"READING THE WRITINGS"
Part 5
"LIVING, IN THE FINAL ANALYSIS"
A Sermon for the Yizkor Memorial Service
Atonement Day 5763
September 16, 2002
Rabbi Edward Paul Cohn
Temple Sinai
New Orleans, Louisiana
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; . . .
"Reading the Writings" must bring us to the Book of Psalms and
within it, the best known poem in Western literature: the 23rd Psalm. 57
Hebrew words, a mere six verses, it represents the Bible's most beloved
portrait of "Living, in the Final Analysis."
Theologian and philosopher Abraham Joshua Heschel says of this
timeless testament of faith:
It is as if God took these Hebrew words and breathed into them
of His power, and the words became. . . charged with his spirit.
To this very day they are hyphens between heaven and earth.
Well, as I read this psalm, no doubt part of its endearing nature lies in
the psalmists' metaphor of the Shepherd tenderly caring for and protecting
his flock. Its reassuring words transport us back to a carefree time in our
lives when life was utterly secure, and when our needs were tended-our
thirst relieved, our hunger sated, our urgent fear of the unknown calmed
and quieted.
A rabbi is no stranger to death, of course, and sometimes you have to
keep a sense of humor. Several months ago, I took an early morning plane
in order to officiate in another city at the funeral of a very precious friend's
husband. Knowing that it would take several hours of travel-a plane trip
and a two-hour car ride-to arrive at the cemetery, I took special pains to
carefully lay my suit jacket in the overhead, lest it be smashed and wrinkled.
Of course, then my seatmates arrived and proceeded to push their
baggage and shopping bags in that same overhead space. "Please be
careful," I patiently implored. "Please don't ruin the jacket."
Well, when we arrived, you know how it is; everyone was standing
impatiently in the aisle, and I struggled in that narrow space to put on my
jacket. My seatmates looked me over and amiably reassured, "Well, that jacket of yours looks absolutely fine. You go out there
and knock 'em dead."
I assured them that I had every conviction that that had already been taken
care of!
But you know, the fact that I often officiate at funerals doesn't
necessarily make me impervious to death's denial. George Lundberg, in a
Newsweek essay, addresses this heavy subject in a lighthearted way. He
says:
Modern lore has it that in England death is imminent, in Canada
inevitable, and in California optional. . . . Failing hips can be
replaced, clinical depression controlled, cataracts removed in a
30-minute procedure. . . But not even a great health-care
system can cure death-and our failure to confront that reality
now threatens this greatness of ours.
Well, this day, of all days in the entire year, is the one on which we
Jews willingly and directly confront death-our own death and the deaths of
others. Death is a tough subject. Says Father Richard Newhouse in his new
book,
It used to be said that the Victorians of the 19th century talked
incessantly about death but were silent about sex, whereas today
we talk incessantly about sex and are silent about death.
Oh, we kid ourselves and tell ourselves we are prepared, but when we
suffer a precious loss of someone we love as much as life itself, or when we
are forced to confront the prospect of our own dying, well then, it's quite
another thing.
We spoke earlier today of Job, that incredibly thought-provoking
masterpiece from The Writings of our Hebrew Scripture. Mindful of life's
fragility, Job soberly affirms:
Man is born to trouble as surely as the sparks fly upward. (5:7)
At a moment such as this, this, poignant Memorial Service on our
holiest day, if we are true to ourselves, then we'll admit it: the death of our
dearest shatters all we thought we knew about death. So what I want to say
to you is first, A Word About Loss, and second, A Word About Grief, and
then finally, some brief Thoughts About Comfort.
I. A Word About Loss
Barbara Cortland wrote The Book of Useless Information-that's it's
title. And in one chapter she tells us that when the Mona Lisa was stolen
from the Louvre in 1911 and was missing for two years, more people went
to stare at the blank space where that painting had stood than had gone to
admire the masterpiece in the 12 previous years. Do you believe that? So
what does that tell us? It should remind us of how often we fail to
appreciate and luxuriate in the presence of our precious ones while we have
them.
I bring this up right now with absolutely no intention of laying a guilt
trip upon anyone! But it's this human blind spot which fools us into
thinking, "Oh, there's plenty of time," "What's the rush?" "I'll say it
tomorrow." And how very dumb we are in so thinking!
