation/CJA, and with canvassing comes rejection. Yes, most people have been polite, some even quite generous, but there were a few people who treated me with contempt. And I must say, those rejections really hurt.
In fact, it is human nature to avoid rejection. Instinctually, we avoid being left out of the group; we try our hardest to fit in. We quickly learn that any behaviour that courts disapproval from others can make us unpopular in general. As a consequence, we train ourselves to avoid anything that invites rejection. This is the basis of the fear of rejection.
This fear of rejection prevents us from doing some things we truly desire. We avoid asking for raises, asking people out on dates, even asking for directions, because we don’t want to be rejected. Indeed, most salesman have to be trained to turn off this deeply rooted instinct so they can do their jobs. It is often important for us to forget our fear of rejection.
But it is not only our fear of rejection that matters. Our understanding of rejection can determine the course of our lives. Rejection is often viewed as the end of a narrative, as in “I applied to Oxford, I was rejected, and therefore I was doomed to a second tier school”. I tried, I was rejected, end of story. Rejection can mean only one thing: the end of our hopes and dreams.
This need not be the way rejection is viewed. One can see failures as temporary setbacks, or even valuable lessons. As Winston Churchill put it “success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm”.
No question, it is difficult to recover from the great rejections in life. A firing, divorce, or bankruptcy are crushing rejections. It is hard to pick yourself up and start again from the bottom, particularly if you have already tasted success. However, the only way to prevent rejection from being the final chapter is if we are willing to write a new one.
Indeed, the most inspiring success stories are the ones in which the protagonist carries on after enduring a crushing defeat, and succeeds. Like the inventor who tries thousands of experiments before realizing a major breakthrough. Or the best selling author who was single mother on welfare. Or the previously failed politician who rallies his country to victory in a world war. Or the lonely, penniless holocaust survivor who, years later, leaves behind a legacy of philanthropy and a loving family. Or for that matter, the nation that was exiled for nearly 2,000 years until it finally returned home. These are all examples of people who saw rejection as a mere obstacle on the road to success.
Rejections are crushing. However, their impact depends a great deal on our perspective. It is up to us to redefine rejection, and struggle to start again. Because a failure is only final when we give up hope.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Thanksgiving Eyes
I rarely feel like a foreigner. As an American, I don’t feel out of place in Canada (meme Montreal!). But on Thanksgiving, I get homesick. Yes, Canada has a Thanksgiving too, but it’s a pretty tepid affair, basically an October rerun of Labour Day.
To Americans, Thanksgiving is serious business. Yes, the rituals are pretty banal: turkey, cranberry sauce and football. But it feels like a national holiday. It may sound corny, but most Americans appreciate their country as a divine gift, and that’s what we celebrate on Thanksgiving.
But you don’t have to be an American to understand thanksgiving. Gratitude is a moral imperative. Reciprocity is one of the foundations of decency: if you receive something, you are obliged to show appreciation. Gratitude is also an important character trait.
But gratitude is not only an ethical obligation; it is also a perspective on life. When we take life for granted, many things upset us. How often do we start the day, annoyed by the fact that the kids/the dog/the neighbour woke us up early? And then we search for that one missing thing: the important file, the homework, the car keys. By the time we leave the house, our blood is at a full boil, and then we remember that stressful meeting at 10:00 o’clock. And it’s only 7:30 A.M.!
When you see the world with thanksgiving eyes, none of these problems matter. Thanksgiving eyes see the world from the perspective of gratitude. They notice all the things we take for granted, like eating and friendship, and see them for what they truly are, divine blessings.
For this reason, in the morning prayers, we thank God individually for all the little blessings. For opening our eyes. For clothes. For the strength to sit up. For the strength to stand up. For the ability to walk. Actually, these are not little blessings; they are overlooked blessings. That’s why you need thanksgiving eyes, to remember how large these “little” blessings really are. And when you can truly count your blessings, the “stressful” things in our agenda melt into insignificance.
A woman I knew kept a diary while battling cancer. In each entry she made sure to count her blessings, despite her difficulties. She would take note of the “little” things, like family members, fine food, and a few moments of laughter. She did this until the end, remembering the blessings that she still had in her grasp even as her life was slipping away. She saw life from the perspective of gratitude. In doing so, she made the end of her life count by focussing on the things in life that count the most.
