Rabbi Rachel Gurevitz

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Category: Loss

#BlogElul 23: You turn my mourning into dancing

September 18, 2014 /
Today’s blog is dedicated to the memory of Mordecai Levow
my father-in-law


Yizkor on Yom Kippur is … not about human frailty or the futility of human endeavors. Yizkor on Yom Kippur is about the power of others to affect us, about our power to affect others, about the power of the dead and the living to continue to affect each other. Yizkor on Yom Kippur is … not simply about remembering the dead, by about attempting to effect change in our relationships with the dead and thus to effect change in ourselves and in our relationships with those who are still among the living.
(Rabbi Margaret Moers Wenig, in the CCAR Draft machzor, forthcoming 2015, Mishkan haNefesh, Yizkor service)

I’ve missed a number of days of Elul to blog because my father-in-law died last Wednesday. After his funeral in Florida on Friday morning, my wife and her sister returned to sit shiva at our home in Massachusetts. What happened over those days was a reflection of how love, healing, and change are truly what the rituals of remembrance are about, and enable us to do.  For those who joined us for multiple nights of shiva, the change that occurred over those days as memories and reflections were shared was quite evident, and powerful for many.
Without sharing the specifics here, the journey we took was one that first confronted the past, and acknowledged the challenge of engaging with memory in the face of difficult relationships. Yet, with the honesty of needing to acknowledge the challenges, the blessings that emerged from those life experiences were also evident.  On the following night, more family members gathered and a broader range of perspectives and memories were shared. There were many moments of laughter. There was a release – the laughter not only lifted the weight of some of the challenging memories, but also opened up the banks of memories that were positive and powerful. And so, by the third night, new stories had been laid bare and had risen to the surface. There were words of forgiveness, acceptance, and love.  By the fourth night, in a beautiful, spontaneous sharing and connecting of memories and reflections connected to the words of specific prayers as we davenned (prayed) the ma’ariv (evening) service, there was a sense of completeness. We were speaking of a life lived, and memories that we carry with us, but embedded into the heart of the tefilot that were so much a part of Mordecai’s being that, when advanced dementia had taken almost all else from him, davenning was the only activity that he could still do, in short bouts.
In the forthcoming CCAR machzor, Mishkan haNefesh, we find a version of precisely how we did our remembrances on the last night of shiva.  We are offered 7 paths, where readings, psalms and reflective texts are woven around the 7 thematic blessings of the Tefilah, or Amidah prayer, the central prayer of our Shabbat and Festival liturgy.  There is an abundance of material – many, many years worth of exploration and contemplation. There is a clear recognition that everyone remembers differently. There are ways to remember children who died too young. There is a prayer in memory of a parent who was hurtful. There are words to remember one who died violently. There are words to remember dearly beloved ones. And so many more.
As we return to Yizkor, year after year, we do not necessarily have to engage in the memories in the same way. With the passage of time, and the ways we remember may we, as invited by Rabbi Wenig in the reflection above, find the possibility to change our relationships with the dead, and thus effect change in ourselves and in our relationships with those who are still among the living.

