ILLNESS IS MY TEACHER

THE ANNUAL BRUNCH WITH RABBI JOSHUA GOLDSTEIN

APRIL 6, 2008

Though I have never thought of myself as a literalist, there are some phrases and teachings from our tradition that I think about almost every day of my life. The one that has come to mind most frequently over this past difficult year is Chasidic:

Each person should keep two pieces of paper in his or her pockets, and read them out loud every day. On one paper, it should say: "For my sake, the world was created." And on the other, it should say: "I am but dust and ashes."

That Chasidic teaching is intended to help us recognize that life is about balancing blessings and difficulties. I've always understood that balance throughout most of my life. And as a Rabbi, it has been even more clear to me. Because I have experienced the greatest of joys, and I've known the harshest of realities in my work. I learned about dust and ashes in my former congregation when one Saturday night, the police called me, to ask that I come immediately to the home of a Temple family. When I arrived, I found one of my Bar Mitzvah students crying uncontrollably. He and his friend had been home, while Matt's parents were out. Matt had come across his father's gun, hidden in a closet, and he playfully aimed it at his best friend. The next thing that happened was that his friend was shot dead through the chest. Can you imagine? Matt and his family and I are still in touch to this day. I keep his photo on the door of my office to remind me about how devastating life can be, and about dust and ashes.

About 15 years ago, I learned again about how cruel life can be, when I was called once more by the police, as I sat in my Temple study. The officer on the line told me that Stu Bolton, the husband of our then Religious School Director, Irene Bolton, had suddenly died from a massive heart attack. I was asked to come to identify the body. But on the floor above me, unaware of any of this, Irene was in her office. That walk up the steps, to tell her that Stu had possibly died, was excruciating. And that hour long ride together to identify him was unbelievably torturous. Dust and ashes.

And one more. It's now nine years since my closest friend, Steve Alexander, died. Steve and I grew up together in Princeton. We reunited as first year students in rabbinical school, spending an incredible year together in Jerusalem. And from then on, we shared so much together. We'd go to Grateful Dead Concerts, or watch a ballgame, we went to see Refuseniks together in Moscow and Kiev, or talk about our mutual passion for Israel and the Jewish people. Sally loved him too. He was so bright and funny and insightful. He often gave me the confidence I needed to be a rabbi. I never had a better friend than Steve. Steve went on to become International Director of Bnai Brith Youth. But 10 years ago, as he returned with a group of students from the "March of the Living" in Europe, he discovered a growth that turned out to be Stage 4 Melanoma. And within a year, he was gone.

Now before any of you decide to throw yourselves off a bridge, let me reassure you that today's annual brunch is not going to be depressing. But it is going to be very personal, and I hope, ultimately uplifting. It is about how you and I can deal with the curveballs that life throws us. It's about finding the resources within our own Jewish heritage that can enable us to find strength when things get difficult. And it's about this past year when Sally and I experienced great physical challenges. My purpose is to share some of that story with you, because I think it can actually be a great teaching opportunity. I don't want to get incredibly technical about our physical issues, but instead to share how we can deal with the bad stuff that happens to all of us. And at the end of my talk, if you want to offer some of your thoughts or questions, feel free.

I'll start with me. Those of you who read my bulletin articles know that back in September's issue, I wrote about how I had suffered a grand mal seizure, seemingly out of the blue. It was Mother's Day, and I was in a parking lot after a family brunch. The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance heading to the emergency room. For those who may not know, by the way, seizures occur when nerve cells in the brain fire more rapidly than normal, triggering convulsions. So I had no idea that this was happening. But I have had a bit of a history here. Nearly three decades ago, in Illinois, I had suffered an earlier grand mal seizure, coming off a serious illness. And until last Mother's Day, under medication most of the time, my disorder had been under control. Then came Mother's Day. Six days, would you believe, before my older son's wedding! And two and a half weeks before Sha'arey Shalom's Gala 50th Anniversary weekend!