Thanksgiving eyes are there to remind us that the ordinary is actually extraordinary, and the mundane is actually miraculous. With this outlook, every day is Thanksgiving day, no matter where you might live.
I rarely feel like a foreigner. As an American, I don’t feel out of place in Canada (meme Montreal!). But on Thanksgiving, I get homesick. Yes, Canada has a Thanksgiving too, but it’s a pretty tepid affair, basically an October rerun of Labour Day.
To Americans, Thanksgiving is serious business. Yes, the rituals are pretty banal: turkey, cranberry sauce and football. But it feels like a national holiday. It may sound corny, but most Americans appreciate their country as a divine gift, and that’s what we celebrate on Thanksgiving.
But you don’t have to be an American to understand thanksgiving. Gratitude is a moral imperative. Reciprocity is one of the foundations of decency: if you receive something, you are obliged to show appreciation. Gratitude is also an important character trait.
But gratitude is not only an ethical obligation; it is also a perspective on life. When we take life for granted, many things upset us. How often do we start the day, annoyed by the fact that the kids/the dog/the neighbour woke us up early? And then we search for that one missing thing: the important file, the homework, the car keys. By the time we leave the house, our blood is at a full boil, and then we remember that stressful meeting at 10:00 o’clock. And it’s only 7:30 A.M.!
When you see the world with thanksgiving eyes, none of these problems matter. Thanksgiving eyes see the world from the perspective of gratitude. They notice all the things we take for granted, like eating and friendship, and see them for what they truly are, divine blessings.
For this reason, in the morning prayers, we thank God individually for all the little blessings. For opening our eyes. For clothes. For the strength to sit up. For the strength to stand up. For the ability to walk. Actually, these are not little blessings; they are overlooked blessings. That’s why you need thanksgiving eyes, to remember how large these “little” blessings really are. And when you can truly count your blessings, the “stressful” things in our agenda melt into insignificance.
A woman I knew kept a diary while battling cancer. In each entry she made sure to count her blessings, despite her difficulties. She would take note of the “little” things, like family members, fine food, and a few moments of laughter. She did this until the end, remembering the blessings that she still had in her grasp even as her life was slipping away. She saw life from the perspective of gratitude. In doing so, she made the end of her life count by focussing on the things in life that count the most.
Thanksgiving eyes are there to remind us that the ordinary is actually extraordinary, and the mundane is actually miraculous. With this outlook, every day is Thanksgiving day, no matter where you might live.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Living Life on Tippy Toes
Life is short. This old cliche became a cliche because it is so true. Nevertheless, we ignore this piece of wisdom, and live our daily lives as if we’re immortal. That is, until we confront a tragedy. Then, we are shocked by how absurdly fragile life really is, and realize that time flies by ridiculously fast. All of a sudden, we’re no longer immortal, and life is much too short. And we’re left wondering how to deal with our lilliputian lifespans.
Well, if you observe some of the shortest people, children, you’ll see they have a fascinating way of coping with shortness: they stand on tippy toes. If they have to look over a taller person, they stand on tippy toes. If they have to reach something up high, they stand on tippy toes. They seem to be forever standing on tippy toes, trying to be just a few inches taller.
Perhaps what we need to do is live life on tippy toes. Yes, life might be short, but we can always find ways to stretch it a bit further.
One way to live life on tippy toes is by grabbing hold of peak moments. To a clock, all time is absolutely equal: each second has a uniform length. However, for humans, all minutes are not created equal. There are many mediocre minutes and some sensational seconds. For us, a minute spent standing under the chuppah waiting to get married is far more important than a minute spent standing in line at the grocery. One experience is forgettable; the other is a peak moment. Life stretches just a bit longer when we seek out and savour our peak moments.