‘It was meant to be’, and other theologically complex statements

January 9, 2013 /

I recently returned from an amazing trip to Senegal.  I was there to visit my step-daughter who is in Peace Corp out there.  It was incredible to get just a brief taste of her experience living in a village in an inner region of the country.  Returning home, as many have asked us ‘did we have a good vacation?’ I have found myself answering, ‘it was an experience.’  I’m so glad we had the opportunity to have this experience and yet it is unlike anything I’ve ever done for ‘vacation’ before.
There is much that I could say about the trip and all that we experienced, from the landscape, the people and cultures, the food, to the village way of life.  But I’d like to share one story that I shared with two of my classes at Religious School last night in the context of our theological, ‘God Talk’ sessions.  The topic – transportation.
Public transportation is quite an experience in Senegal.  Aside from our initial trip in from Dakar to the inland region, where we shared a private ride with another Peace Corp family, we opted to use public transport to get around.  We found ourselves getting into vehicles that, in any other country, I would never dream of traveling in.  There was not a single taxi ride that we took for very local journeys that did not involve a taxi with multiple cracks across the front windscreen.  All of the shared 7-seater cars that we took had taken some kind of beating on the severely pot-hole marked roads that we rode upon.  But the most challenging ride we took was in one of their regional minibuses that ride from market town to market town.  After a three hour wait on the side of the road following a beautiful hike to a waterfall in a fairly remote eco-tourist location, this was all that came by, and we decided that it was possibly our only ride back to home base that day.
Senegal minibus
These buses are loaded with as many people as they can hold, along with any assortment of items up on the room (in another location we saw 3 goats that had been purchased in the market town seated up top).  After a very bumpy hour and a half ride back to base, one of us seated in the aisle on a bag of rice and one of us with a set of live chickens under our seat, we arrived safely at our destination.
We had planned to take a ‘night bus’ back to Dakar at the end of our trip so as to avoid traveling in the hot daytime.  However, upon arrival at the market town where we expected to make that connection we learned that the reservation that had been made by phone didn’t exist as that particular bus had been rerouted for that one night to Touba for a Muslim pilgrimage.  Another lengthy wait ensued and we got ourselves a ride on a seven seater car that brought us safely back to Dakar in plenty of time for our plane home the following night.
The following morning, sitting in a Dakar coffee shop, I picked up one of the French newspapers.  My French isn’t what it used to be, but I could translate enough of the front page article to see that the previous night, a bus on its way to Touba had been in a head-on collision with one of the regional minibuses.  Tragically, all 26 occupants of the minibus were dead.
After taking in the tragedy of the story, my very next thought, reflecting back on the previous day’s frustrations as our plans had gone awry and we’d had a long, hot wait for alternative transportation was, ‘perhaps it was meant to be.’  And in almost the same moment of utterance, I felt ashamed.  Meant to be that we were not on one of those buses? Meant to be that we had to change our plans?  But surely not meant to be for the 26 souls who died?
As I shared the theological implications of the statement with my students, we reflected on how often we find ourselves, upon seeing the larger picture, or realizing that something good has come out of something that we initially perceived as bad, voicing such a statement.  Its familiar to many.  But what do we actually mean by it?
For some, their belief is indeed shaped by a sense that something larger than ourselves – often understood as God – is guiding the direction of our lives.  When we experience something negative or painful or tragic, one who believes this can find it a meaningful way to manage their suffering through the faith that there is a bigger picture and a larger plan that we simply don’t understand.  However, for others, this kind of belief leads to incredible anger toward God and a magnification of their suffering.
For some, the statement is less of a theological statement about God’s hand in our lives and more of a pragmatic statement of relief that, perhaps by random chance, we ended up going left instead of right, left 5 minutes later instead of 5 minutes earlier.  In order that we find ourselves where we are right now, it had to be that the turn of events prior evolved as they did.
Beliefs about the extent to which God has a will and is directly engaged in our lives are many and varied throughout Jewish philosophical thought. They feed into a wide range of beliefs and opinions of the extent of free will vs ‘fate’.  If we do not believe in fate, is it a contradiction to believe that something was ‘meant to be’ in the sense of God having a hand in the specifics of our lives?
For some, their belief in God is more of a sense of the pulsing energy of existence that encapsulates and goes beyond all things knowable and unknowable.  To that extent, it is more of an ever-unfolding ‘is’ than an entity with conscious will, at least in the way that we understand those words in human terms.  For such a believer to use the phrase ‘it was meant to be’, they have more in common with the one who believes that it is all just random chance, except that this unfolding of their life and reality may be imbued with a greater sense of awe and a sense of the mystery of it all that provides the foundation for their spirituality.
Personally, it is in this latter group that I find myself. But what I realized as I analyzed these ideas with my students is that a variety of different belief systems can lead to the same outcome – a way of accepting that which ‘is’, whether felt as positive or negative, and taking the next step forward into life because or in spite of what has just come before.  Its not arriving at the specific formulation of one’s belief that is most important; it is recognizing how it serves or hinders one’s ability to live a meaningful life in this world.  And understanding that the only moment that we truly have is this one.