And yes, had that seizure not kicked in until I was behind the wheel of my car, with Sally next to me, it really could have been a disaster. As it turned out, after a whole battery of tests, and back under medication, I seemed fine and seizure free.

That is, until January 16th, when I had another seizure, this time in a book store. I was hospitalized for a few days, with more tests, and new medication. And, I'm told, the old medication may have actually triggered this most recent seizure. And I'm told, stress had a lot to do with this, as well.

Stress? What stress? I've always thought of myself as being able to handle pressure. True, I get nervous before any service, but so do a lot of my colleagues. And true, leading a synagogue brings plenty of stress with it. But I've always told myself that a good sense of humor, and a great family, and outside interests can all go a long way to reducing stress.

But what I guess I wasn't prepared for was that my wife, Sally, would get lung cancer.

So many of you know Sally. She is a clinical social worker who has worked with children, and their families, ranging from the severely retarded to kidney dialysis patients, to most recently as a psychotherapist at Children's Specialized Hospital. Sally has been my wonderful wife for 36 years, and though she is a past Sisterhood President, has never defined herself as "rebbitzen", preferring to find her own identity. When we first met at Temple University in the late 60's, we were both in full hippie-mode. We've raised two incredibly great sons, and our life together has been one of contentment and joy.

But some of you noticed last Rosh Ha'Shanah, that for the first time since we've been at Sha'arey Shalom, Sally did not lead the candle blessing. She just wasn't up to it. Because for some time, Sally had a severe cough that had been diagnosed as pneumonia. Eventually, a biopsy revealed a rare cancer in the lower lobe of her right lung. The cancer was not from smoking or any environmental cause. It just happened.

Well eventually, after unsuccessful chemotherapy, surgery was scheduled for December 6th, at Sloan Kettering. It was the middle of Chanukah. And I'll never forget the early morning drive we took to Manhattan, for that procedure. We knew that our lives were going to change in a very profound way. We just didn't know how. And I will admit it. I was scared.

The surgery, it turns out, could not have been more successful. The cancer did not metastasize. It was contained. The lower lobe was removed. And Sally, I am thrilled to report, is cancer free and and has returned, part time, to her work at Children's Specialized Hospital. Yes, she is being monitored periodically. And yes, Sally is now part of a study that is intended to be proactive in case of a re-occurrence. But from a time when we felt as if we were looking into the abyss, we now look to a bright future.

I wish I could believe in happy endings for everyone who goes through physical issues, like the ones Sally and I experienced. But life brings what it brings. And as a Rabbi, I have had to experience deep loss in our congregation. Illnesses and funerals are always tough on me. But it comes with the territory. And though I try to show care for all of our members, I feel especially close to many of you. One was Len Brown.

Len died last September after battling kidney cancer for three years. He and Bobbie had been members at Sha'arey Shalom since 1965, and Bobbie continues as our wonderful web-master for our website. I always had a great affection for both Len and Bobbie. Len was kind and interesting, and well-read, and he loved his Jewishness and his synagogue. And over the last couple of years of his life, I would try to visit Len once a week. In his home, we would do what lots of men find it difficult to do. We would pray. We would hold hands. Len would share some of his fears with me. And we would talk about the joys of his life. Especially his family.

Len was a great man. And he died with dignity, passing on his beautiful values to others. I miss him a great deal. And I share his story with you now, with Bobbie's approval, because I want to remind you that, although Sally and I are now okay, not every story ends in restored health. Still, Len blessed me because he allowed me to be a part of the last stages of his life. And I am grateful that he did live and that he had such a wonderful impact on me.

Okay, I've shared with you some very personal challenges that I've experienced. But I have yet to think with you about how we might cope, and even embrace, the trials life brings.

I'll start with a disclaimer that may shock some of you. I do not find prayer particularly helpful when it comes to sickness. It's not that I have a problem with God when bad things happen. I actually don't think that the God I believe in has anything to do with giving illness or with granting recovery. And although I respect those of you who seem to have a stronger faith in this area, I've never quite understood how it is, that liberal Reform Jews like us now find prayers for healing to be central in every synagogue.