Exceptional events like weddings and Bar Mitzvahs are clearly peak moments. But there are other peak moments, less obvious but no less remarkable. Like volunteering at a soup kitchen. Tucking a child into bed. Taking your mom out for lunch. Going for coffee with your spouse. Having Friday night dinner with friends. We overlook the little peak moments, and often do more "important" things, like work. But no one ever sat on their deathbed wondering why they didn’t spend more time working. But I can attest, people do sit on their deathbeds wondering where the pitter patter of little feet have gone, and why they let their loving spouses slip away. They wonder why their lives seem so short, having neglected to live on tippy toes.
The Midrash says at the end of holiday season, God asked the Jews to stay for one more day of rejoicing. After a wonderful week of festivities, God simply can’t let go of a peak moment, and needs one more day of celebration. I believe this is meant as a model for all of us; we must try to hang on to our peak moments, stretching time a bit further. We do this because life is short, and we must live on tippy toes.
Life is short. This old cliche became a cliche because it is so true. Nevertheless, we ignore this piece of wisdom, and live our daily lives as if we’re immortal. That is, until we confront a tragedy. Then, we are shocked by how absurdly fragile life really is, and realize that time flies by ridiculously fast. All of a sudden, we’re no longer immortal, and life is much too short. And we’re left wondering how to deal with our lilliputian lifespans.
Well, if you observe some of the shortest people, children, you’ll see they have a fascinating way of coping with shortness: they stand on tippy toes. If they have to look over a taller person, they stand on tippy toes. If they have to reach something up high, they stand on tippy toes. They seem to be forever standing on tippy toes, trying to be just a few inches taller.
Perhaps what we need to do is live life on tippy toes. Yes, life might be short, but we can always find ways to stretch it a bit further.
One way to live life on tippy toes is by grabbing hold of peak moments. To a clock, all time is absolutely equal: each second has a uniform length. However, for humans, all minutes are not created equal. There are many mediocre minutes and some sensational seconds. For us, a minute spent standing under the chuppah waiting to get married is far more important than a minute spent standing in line at the grocery. One experience is forgettable; the other is a peak moment. Life stretches just a bit longer when we seek out and savour our peak moments.
Exceptional events like weddings and Bar Mitzvahs are clearly peak moments. But there are other peak moments, less obvious but no less remarkable. Like volunteering at a soup kitchen. Tucking a child into bed. Taking your mom out for lunch. Going for coffee with your spouse. Having Friday night dinner with friends. We overlook the little peak moments, and often do more "important" things, like work. But no one ever sat on their deathbed wondering why they didn’t spend more time working. But I can attest, people do sit on their deathbeds wondering where the pitter patter of little feet have gone, and why they let their loving spouses slip away. They wonder why their lives seem so short, having neglected to live on tippy toes.
The Midrash says at the end of holiday season, God asked the Jews to stay for one more day of rejoicing. After a wonderful week of festivities, God simply can’t let go of a peak moment, and needs one more day of celebration. I believe this is meant as a model for all of us; we must try to hang on to our peak moments, stretching time a bit further. We do this because life is short, and we must live on tippy toes.
Monday, October 25, 2004
The Wounded Healer
We all remember the nicks and scratches of childhood.I vividly remember an incident in the third grade. It was after a schoolyard fight, and two friends ignored me all through recess. As we were walking back into school, one of them pointed to me and said “we aren’t talking to Chaim; he’s not normal, you know. He doesn’t have a father, and anyone who doesn’t have a father must be crazy.” The remark really hurt; it’s never enjoyable to be an orphan; but the cruel schoolyard teasing poured salt into an open wound.
What is remarkable is how the pain of childhood misfortunes persists. Absent or abusive parents, deprivations, sibling rivalries, and a host of other issues remain a part of us dozens of years later. And we spend a lifetime searching for relief from lingering wounds.The search for relief takes us in many directions. The self help section of the bookstore. Comfort food. Scotch. Shopping “therapy”. Psychologists. Kabbalah water. Prozac. We open up. We let it out. We bear down. We move on. And in fact, some of the legitimate techniques (and even some of the phony ones) actually help.
But what’s fascinating is that some of the emotionally wounded are drawn to help others, reaching beyond their own pain to extend a helping hand. They become what Henri Nouwen, the French theologian, calls a “wounded healer”.
