A few months ago, I had a chance meeting with a man I did not know, outside the home of a temple family I was visiting after a funeral.
We had an animated conversation, and he identified himself as someone who became bar mitzvah at Temple Emanu-El in his youth but had not belonged to any synagogue since. At the time, I thought to myself that he failed the test and that I ought to revoke his bar mitzvah — something I am loathe to do and have only done under the most extenuating circumstances.
He got into his sleek black sports car and drove off, and I thought that was the end of that. But last week, he called me and reminded me where we had met — as if that gave him some kind of special status — and asked if I would do his mother’s funeral. I remembered him, and told him he would have to join the congregation to have me officiate; otherwise I would be happy to help him get a “freelance” rabbi to serve him.
He told me he would never belong to a synagogue because he did not believe in “organized” religion. I paused for a moment, held my tongue, and refrained from making the flippant comment I was tempted to make, which was: “Well then, you’d be perfectly happy at Temple Emanu-El, because we are a totally disorganized synagogue.” But I didn’t think he would see the humor in such a remark, especially when he was making funeral arrangements. The conversation ended politely enough with his declining the offer of membership, and I assume he got into his sleek black sports car and drove off to find another rabbi.
You may be wondering why I related this incident to you, or how it connected to last week’s Torah portion, Trumah.
The opening verse of Trumah states: “And God spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Tell the Israelites to bring me offerings from every person whose heart so moves him.'” (Ex 25: 1-2) Moses provided what is called a “gift opportunity” for people to freely give of their wealth to build and maintain the Tabernacle. So important was broad-based giving that each individual was required to donate a half shekel, the smallest coin, in order that no one was excluded, no one was justified in saying he does not believe in “organized” religion, and no one could not afford to contribute.
Thus it is no surprise that in the three millennia following this command, Jews, in good and bad times, in freedom or under oppression, have been organizers, builders of sanctuaries. Naturally, there have always been those who have taken their gold to build golden calves rather than for an offering of the heart.
As I considered the people like the members of Temple Emanu-El who contribute to the well-being of this congregation and community, I thought more about Trumah, which consistently utilizes three words in regard to the building of the Tabernacle: orech — length; rachav — width; and komah — height.
Length, width and height — these physical dimensions made me stop and pause to consider not physical measurements, but the spiritual dimensions that make up a human being and by which we are judged by God. Each of these dimensions defines our being: moral character, civil behavior, familial connections, and so forth.
Another incident, a few weeks ago, made me consider the power of our life stories in defining those dimensions. I had an extended discussion with a member of the temple who left Germany in 1939 as a 9-year-old boy. He told me the following story:
He and his younger sister did not have exit visas to leave Nazi Germany. Nevertheless, his mother put her two children unaccompanied on a train to Belgium and instructed them that when the Gestapo asked for their exit visas, they should tell the Germans that their parents had the visas with them in the dining car. Fortunately that ruse worked. But the nightmare of the experience left an indelible mark on his soul that always motivated him to seek security and refuge from potential danger. His story was a gift to me, an offering of love. This account made me realize that people’s life stories also define the spiritual dimensions of their lives.
What are the stories that make up your length, width and height, the very building blocks of your being? Let me share a story of a childhood friend, then ask you to be the judge of how such an incident in a person’s life can echo in the heart until it finds expression in unintended but powerful ways.
My lifelong cherished friend, Michael Isaacson, was the child of a motion-picture projectionist who spent eight-hour shifts in total isolation, a sad irony for a man who loved to be with people. A month before Michael’s bar mitzvah in 1959, his father, Louis Isaacson, put down a deposit on a catering hall, signed the contract and said, “I hope I live to see this party.” He didn’t. He died of cancer at 48, leaving everyone at 13-year-old Michael’s bar mitzvah aching inside while trying desperately to look happy.
Two years earlier, diagnosed with terminal cancer and knowing he was dying, Michael’s father began to fix all the broken things in the house, as if to prepare it and the family for living without him. One day, he said to Michael’s mother, “What this house needs is a piano.”
“OK, sweetie,” she replied. “Let’s go buy one.”
And they did! They bought an upright spinet, hired a teacher, and Michael took lessons for the two years his father was dying. Upon his father’s death, the piano comforted Michael, who played long hours, pounding out his rage, disappointment and grief on the keys. It was only years later that Michael learned that the $775 piano consumed every last penny of his family’s life savings.
But there is more to this story. Fast-forward to 1967. Soon-to-be college graduate Stephen Pearce landed an after-graduation summer job as a lifeguard at Camp Kutz, the Union of Reform Judaism’s camp in Warwick, N.Y.
But as fate would have it, Pearce was admitted to the rabbinic program at Hebrew Union College and was required to spend the summer in Cincinnati at the seminary’s preparatory program. To get a replacement, Pearce, a Red Cross water safety instructor, gave his friend Michael a Red Cross Lifeguard Card and Michael, though officially unqualified, filled the position.
It just goes to show you how dumb a 20-year-old can be. Never considering the consequences of an uncertified lifeguard who might have failed to save a child or prevented an injury of some roughhousing teens, Pearce threw caution to the wind and did that dumb thing! What was he thinking?
Now the plot thickens. Michael’s roommate that summer was none other than young rabbinic student Larry Kushner, who said to Michael, “I hear you write music.”
“Wrong,” Michael replied. “I am just the lifeguard. I only do hats, zinc oxide, whistles and pool maintenance.”
But Kushner would not take no for an answer and said, “I hear you playing on the social hall piano, and I need you to write some music for a jazz Shabbat we are planning.”
The rest is history. Michael Isaacson is now the foremost composer of Jewish music in the world. He often wonders how his life might have been different if parsimony and anxiety had triumphed over the love of a parent for a child, and a piano sat in a showroom instead of in the living room of a house on East 22 Street in Brooklyn.
Now with the benefit of hindsight, we know the orech, rachav, and komah — the dimensions of the heart that moved a dying man to give one last gift to his pre-bar mitzvah son, and thereby transform his entire life.
Tell the Israelites to bring me offerings from every person whose heart so moves him.” (Ex 25: 1-2) We all bring offerings of the heart in the form of personal stories that are transformative and touch our lives and those of others. They foster unintended consequences that connect one heart to another with a thin gossamer thread that links heart to heart across time and space.
What is your offering that defines the length, width and height of your life? Think about it carefully because it is a gift opportunity to share it with others.
Stephen S. Pearce is senior rabbi at Congregation Emanu-El in San Francisco.