It wasn't so long ago, that every college-trained mind knew that God could not act in nature. Yes, we might still invoke God to explain our universe's origin and maybe our sense of ethics and choseness, but not as actually doing anything in the world. If we did, we'd have to ask more seriously where was God in the Holocaust, or on 9/11, or when Katrina hit, or when our parent died from cancer. So to be intellectually consistent, it made no sense to ask God to heal. And yet now, we do it all the time. I wish I could tell you why we've changed, but the best I can offer is that we don't have the same faith we used to have in our doctors. We're more humble about the power of medical science, and more open to belief. And I know too that many of you simply want to hear the names on the "Mee'She'berach" list each Friday night, to keep informed about our members.

But it's still a mystery to me. And given what has happened to Sally and me specifically, I actually have an even greater appreciation for medical science. Of course, our physicians are fallible. But how lucky are we, that we live in the 21st Century, when medical science is so advanced. I am in awe of Sally's doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering. We have found doctors who are caring, devoted, intelligent, down-to-earth people. Not gods. But very impressive physicians, nonetheless.

So I'm not a huge fan of prayers for healing. My sense of gratitude lies in other areas. Three, to be specific. And when I consider them, I know just how fortunate I am, even when life presents its challenges.

Here's the first one: I am alive. I am breathing, and living. In order for that to happen, trillions of drifting atoms had to somehow assemble in an intricate way to create you and me. And hopefully, for about 70 years, more or less, these tiny particles will uncomplainingly engage in all the billions of cooperative efforts to keep you and me intact, and to allow us to experience this very under appreciated state known as existence.

You and I should rejoice that it happens at all. And rejoice that we are the beneficiaries of an extraordinary string of biological good fortune. We live on a planet that can sustain life. And not only have we been lucky enough to be attached to a favored evolutionary line, but we've been miraculously fortunate in our personal ancestry. Leave aside the Jewish part, which I will come to shortly, and simply consider the fact that for 3.8 billion years, every one of our forebears on both sides have been attractive enough to find a mate, healthy enough to reproduce, and blessed by fate and circumstances to live long enough to do so. Not one of our pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, or otherwise deflected from delivering the right genetic material to the right partner at the right moment, so that this sequence of hereditary combinations could result in you and me.

In other words, don't you think we should be filled with complete gratitude that we are just here, even if it's only for a brief time. And that whatever problems or illnesses we may have, pales in comparison to the transcendent miracle of our existence.

Second, what an incredible existence it is! There are so many parts to my life that I am passionate about. You and I are blessed to live in an absolutely fascinating world. If you cannot get excited about that list in your pocket that says "For my sake the world was created", then you are much too self-centered, and self-absorbed. My list fills my life with joy, even when I experience difficulties. So, I'll share a bit with you:

Each January, though not this year, I embark on a one day pilgrimage that fills me with awe and wonder. In the dead of winter, with hardly anyone else around, I go to the Bronx Zoo. And there, I observe the magnificence of God's creatures: the startlingly beautiful Siberian tiger; the mesmerizing green anaconda; playful lion cubs; and, of course, for hours on end, in its extraordinary habitat at Congo Gorilla Forest, a group of lowland gorillas.

And then, I take the subway into Manhattan, to go to the American Museum of Natural History. When I was there the last time, there was a special exhibit on the life of Charles Darwin. Did you know that Darwin spent forty four years of his life, off and on, thinking about earthworms! He would perform worm-related experiments that stretched across decades, among which was the following insight: "Worms do not possess any sense of hearing. When placed on a table close to the keys of a piano, which was played as loudly as possible, they remained perfectly quiet." Can you see it? Darwin, alone in his study with a tin whistle and a piano, trying to get a rise out of his worms! If there is an image that is a greater antidote to jaded aloofness, please let me know.