19 Elul. Contemplating life and loss

September 7, 2009 /

I was recently in conversation with a friend about the experience of being a rabbi and officiating at many funerals.  I was asked if and how I was affected by encountering so much loss and death.  While there is a great deal that could be said, and I’m sure many clergy would answer the question differently, the experience of officiating at funerals always leaves me contemplative, returning to some of life’s biggest questions.

When I speak to friends and family of the deceased, in order to gather impressions and stories for a eulogy, or when I listen to the eulogies of others delivered at the funeral, particularly when I did not personally know the deceased or did not know them well, I am often left with the feeling that I missed out by not having had the opportunity to experience this individual in my life.  It is a very powerful experience to hear how they were present in the lives of others, leaving one feeling a sense of their absence very strongly.  The message – every life is unique and every person is special and has contributed something to the life of others.

I am also drawn to spend some time recognizing the preciousness of people in my life and sometimes find myself stepping into the time when they will not be with me in this world.  I feel the potential of loss acutely, and my love for friends and family feels intensified in that moment.

I also find myself reflecting on my own life.  Am I living it the way I would want it to be remembered?  What is the source of my life’s meaning?

We must not wait for the funerals of our lives to contemplate these questions to find meaning in all the connections we have and the communities we are part of.  We must not wait until the end to tell others how much we truly loved them and cherished them in our lives, or how much we learnt from them.  On Yom Kippur in the medieval poem unetaneh tokef we are asked to contemplate who shall live and who shall die.  I don’t believe in a God who is willfully making those decisions about each of us.  But I do believe that every human being is unique and every life is special, and we are called upon at the New Year to return to who we truly are, recommit to connect more passionately and more deeply with each other.  Because this is the only life that we have, and this is where we will find ultimate meaning and, ultimately, find God.
Rabbi Rachel Gurevitz

13 Elul. Mourning and Spiritual Messages Derived from this Holiday: the Power of Choosing Life:

September 1, 2009 /
Photo by Frank Dobrushken
The Days of Awe invite us to see where we missed the mark in our past year of life and to realign.

During these days we look upon life and upon death and are urged to return to life giving ways of living.
For some ‘choosing life’ when mourning means reaching out for needed support. For some choosing life means shifting the way we look at the world, consciously choosing to look at the world and life in ways that bring peace, quietude, gratitude and joy in the midst of grief.

For some choosing life means evaluating if we have fully given ourselves to the mourning process. Whether we’ve tried to leave prematurely, not having allowed ourselves the time and space we need to mourn.

Choosing life when mourning also means being aware if this place of grief has become overly comfortable.

We’re not shaped to stay in intense grief all our lives.

Your grief will not utterly disappear. Your bond, your connection, will remain within you for rest of your life.

People we are linked with and love who have died are part of our body, a part of who we are, and a part of our life story. By allowing ourselves to deeply mourn, the intensity of grief begins to shift and change.

One caveat, for those who have experienced the death of a child:
The loss of a child remains keenly within throughout one’s life.
One learns how to survive, how to live with that loss inside oneself.
The grief of the loss of a child at any age, from a young child to an adult child, can surface quickly and sharply, with intensity throughout life.One need repeatedly, at junctures, determinedly, choose to live. Our child would demand that of us.

We need choose to connect with life.
We need to work to be connected with others and to engage in activities that bring joy and meaning.
There comes a pivatol time when you profoundly know that only you can change your life.
That no one else can do this for you.
And this turning point, this knowing, this acting, this choosing, is a path of deep spirit.

Choosing life calls us to affirm the good that exists in this world as well as that which is random, to see that which is mysterious, incomprehensible, as well that which is evil. It calls us to see the beauty that is there as well and consciously to savor it.

Choosing life calls us to claim life, to join in life, as the different people we are, in our now different circumstances.
Rabbi Vicki Hollander.
For more inspirational and supportive guidance from Rabbi Hollander, visit her website.

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