The wounded healer uses his own suffering as a source of healing. He realizes certain scars are permanent, and even the best therapies leave a residue of pain. So he searches for a positive response to suffering, and finds it in kindness and altruism. His own pain is now a guide for healing others. And in helping others overcome broken hearts, the wounded healer finds some redemption from his own suffering as well.
Jews have always been wounded healers, using the negative experiences in our history to repair the world. Abraham the nomad becomes exceptional at hospitality. The nation that suffered as outsiders in Egypt take the stranger as their special responsibility. And the wandering exile searches constantly for the redemption of the entire world.
Immediately after the August suicide bombings in Beersheva, I visited Siroka hospital in Beersheva. The emergency room ambulance, the very same one that had carried injured victims of the previous day’s bombing, bore the following inscription:“Given by the wife and children of Benzion Rosenswajg, of Melbourne, on the occasion of his 90th birthday, 6 August, 2004. And in memory of his wife Sarah Chana, children Yechiel Shlomo and Yitzchak Meir and siblings, Nathan Moshe and Feige, who perished in the Holocaust.”
I know nothing about Mr. Rosenwajg. But when I saw that ambulance, I realized he is a wounded healer, transforming tragic memories into the gift of life.
We all remember the nicks and scratches of childhood.I vividly remember an incident in the third grade. It was after a schoolyard fight, and two friends ignored me all through recess. As we were walking back into school, one of them pointed to me and said “we aren’t talking to Chaim; he’s not normal, you know. He doesn’t have a father, and anyone who doesn’t have a father must be crazy.” The remark really hurt; it’s never enjoyable to be an orphan; but the cruel schoolyard teasing poured salt into an open wound.
What is remarkable is how the pain of childhood misfortunes persists. Absent or abusive parents, deprivations, sibling rivalries, and a host of other issues remain a part of us dozens of years later. And we spend a lifetime searching for relief from lingering wounds.The search for relief takes us in many directions. The self help section of the bookstore. Comfort food. Scotch. Shopping “therapy”. Psychologists. Kabbalah water. Prozac. We open up. We let it out. We bear down. We move on. And in fact, some of the legitimate techniques (and even some of the phony ones) actually help.
But what’s fascinating is that some of the emotionally wounded are drawn to help others, reaching beyond their own pain to extend a helping hand. They become what Henri Nouwen, the French theologian, calls a “wounded healer”.
The wounded healer uses his own suffering as a source of healing. He realizes certain scars are permanent, and even the best therapies leave a residue of pain. So he searches for a positive response to suffering, and finds it in kindness and altruism. His own pain is now a guide for healing others. And in helping others overcome broken hearts, the wounded healer finds some redemption from his own suffering as well.
Jews have always been wounded healers, using the negative experiences in our history to repair the world. Abraham the nomad becomes exceptional at hospitality. The nation that suffered as outsiders in Egypt take the stranger as their special responsibility. And the wandering exile searches constantly for the redemption of the entire world.
Immediately after the August suicide bombings in Beersheva, I visited Siroka hospital in Beersheva. The emergency room ambulance, the very same one that had carried injured victims of the previous day’s bombing, bore the following inscription:“Given by the wife and children of Benzion Rosenswajg, of Melbourne, on the occasion of his 90th birthday, 6 August, 2004. And in memory of his wife Sarah Chana, children Yechiel Shlomo and Yitzchak Meir and siblings, Nathan Moshe and Feige, who perished in the Holocaust.”
I know nothing about Mr. Rosenwajg. But when I saw that ambulance, I realized he is a wounded healer, transforming tragic memories into the gift of life.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Carrying Your Own Weight
It was a heartbreaking trip. A pair of bus bombings in Beersheva had killed 16 and wounded 107. I was one of four representatives from Montreal that went to visit our sister city, Beersheva, immediately following the bombings.
The horrors related to us were overwhelming. A reporter who was at the scene told me about bodies strewn all over the place, and the awful smell of burnt flesh and blood. Members of ZAKA, a volunteer organization that recovers body parts, related to us the gruesome details involved in gathering 12 large sacks of body fragments for burial.
We went to funerals, visited shivas and the hospital. What can you say to the woman in the burn unit who just lost a three year old son? What words of comfort are there for parents sitting shiva for their 23 year old daughter? It was an extremely depressing trip.
