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CCAR Convention

#36rabbis – Why I’m Moved to Shave

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I am about 2 hrs and 10 minutes away from shave-time, and it occurs to me that I should probably try to put into words why it is that I’m heading up to the local SuperCuts to shave my head for the first time in my life.
(What does it say about me that I still get my hair cut at SuperCuts?)
I should probably not be surprised that the SuperCuts website, which promotes these recommended hair styles if I aspire to be ‘cool like a rock star’, does not feature the bald look.  That’s a shame, because it turns out that there are plenty of famous rock stars that are bald.  (Yes, I voluntarily paid good money as a kid to see Phil Collins in concert.  File that under #whatnerdyfuturerabbisdo.)Anyway…I digress.  Why will I be shaving off all of my hair (at the aforementioned SuperCuts) in 1 hr 55 minutes?

To begin, you might notice from the picture above that I’ve already shaved off my beard.  (For some reason, every time I say the word “beard,” my three year old son Avi hilariously gives me a sing-song shout-out by proclaiming “your beard!!!” and then he spontaneously cracks up.  It’s funny and mysterious all at the same time).  

I’ve had a beard pretty much permanently since….college?  I typically shave the beard off only once a year: the day before Passover, as a way of connecting to the spiritual meaning of growth that I believe is implicit in the season of the Counting of the Omer.

In that sense, the first thing that is disorienting for me today is the fact that my beard is gone…two weeks early.  I’ve lost something….a part of myself….and even though the loss was voluntary…and even though it is entirely cosmetic…and even though it will (God-willing) grow back…it is a loss nonetheless.  On some level, simply by shaving my beard, I have entered into the world of grief and mourning.

There are other emotions and sensations that I am aware of.

Simply by shaving my beard, I am becoming re-acquainted with how my face feels.  It’s a funny way of saying it – but a beard is something of a firewall against certain facial sensations.  With the beard gone, I can feel again…the smoothness of my face, and in doing so: I feel…younger.

In this wonderfully liberating way (akin to when I put on a Phillies hat instead of a kippah), I feel less like a rabbi, and more like a regular person. That’s important to me right now….with 1 hr 35 minutes to go.  Because even though, on the surface, this is about rabbis (Phyllis and Michael are my colleagues, and someone decided to call this group #36rabbis), being a rabbi has absolutely nothing to do with my reasoning to shave my head.

My colleagues and I are prone to tweet pithy status updates with the hashtag #whatrabbisdo.  But, honestly, for me….a more honest description about my act might be #whatpeopledo.  Or at the very least: #whatpeopleshoulddo.

We should care, I think, that in the year 2014, when we are privileged to live in moment of history in which it is possible to accurately measure the age of the universe, and when it is possible to send messages to one another from our phones from one side of the globe to the next….I think we should care that in this moment, that it is wrong…existentially speaking…that children should inexplicably die from incurable cancer.

And so, rather than complain about it from the sidelines, I’ve decided to do something about it.  I’m going to shave my head (in 1 hr 21 minutes) to raise awareness (on the presumption that people will be asking me 1000 times over the next few weeks why I’ve shaved my head).  And I’ve made (in brutal honesty, a relatively minimal) gift of tzedakah to do my part to work for a cure.  (You can give too, via St. Baldrick’s.)

But there’s another reason that I’ve decided to go down this road.

We are supposed to say Baruch Dayan Ha-Emet when news reaches us of a loved one’s death, acknowledging that however painful the loss, that there must be a divine sense of justice/order in it.  God has God’s reasoning, even if we are not privileged to know it.

I’m relatively far removed from Michael, Phyllis, and their family.  I don’t think I ever had the honor of meeting their son Sam – I was going to write “may his memory live on to be for a blessing” but the absolutely extraordinary thing is that, from my vantage point, it already has – anyway…I never had the honor of meeting Sam (again I think of my son, Avi, and their shared identification with Superman), and yet…for me: Baruch Dayan Ha-Emet was not something I could say when I learned of Sam’s passing.

I knew it was coming.  I had been following all of the Tweets, and the Facebook messages, and had heard through the grapevine.

And yet in the moment of hearing the news, I would not and could not say the words.  There was/is to me an absurdity associated, this year, and on this day, with the notion of believing in a God that would want Baruch Dayan Ha-Emet to be recited on the loss of a child.  I have still not been able to make sense of that, theologically.  As a rabbi: sure…I would be happy to refer you to Kushner, or if we’re feeling more bold, maybe Rubenstein.

But I’m not a rabbi right now.  I’m a person.  

I’m a person that – during this entire journey that Phyllis and Michael have been on – I’m a person that only succeeded in picking up the phone once (went to voicemail) to offer my support.  Three times I sat down with pen and paper to write a real, live letter to them – and all of those wound up in the trash, along with countless draft emails.  Mostly because, as a person, I could not summon the necessary empathy…could not begin to imagine whatever it was that they have been feeling.