Darwin is one of my heroes. So are other explorers of life, whose work is so inspiring to me: Jane Goodall; Michael Fay, whose 465 day walk across the unexplored jungles of Central Africa has led to newly protected wildlife sanctuaries in that region; Jeff Corwin; and David Quammen, a great writer with whom I have had the privilege of communicating on a personal level. All of these people share a common faith, even if they never attend church or synagogue. Because their work is a spiritual exercise told in the language of science.

We should do that, too. We should appreciate the wonder of earthworms, or silverback gorillas. We should observe the beauty of life. Go to Africa, if you can, like I did a few years ago. Or at least, take a walk in a park every day, and watch life unfold. Anne Frank actually said it so perfectly:

"I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles."

Life has so many other joys that bless me. If I tell you that sports is a big part of my life, you may scoff. My Dad, "alav ha'shalom", not only scoffed, but he truly disapproved of the hours I would spend as a kid memorizing batting averages. To him, sports was a waste of time. To this day, I can hear him mumbling, "If Josh would apply himself to Torah as much as he does to the Dodgers, he would be another Maimonodes".

Dad was, of course, right, to a degree. But I'm here to tell you that being a Tar Heel fan, loving the Yankees, feeling absolutely overjoyed at the Giants' Superbowl upset win, and even despising Duke and the Red Sox, is not only a good thing. It's also a healthy escape.

Nature. Sports. A love for reading and books. Watching great movies. This is what helps to make life a joy, especially when we know illness and loss. For others, it may be antiques. Or music. Or something else. But whatever it is, cultivate what you enjoy in life. And focus on it, when life gets you down.

And one more blessing that life brings: Relationships. When Sally and I went through our trials, we were always bolstered by people we know and respect. Not just our doctors. But also those we love. Dear friends who sometimes re-surfaced after a long period of absence, or who have always been close. And family. We are blessed to have wonderful children, and great brothers and sisters, and an incredible mother-in-law. At all times, Sally and I knew we were never really alone.

And how does this apply to everyone else who experiences illness? It applies because we all need to know that we can count on other people when we need to. If there are rifts in your relationship, swallow your pride and do what you have to do to heal that rift. If you hold a grudge because someone wasn't there for you in the past, get over it.

And if you can bring yourself to do this, then suddenly "having an attitude" becomes "having a gratitude". Gratitude not only for the miracle of existence, but for the joys that come with that existence.

There is one more miracle that you and I need to appreciate, that will bolster us when we are feeling weak. And that is, quite simply, that you and I are part of the Jewish story. And that should fill your lives with a sense of extraordinary significance.

We take our Jewish identities for granted, too much. We don't stop to appreciate just how remarkable our heritage is. But listen. Every single power that has tried to outlaw Judaism, or expel us, or execute us, each and every one, has crumbled to dust. And in the last century, when one tyrant murdered one-third of the 18 million of us who were alive. And when another tyrant intended to do the same in the former Soviet Union, they diminished our numbers greatly. And they wounded our spirit. But not only did Hitler and Stalin both ultimately fail to destroy our people, their own empires have disappeared. And so it will be with the Persians of contemporary times, and their Arab allies, who want to destroy Israel.

So shouldn't our very history imbue you with great pride and meaning? Shouldn't the fact that you and I live at the high point of all of Jewish civilization, when Israel exists and thrives, bring you an incredible sense of fulfillment?

And it's not simply that we have survived in the physical sense. We have been models to the world in the sense of making study an act of prayer. Of making social justice into an act of humanity. Of doing mitzvot as an act of sanctity. And of hoping and working for a better world as an act of obligation.

I'm telling you I truly believe in Jewish choseness. And I think that being part of a great synagogue has everything to do with affirming how special Jewish identity really is.