But I did salvage something from the trip. I learned the Jewish definition of carrying your own weight.
Teddy Roosevelt, who coined the phrase “carry your own weight”, used this phrase to describe a philosophy of self reliance. But for Jews, self reliance is simply not enough. To us, “carrying your own weight” means to carry your family, your community, and even the world with you.
I learned this insight from Olga, a 15 year old Russian immigrant who was on the bus with her 12 year old brother Boris. A ball bearing from the bomb pierced Boris’ midsection, and he was bleeding profusely. Olga took Boris and carried him on her back a quarter mile to the emergency room. Boris was operated on and stabilized, and now he’s doing well.
Olga understood the Jewish definition of carrying your own weight. It requires taking the less fortunate along with you, and if necessary, to even carry them on your back.
This story gave me a new perspective on a Midrash. The Midrash relates that one day Moses was watching his sheep, and a young lamb ran away. Moses finally caught up to the lamb when it stopped at a stream to drink. Moses said to the lamb: “ I’m sorry; had I known you were thirsty, I would have given you to drink myself. Now, after this long run, you must be tired, so I will bring you back myself.” And Moses lifted the lamb on his back, and carried it back to the herd. God, upon seeing Moses’ compassion, said “he is the one to lead my people”.
Now I understand this Midrash. It is teaching us is that before being called to lead the Jewish people, Moses had to demonstrate that he knew the true definition of “carrying your own weight.” If he understood this principle, he could inspire the Jews to transform the world.
Moses taught us well. 15 year old Olga already knows what “carrying your own weight” means. It means you carry your brother on your back when he needs it, no questions asked.
It was a heartbreaking trip. A pair of bus bombings in Beersheva had killed 16 and wounded 107. I was one of four representatives from Montreal that went to visit our sister city, Beersheva, immediately following the bombings.
The horrors related to us were overwhelming. A reporter who was at the scene told me about bodies strewn all over the place, and the awful smell of burnt flesh and blood. Members of ZAKA, a volunteer organization that recovers body parts, related to us the gruesome details involved in gathering 12 large sacks of body fragments for burial.
We went to funerals, visited shivas and the hospital. What can you say to the woman in the burn unit who just lost a three year old son? What words of comfort are there for parents sitting shiva for their 23 year old daughter? It was an extremely depressing trip.
But I did salvage something from the trip. I learned the Jewish definition of carrying your own weight.
Teddy Roosevelt, who coined the phrase “carry your own weight”, used this phrase to describe a philosophy of self reliance. But for Jews, self reliance is simply not enough. To us, “carrying your own weight” means to carry your family, your community, and even the world with you.
I learned this insight from Olga, a 15 year old Russian immigrant who was on the bus with her 12 year old brother Boris. A ball bearing from the bomb pierced Boris’ midsection, and he was bleeding profusely. Olga took Boris and carried him on her back a quarter mile to the emergency room. Boris was operated on and stabilized, and now he’s doing well.
Olga understood the Jewish definition of carrying your own weight. It requires taking the less fortunate along with you, and if necessary, to even carry them on your back.
This story gave me a new perspective on a Midrash. The Midrash relates that one day Moses was watching his sheep, and a young lamb ran away. Moses finally caught up to the lamb when it stopped at a stream to drink. Moses said to the lamb: “ I’m sorry; had I known you were thirsty, I would have given you to drink myself. Now, after this long run, you must be tired, so I will bring you back myself.” And Moses lifted the lamb on his back, and carried it back to the herd. God, upon seeing Moses’ compassion, said “he is the one to lead my people”.
Now I understand this Midrash. It is teaching us is that before being called to lead the Jewish people, Moses had to demonstrate that he knew the true definition of “carrying your own weight.” If he understood this principle, he could inspire the Jews to transform the world.
Moses taught us well. 15 year old Olga already knows what “carrying your own weight” means. It means you carry your brother on your back when he needs it, no questions asked.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Defining Moments
The most difficult decisions in life aren’t between right and wrong. Ethical decisions are easy. Yes, we often fail and make the wrong choice. But even in moments of moral weakness, we at least know what was supposed to be the right choice.
