It has been said that light gives of itself freely, filling all available spaces. But at age nine, even though I was a rabbi’s son, how was I to differentiate physics from theology? Frolicking on a typical Saturday afternoon, the Sabbath meant putting on our swimsuits and studying Talmud. The sun scowled at our shoulders as if hypnotized by the sticky slather of Coppertone. My father and I set up folding lawn chairs in the center of our parched backyard as if it were a resort. It was mid-afternoon in mid-July in Phoenix. And in a twisted analogy of the city in which we lived, each weekend we too rose from the solar flames to live and breathe again and dissect weighty thoughts. Sandwiched between decoding translations of Hebrew and Aramaic, we tossed a baseball and ate candy that seemed to fall from the sky when a complex concept was conquered. Later, we scampered barefoot through the sprinklers to extinguish the scorch, resume our concentration, and revive our spirits. More than anything I remember lying on the wet grass, inhaling the perfumed scent of my father’s suntan oil, and vibrating with the deep resonance of his baritone voice when my ear rested on his soft belly.
For me there was no Little League, no Boy Scouts, and no camping trips; these were rituals that took place on the Sabbath. We didn’t speak the language of hunting and fishing and hiking. We didn’t strive for merit badges or touchdowns or batting averages. My father didn’t even own a pair of blue jeans. Instead, our world was a conversation of ethics, Hebrew Scriptures, and philosophy, punctuated with resolute discussions about dedication and commitment.
To be sure, his was a light that gave of itself freely and filled all available spaces of the week. Yes, my father’s light was proximate and omnipresent. And as a youth, I was of the distinct opinion that it had become a glare, and I would have welcomed some shade.
With the speed of light, fifty-two years have passed, and I have caught myself reminiscing about those Sabbaths in the backyard. My father, keenly aware of my early penchant for the disciplines of medicine and science, wisely focused on those topics in the Talmud to help cadge my attention, and inexorably over time, the swelter of the day and warmth of the ritual lesson slowly baked into my spirit. And how those years of study and bonding with him now hold for me a kind of holy aura! I suppose perspective requires distance, and in the twenty-five years since my father’s passing, I can now appreciate with clearer vision his determination to instill in his family a love for study and an aspiration to be more spiritual, more compassionate, and more charitable.
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Until recently, I had resisted the attraction of the four enormous boxes that had been waiting patiently for me in the attic containing his four thousand sermons and philosophy lectures spanning his half-century in the rabbinate. But today, as I leaf through these pages, I easily resurrect images of his silk robes and his powder-blue eyes. Recalling his booming oratory, I try to rekindle the teachings that quietly penetrated “all available spaces” and came to reside as a light in my soul. Remarkably, my father’s philosophy and approach to life, death, and religion are even more modern than I remember, as I now listen with adult ears and greater experience.
In retrospect, I admit I have not always sung the same tune as my father—indeed, especially during my adolescence I sometimes yearned to attend an entirely different concert. There were certainly times I was obliged to quiet my objections to the restrictions of orthodoxy imposed upon me. But though I have known for some time that I have been less spiritually fervent, less philosophically deep than my father, as I compare my life with the twilight of my father’s career, I am amazed to note the similarities in our observations about life and values.
Singing emphatically in my ear when I was young and sometimes pretended to be deaf, my father’s voice began as a John Phillip Sousa march but with time softened into a hum I now strain to hear and seek to embellish in my own muted way.
My father’s faith urged him to be a tiller of the soil and to dream about the simple origins of the Biblical shepherds whose nobility is now almost lost. It applauded the spirit who is a brother to the breeze and relished the joys of living near God’s world of green things. My father made it clear that this recurring melody was not meant to end with his voice or mine; he left ample room for future instruments.
My father’s voice, once deep and resonant, has been hushed for many years, his words unspoken but not silenced. In my earliest years, my father and I would sometimes study the Talmud leaning forward with our foreheads touching. (He was bald, and I remember wondering exactly where his forehead ended.) At the time, I believed this was his secret way of transferring knowledge from his head to mine; especially when he wanted to emphasize a key point, he would whisper the words slowly, dramatically, as if they were part of some great cosmic mystery. I may not have always been the most attentive in those days, but I am leaning forward now and still trying to listen.
Edith Wharton once wrote: “There are two ways of spreading light; to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.” Especially on Father’s Day, I pray that as I pass on my father’s wisdom to my own sons, the mirror will do justice to the candle.
Photo—Chajm Guski/Flickr
