A Life Well Lived
inspired by the writings of Rabbi Yael Ridberg

A few years ago I met a new rabbinic student named Joshua Boettiger. I was surprised when I found out that he was the great grandson of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. A rabbi in the Roosevelt family? But, but, they aren’t Jewish! Well it is true. Joshua Boettiger’s mother is Jewish. Joshua entertained his homiletics class with stories about his father confounding the secret service at the age of seven, going up and down the elevators repeatedly. It was FDR who finally found him and said “Son, you are going to have to stop this playing on the elevator. It is making my secret service detail crazy!” (I paraphrase). Joshua also shared with us a quote that, although well known, I had not read or heard before:

"You gain strength, courage and determination by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.” - Eleanor Roosevelt

This quote stuck with me. I thought it a powerful message to remember as a human being and now as a rabbi. This past August, while I was unpacking my boxes after the move from Philadelphia, I came across it once again. How timely, I thought. I have just graduated from rabbinical school. How did I manage to complete a seven-year process, all told? Where did my strength and courage come from? The quote now carries even deeper meaning for me.

Eighteen years ago my mother was diagnosed with a form of blood-borne bone marrow cancer called multiple myeloma. The doctors predicted she would survive for only three to five years. This was the thing she and all of us thought she could not do, survive. Could she survive past that life sentence?

Every day after that marker has been borrowed time for us. The quote doesn’t necessarily serve to ease anxiety. I would much rather never have had to look fear in the face this way, over and over again. I have had ESP since the first week she was diagnosed. I know when there is something wrong. I just do. I called home from Israel the week she was diagnosed because something told me she was in danger.

We somehow over a long period of time adjusted to the rhythms of the illness… chemotherapy, side effects, infections, long needles, hospital stays. And yet, is it possible to say that my mother or any of us in the family has really “adjusted” to this nightmare? No. However, we have come to recognize the fragility of life and to take it much less for granted. In the last two months since my mother’s illness has taken a down turn, I have experienced just about every emotion including fear, and each one has taught me something important about life. There is no question that when confronted by any number of crises in life, the natural tendency is to ask "why?" As if God, the universe, or even the Power that Makes for Salvation could ever answer such a question. Since my mother’s first diagnosis, and up to this day 18 years later, when it appears that her fight to survive might soon be over, I have been enormously comforted by the texts and liturgy of our tradition because I find that, in the words of Rabbi Yael Ridberg: “The "why" is transformed into the questions "what" and "how" and "when." What is there to learn and experience from the challenges each of us must face in our life? How might we garner all the strength and determination to face what might lie ahead? How can we do the work of grieving healthfully and move through it? When will we know that this experience has added to the richness of the tapestry of our lives?

I deeply believe that these questions emerge from a "circumcised" or open heart that is part of our covenant with God as described in the book of Deuteronomy. I have worked hard to keep my heart open, to not sprint from the horror of suffering, to stay put and sing, talk and pray with my mother as she sits immobile connected to so many machines that do everything for her. And, oh, how I want to shut down. I really understand what that means now. I and all of us must look directly at our fear if we have any hope of moving past it. My heart might be challenged or even broken, but it is still open to receive.

Next week on Yom Kippur, Beverly Brown will be giving a D’var Torah on Parshat Nitzavim, the Torah portion Nitzavim, in greater depth. However, the portion was also assigned to this past Shabbat. I studied several medieval commentaries on Parashat Nitzavim which I believe to be emblematic of the work we do at this time of year, and how we might look forward to the New Year with an open and full heart. In the last verse of the parasha, the text reads, "u'vacharta bachaim l'ma-an tichye," “choose life that you might live.” One commentator, Abraham Ibn Ezra, a Jewish scholar and scientist of the 12th century comments that "hahayim hem l'ahava," “life is for love, “and immediately following, "ki, hu hayecha," “for God is life.” Ibn Ezra teaches that the experience of God, love, and life are tightly woven together and are critical to our conception of the covenant between God and the Jewish people that we reaffirm at this time of year. The Israelites didn't know what they would encounter in the Promised Land any more than you or I know what the coming year will bring. But their connection to something bigger than themselves is often what sustained them as they made their way through uncharted territory — even if they had to be reminded of it later by the prophets.

Even without the challenge of family hardship, the yamim noraim, the Days of Awe, or High Holy Days offer us the opportunity for theological confrontation and reconnection to the covenant. There is no point to these days without them. The words of the liturgy speak volumes, and for me speak the truth. When we read the haunting words of unetaneh tokef, the prayer that speaks plainly about the uncertainty of life, we are reminded of all the things that unfortunately we can count on in our world. What we don't know is when such things will happen or to whom.

As my friend and teacher Rabbi Richard Hirsh has taught, our task is to live our lives fully, directed to godliness, reflecting on who we are and where we are going, and acknowledging our deep connection with others. This covenant making and keeping doesn't just happen three times a year. We read in the daily liturgy, “hamehadesh b'tuvo bchol yom tamid ma'aseh bereishit,” "each day the acts of creation are renewed for the good.”

This is the teaching I want to share with all of you this year. We cannot choose all the things that will happen in our life, its beginning or its end. But every day we are responsible for the quality of love and commitment that defines our life. That is our part in the covenant. Release ego and foolish pride, let go of old hates, resume broken relationships, because tomorrow is not a given and today well spent is the only thing we have control over. Say “I love you” to your child, say “I am sorry” to a spouse, say “I forgive you” to someone who has hurt you, forgive yourself for your mistakes, slow down, live the covenant.

As we enter into the new year, may our hearts be open. If they are broken, let them be repaired, if they feel depleted, let them be refilled, and may each of us find expanded space for covenant-making today and every day.

L'shanah tova tikatevu v'tichatemu. May each of us be inscribed for a year of health, love, peace and joy.

©Rabbi Yaffa-Shira Sultan
Erev Rosh HaShanah
October 3, 2005