Remember the phone calls of farewell, final good-byes of a year ago
from those victims of terror? By some accounts the terrorists, seizing on the
possibilities of technology, devilishly and actually invited their captives to
call home and announce their impending deaths.
The one that always gets me was 38-year-old Brian Sweeney's message
to his wife Julie before his plane crashed into the World Trade Center's
South Tower.
Hey Jules, it's Brian. I'm on a plane and it's hijacked and it
doesn't looked good. I just wanted to let you know that I love
you and I hope to see you again. If I don't', please have fun in
life and live your life the best you can. Know that I love you and
no matter what, I'll see you again.
So must it take a hijacking or a personal catastrophe to wake us up to love's
impermanence?
"Bear" Bryant, football coaching legend at Alabama, a name I know so
many of you recognize, was once approached by Southwestern Bell
Telephone to do a commercial, and he agreed. Here was the plan. He was
to come to the studio, face the camera, and with that angry scowl for which
he was famous, growl three simple words into the lens: "Call your mama!"
The day came. Bryant showed up. They practiced the shot. The lights
went on; the camera rolled. Bear Bryant looked into the camera, but
suddenly his eyes filled with tears, and instead of those words assigned to
him, he spoke in a soft and tender voice:
Call your mother. . . . I wish I could.
Do you know that those four unrehearsed extra words made that ad the
most successful commercial in the history of the telephone company? And
why? You know why. We all do! And we all know what we should do for
those whom we love, who sometimes drives us crazy, it's true, and who can
sometimes be downright unkind, but whom we nevertheless dearly love and
cherish for all the world.
II. A Word about Grief
Second, A Word About Grief. We are here right now to remember
those who are gone --- some who left us only this year, others, many years ago.
I don't think I heard a better or wiser reflection this year on grief than those
recited by Roxanne Kierr Garrity at the funeral of her grandfather, my good
friend, Raymond Kierr. Roxanne said:
I always thought of Grampy as a forever person. A person who
never leaves and never dies. And now I realize that he is a
forever person, a forever person whose spirit is with you instead
of their body. . . . It means that they don't leave us; they become
part of us.
Good for you, Roxanne. You put it so well, this choice which is ours in
our grief, to incorporate the beauty of our dear ones and to gratefully take
them with us into our future, or to assign them to a lonely grave where they
will be intended only be perpetual care. The choice is ours-the future, or
the lonely grave.
Remember that poem that was read at the Queen Mum's funeral just a
while back? It was full of lessons for us to learn and live; it was a treasure
of insight into our own grief.
You can shed tears that she's gone,
Or you can smile because she has lived;
You can close your eyes and hope that she'll come back,
Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left;
Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,
Or you can be full of the love you shared;
You can turn back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember her and only that she's gone,
Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on;
You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back,
Or you can do what she'd want:
Smile, open your eyes, love, and go on.
III. Thoughts on Comfort
that we are not alone, that our loved
ones no longer seen are not alone either in the midnight of the tomb-and
that we have reason to fear And finally, just some brief Thoughts on Comfort. For some of us it's
easier than for others, but we all want to believe, to be connected to that
Shepherd who is with us "with rod and staff." We so want to feel that there
is something beyond our earthly vision,no evil.
Several years ago, on a trip to Israel, we visited a Bedouin camp. They
were shepherds working in much the same way that shepherds have always
lived and worked. I learned then that in every sheepfold there is still a bowl
of olive oil to be found. And as the sheep come in at night, each one is
checked by the shepherd for bruises, cuts, and weeping of eyes.
Any wounds are gently cleansed; soothing olive oil is applied. And
there was also an earthen cup filled with water given to each sheep. And do
you know what they do as they drink?
They plunge their nose into the clear water up to their eyes, and that
cup overflows, and the sheep drinks until it is refreshed.
Yes, Death remains life's greatest mystery. Honestly, its fear is
lessened by a stubborn faith in a loving Creator. I believe in that Shepherd
who cares for our every wound and hurt and broken heart.
Remember South Pacific?
I'm stuck like a dope,
With a thing called hope.
I can't get it out of my heart.
"Reading the Writings"-the Psalmist chose to put that immortal
ingredient called "hope" this way-
Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of
my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
"Reading the Writings!" We have but to take them to our hearts.
Amen.