Along with all the other reasons why Temple affiliation is so important, I can now add, through first-hand experience, the value of support in time of need. Can you imagine how wonderful it is, to be cared for by our wonderful Brotherhood and Sisterhood and Renaissance Groups. To know that our PreSchool parents are sending you meals, along with our Religious School faculty and our Caring Committee. To know that we are blessed with a caring and wonderful professional staff. To feel bolstered by our lay leadership. Sally and I feel such support and love from Jeri Greenberg, our great Temple President, and her predecessors, Ed Fink and Hank Rottenberg. And with all this, I must tell you how much I've come to appreciate Jackie Herzlinger, who leads our Health Initiative. When Jackie said at a recent Board meeting that Sha'arey Shalom really has become a caring congregation, I knew it wasn't false propaganda. And I know that so much of that caring comes from her Health Initiative.

That's why being part of this synagogue is so meaningful. When we were at our most challenging moments, the Temple lifted us up. Confirmation and Post Confirmation students, with whom I shared Sally's story, would come up and give me spontaneous hugs. Our URJ President, Eric Yoffie, calls periodically to see how we're doing.

I don't know if we could have gotten through all this without our Temple family. And anyone, who thinks that dropping synagogue membership is an insignificant thing, would do well to first consider the support we offer in times of need. It reminds me of the story of a Temple member who, one day, stopped being active in the synagogue. She thought "It really doesn't matter, whether I'm there or not". Months went by. Finally, on a cold afternoon, someone knocked at her door. It was the Rabbi. He walked inside, in silence. And he approached the fireplace, where a fire was burning, to seek warmth. The rabbi and the former member stood together by the fireplace, in silence. They stared at the burning coals for a long time, without exchanging a word. Finally, the rabbi took a stick to adjust the coals. And he pushed one burning coal from the others. Still in silence, the rabbi and the former member watched as that single coal burned out. Wordlessly, the rabbi walked out of the home. But the following week, the member chose to rejoin the synagogue.

Friends. Sha'arey Shalom is your Jewish home. Here, we challenge you. Here, we teach you. Here, we support you. And it's part of the blessing of Jewish identity that should sustain you, when life is difficult.

I've called this talk "Illness is My Teacher". But the truth is, throughout this past difficult year, no new revelations have come to me. I did not discover wondrous, fresh insights, about illness and healing. Instead, I've been reminded of what I've always known: that life is a blessing. I've recognized again how miraculous it is that I simply exist. I've appreciated again that beyond existence, life is filled with joys, from relationships, to the awe and wonder that is the natural world. And I've rejoiced again that, with all this, I am a part of the Jewish story. My heritage sustains me with the knowledge that whatever may happen in life, my Jewish identity gives my life great meaning.

I don't know what the future will bring. But I have my hopes. I want to go to Israel with Sally every year. When my time at Sha'arey Shalom comes to an end, I hope to continue as a rabbi in a small congregation. I want to see the Tar Heels win another NCAA championship, and the Yankees win a world series. It would be nice, I suppose, to have grandchildren, but I'm not putting any pressure on my kids! And I want to share out my life with my wonderful, intelligent, caring, beautiful, and tolerant wife.

But I know that there are no guarantees. So I'll end with a story that I love to tell about how life can change in a minute. The story about the turn-of-the-century New York Rabbi, Jacob Joseph, is true. Rabbi Joseph was a man of vast learning. He could speak for hours, quoting from memory from a variety of sources. And Jews all over the city would come to hear this wonderful speaker.

But one day, Rabbi Joseph suffered a stroke. He recovered very slowly, and he was finally released from the hospital just before Rosh Ha'Shanah. Rabbi Joseph insisted on speaking from the pulpit in honor of the Jewish New Year.

When the time for his sermon came, Rabbi Joseph began: "Our Jewish heritage tells us…"

Silence.

"Our Judaism tells us…"

Silence.

Again, he tried: "Judaism teaches us…"

The congregation looked down as Rabbi Joseph kept trying to say the words. And then he began crying, as he was led off the pulpit.

A few weeks later he wrote a letter to his congregants. And here is what he wrote:

"A few months ago, I would have given a learned discourse without notes. And now, I cannot even remember what the subject is. Do you see what can happen to a human being in a split second? So while there is still time, while you can still do and see and walk and read and pray. value each day as a precious gift. Because today is all we have."

Thank you.