Yes, I’m a father.  But the fact that I’m a father I think has actually made it harder for me to empathize in this case.  Because even though the Sommers’ loss has spurred me to new heights of gratitude, in terms of appreciating the miraculous and blessed existence of Siona and Avi (I feel selfish in this moment admitting that)…nonetheless: how could that possibly enable me to connect (on some human level) to the way that their family has changed?

It is no doubt utterly selfish (yikes, there’s that word again) of me.  But I am shaving my head – not just out of a sense of solidarity with Phyllis and Michael, and all of the other friends and colleagues that are gathered at this very moment in Chicago, while I remain here in New York…but also out of the misguided hope that shaving my head will spark .00001% more empathy for me, that I might have a tiny additional sense of what it means to be a human being (and to connect to others human beings) in this world.  

To put it another way: I hope and pray that this act of ‘othering myself’ in 1 hr 2 minutes will actually have the opposite effect: that I will grow into a deeper sense of awareness, and maybe even peacefulness.  Not with God…for the time being, that ship has sailed.  I cannot claim to understand the logic of God in all of this.  But maybe a deeper sense of awareness and peacefulness with the rest of humanity….of what it means to be alive, and grateful for that gift of life…and of what it means to love, and to lose.

הִנְנִי מוּכָן וּמְזֻמָּן

I am hereby ready and prepared: to try harder at fulfilling the mitzvah of being present for friends and colleagues; to try harder at fulfilling the mitzvah of tikkun olam by addressing all of brokenness that pervades our world; and most importantly: I am ready and prepared, to shave my head, and to perhaps attain a fuller sense of what it means to be human in the process.

Sending my hugs, and all of my love…or at least as much as the Internet can carry…to Phyllis and Michael, and to every one of my friends and colleagues in Chicago.

48 minutes to go.  SuperCuts: here I come.

Rabbi Jeffrey Brown serves at Scarsdale Synagogue Temples Tremont & Emanu-El. This was first published on Rabbi Brown’s Blog.
Categories
CCAR Convention Rabbis

Why I am shaving my head – to bring holiness into my life and our world

I have made lots of jokes about growing my hair out (as best as I could) for this fundraiser for St Baldricks Foundation in honor of a little boy who died this year… A boy whom I have never met. I am only acquaintances with his parents – fellow Reform rabbis. As I see women and men start to shave their heads in solidarity with this family and these children who are fighting their cancers, I am truly in awe.

I am in awe not only for the almost two dozen women who are participating in this “36 Shave for the Brave,” not only because there are 100 rabbis signed up for this, not only because they have raised over $528,000… But because there is an energy around people making a difference and doing something that is holy.

These shavees are walking around with hair longer than they ever would have tolerated before: unkept, hard-to-manage, not so appealing… to emphasize their experience in the shave. I am reminded of the Nazir in the Torah who takes on an oath and separates her/himself, takes on additional burdens, in order to designate her/his life to serving God in a unique way. It wasn’t necessary for these people to choose to do this. But they did it anyway. At the end of their service, they shave their hair that was previously consecrated to God. While they were in this temporary status as a Nazir, they could not shave their heads. Here at the annual conference of the Central Conference of American Rabbis, representing Reform Rabbis in North America, I see a whole host of people consecrating their beloved hair to God, preparing to shave it off in order to fight childhood cancer, to honor the spiritual courage of a family who experienced a loss few of us can understand, to remember a little boy who was a superhero to many, and to bring some holiness to our lives when the chaos embedded in Creation strikes.

May Superman Sam’s memory be an enduring blessing to his family and to all of us. May we reach this goal of $540,000. May people be inspired to do their part – through shaving their heads, making acts of tzedakah, and bringing comfort to a family still in pain. And may we bring holiness into our lives and our world by making a difference and showing God we care.

You can support my shave, read about the back story, or view the live stream on Tuesday night.

Thank you for supporting my modest fundraising efforts and for enabling me to do this holy act.

Rabbi Frederick Greene serves Temple Beth Tikvah in Roswell, GA. This was originally posted on his blog, Ayekah – Where Are You?

Categories
Ethics Rabbis Reform Judaism

Hanging on to Hope: Facing Illness and Adversity

In 1978, I bounded across the finish line of the New York City Marathon wearing a T-shirt proclaiming me “The Running Rabbi.” I was just as tireless in my calling as a rabbi in Newburgh, New York. I had marched for civil rights in the 60’s, rallied to free Soviet Jews, and in 1980 visited the hostages held in Iran. I’d never been sick in my life. I felt indestructible. That was then.