The truly difficult choices in life are between right and right. There are times when there are too many good options for us to pursue. The Supermom, running from demanding job to carpool to the gym to volunteer work, has to reconsider her priorities on a daily basis: should she take out clients for dinner, take her kids swimming, or go to a charitable function? These “all good choices” decisions are difficult to make, because whatever you end up doing, you feel guilty for having overlooked something important.
Because the “all good choices” decisions leave us feeling guilty, we try to avoid them; we’ll run ourselves ragged doing everything so we don’t have to choose. Then, when we’re finally exhausted, we’ll choose in an impulsive fashion . If we’re feeling insecure about work, we’ll work late; insecure about family, we’ll run home early; insecure about our contributions to society, we’ll go to more community meetings than we can handle. But we are so uncomfortable with these decisions we rarely think about them in a comprehensive fashion. And that’s a shame, because these choices offer us an opportunity to truly define ourselves.
Joseph L. Badaracco Jr., in his book Defining Moments: When Managers Must Choose Between Right and Right, notes that the decisions between right and right are our truly defining moments. We have many deeply rooted values; how we prioritize them defines who we are. That is why the “all good choices” decisions are so important. We cannot simply decide to be “good people”; we must also follow choices that reflect our own personal mission.
There is a wonderful anecdote about the Chassidic Rabbi Zushe. He explained to his students that after one dies and appears before God for judgement, God doesn’t ask you why you weren’t like Moses or Abraham; Rather, God asks you “why weren’t you Zushe?”.
Reb Zushe is teaching us the importance of having an authentic identity. God didn’t make us to be like everyone else. Each of us is supposed to be our own “Zushe” (or “Chaim”, or whatever your name may be). Our job is not to imitate the success of others, but rather to to discover our own unique mission on this world.
It is during defining moments that we can best discover ourselves. We have to choose not only what is right, but what is right for ourselves. Instead of trying to be everything to everybody, these moments allow us to pursue our own destiny, to find out who “Zushe” really is.
The most difficult decisions in life aren’t between right and wrong. Ethical decisions are easy. Yes, we often fail and make the wrong choice. But even in moments of moral weakness, we at least know what was supposed to be the right choice.
The truly difficult choices in life are between right and right. There are times when there are too many good options for us to pursue. The Supermom, running from demanding job to carpool to the gym to volunteer work, has to reconsider her priorities on a daily basis: should she take out clients for dinner, take her kids swimming, or go to a charitable function? These “all good choices” decisions are difficult to make, because whatever you end up doing, you feel guilty for having overlooked something important.
Because the “all good choices” decisions leave us feeling guilty, we try to avoid them; we’ll run ourselves ragged doing everything so we don’t have to choose. Then, when we’re finally exhausted, we’ll choose in an impulsive fashion . If we’re feeling insecure about work, we’ll work late; insecure about family, we’ll run home early; insecure about our contributions to society, we’ll go to more community meetings than we can handle. But we are so uncomfortable with these decisions we rarely think about them in a comprehensive fashion. And that’s a shame, because these choices offer us an opportunity to truly define ourselves.
Joseph L. Badaracco Jr., in his book Defining Moments: When Managers Must Choose Between Right and Right, notes that the decisions between right and right are our truly defining moments. We have many deeply rooted values; how we prioritize them defines who we are. That is why the “all good choices” decisions are so important. We cannot simply decide to be “good people”; we must also follow choices that reflect our own personal mission.
There is a wonderful anecdote about the Chassidic Rabbi Zushe. He explained to his students that after one dies and appears before God for judgement, God doesn’t ask you why you weren’t like Moses or Abraham; Rather, God asks you “why weren’t you Zushe?”.
Reb Zushe is teaching us the importance of having an authentic identity. God didn’t make us to be like everyone else. Each of us is supposed to be our own “Zushe” (or “Chaim”, or whatever your name may be). Our job is not to imitate the success of others, but rather to to discover our own unique mission on this world.
It is during defining moments that we can best discover ourselves. We have to choose not only what is right, but what is right for ourselves. Instead of trying to be everything to everybody, these moments allow us to pursue our own destiny, to find out who “Zushe” really is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)