Just six years later my illusion was shattered as I lay dying of leukemia. By a miracle of timing doctors saved my life with an experimental drug and I returned to my congregation to fulfill the new task God gave me – counseling those who face adversity.

For over 20 years as a rabbi, I had helped others through crisis. I was supposed to have all the answers. Yet when I got sick, I discovered I didn’t have them. I felt confused, frightened, and desperate. Who would comfort me?

My experience with serious illness has made me want to share with you what I learned about facing illness, or for that matter any adversity. Here are some of my thoughts and suggestions which I hope will help you or your loved ones if, God forbid, you have to face a threatening crisis.

  • Cheer yourself on. Ultimately you must learn to comfort yourself. No matter how many people are around during the day, reality can be very hard to face in the loneliness of the night.
  • Keep up your self-esteem. Be kind to yourself. Hug yourself if you can’t find anybody to hug you. Don’t feel cursed if you have a disease with a foul name. Don’t think of yourself as worthless or worth less because you’ve been stricken. Don’t be passive about your medical treatment or afraid to tell your doctors your needs.
  • Don’t feel guilty if you’re too sick to do things. You have value simply because you are, even if you cannot be “productive” in the way to which you were accustomed. Learn to cherish your very existence.
  • I really believe my fighting spirit meant the difference between life and death for me. My nurses told me that once when I was delirious, I pounded on the bed rails yelling, “Come on, Hirshel!” I was cheering myself on like my wife and daughters cheered for me when I ran the marathon.
  • Conversely, however, don’t make things impossible by believing your attitude is everything. You can’t control everything. Just some things.
  • Set goals for yourself. No matter how small, any goal helps you feel a sense of achievement.
  • Writing a book about my illness with my friends, the Rudins, gave me something to live for. I would wearily clutch the manuscript in my hospital bed and show it to my nurses. It took a lot out of me to write even a few words, but I know that completing Why Me? Why Anyone? helped keep me alive.
  • Life Projects. Keep up interest in your life projects. If you are able to return to work in some capacity, do it. Even if you have just five good minutes a day, use that time and build on it. If physical limitations prevent you from doing tasks in your usual way, try to devise new ways to do them. Reorganize, delegate, ration your energy sensibly.
  • Doing, learning, re-learning will help you to feel alive and regain self-esteem. When my physicians noticed how depressed I was in the hospital, they said, “Be a rabbi — go and counsel other patients.” That made me feel important again. My friends fighting cancer and other diseases tell me the same thing: Helping others cope is the one good thing they can do, the one good thing they feel qualified to do, and the one good thing they find real fulfillment in doing.
  • Keep your sense of humor. Learn to laugh at yourself and enjoy life. One morning when the doctors made their rounds, I said to them, “I think these antibiotics are doing something to me! Something strange is happening to my body!” They burst into laughter. I was wearing a Frankenstein mask !
  • Be thankful for each day and greet it joyously. Since my brush with death, every moment is special to me. Live life to the fullest, even if it might be for just a short period of time. How long you live is not as important as what you do with your time, or what you are in that time.
  • Today I feel I know what’s really important in my life. I’m learning to say “no” to people — I don’t want to fritter away my life letting other people tell me how to live. For me, being with the ones I love is the most important thing. And I make a point of telling these people often how I feel about them “while I still have the chance.”
  • Accept the comfort offered by friends and family. The strong support of all who loved me and prayed for me kept me going through my darkest hours. Don’t be afraid to let others know how vulnerable you are. It’s not a sign of weakness to allow them to do what they can to make things easier for you.
  • The Song of Songs says, “Set me as a seal upon thy heart, for love is stronger than death.” This I believe now more than ever.
  • Search for meaning from your adversity. We can find meaning and hope even in our darkest days. I didn’t ask for this painful experience. But I can choose my response to it. I can choose to grow from it and shape it into a positive force in my life.

By facing death I learned how to live. My illness taught me the real meaning of being a rabbi. It’s not who can be the best scholar; it’s who can touch people, who can comfort them. I used to be too “hyper,” the running rabbi, breezing by people. Now I take time to talk and listen more deeply. I know what it’s like to hurt. I understand people’s fears, and can now begin to reassure them out of my own struggle and confusion and fear. “God wants heart” is a saying in the Talmud that I now truly understand.

Will I run another marathon? Sure, I want to, but it doesn’t matter to me how long or how fast I go. Now I’m running the true race — trying to be a good husband and father, and a companion for those who walk the path of serious illness.

I hope that as you walk this path , whether illness or crisis or depression ,that you let the “Power” within you that you surely possess carry you over the rough spots, and stay with you, too.

And I hope your struggle with adversity, or your journey to the edge of life, helps you learn secrets of precious love, secrets of precious peace.

 This blog originally appeared on runningrabbi.wordpress.com.