What if G-d laughs when we get to heaven

The Jewish Star
Issue of August 20, 2010/ 10 Elul 5770

I am fasting. It is Tisha b’Av. And I believe this was a mistake. Not the fact that I am fasting today, specifically, but the fact that so many of us do, so many times each year. A misinterpretation perhaps, more than a mistake. An exaggeration. From the bottom of my heart, I harbor doubt that we Jews were supposed to fast this often, for this long. I think, perhaps, some well-meaning people of religious power took the gift of Yom Kippur and decided more is more, or less is more depending on how you look at it.

Scold me, stone me, scowl at me but this is my truth.

So why am I fasting?

I have fasted every Tisha B’Av since I was 11 (minus one where I stuffed a huge piece of babka in my mouth while on a teen trip to Israel, forgive me.) I have fasted more than two decades worth of Yom Kippurs, Taanit Esthers and Shiva Asar b’Tammuzes. But habit makes not the monk.

I have friends who find this incomprehensible. How could I, someone ready to argue a reason for everything, subject myself to bodily negligence without believing it is what G-d intended for me to do? It seems to me that I fast because of a Rashi and a ride.

I have a horrible memory and recall surprisingly little of what I learned throughout school (a fact that brings great pain with the arrival of each tuition bill.) Yet, a Rashi in Devarim 17:11 made its home somewhere in my cerebral cortex in the early 80s. The text indicates that one “should not deviate (lo tasur) to the right or to the left” from that which he is instructed by the Sanhedrim to do. Rashi cites the Sifrei who states that we must follow them even if it appears that what they tell us is right is really left and left is really right. (Of course, there are various interpretations and disagreements on this point.)

Even as a schoolgirl surrounded by the smell of pencil shavings, it struck me as accurate that while the Torah was given to us all, its interpretation is best left to the few. We are encouraged to question and to draw inspiration, but the conclusions that heed action must come from a learned, able and willing minority if we are to have order in society. And I like order. I felt that this principle must hold true even when we do not understand a rule; even … wait for it… when the rabbis are wrong.

Wrong rabbis!? Forgive me again please, but they were human, were they not?
So what if this is all nonsense? What if these “fences,” as we often refer to rabbinical prohibitions, were best left open? What if there is no reason not to top my chicken sandwich with melted cheese and wash it all down with a chocolate milkshake? Am I a hypocrite or just a culinarily deprived fool? What if G-d laughs when we arrive in heaven, each balancing bags of Ase and Lo Tase mitzvot garnered by following a bunch of rabbis to the left and then to the right until we were spinning in circles? Should order reign over reason? Tradition trump responsibility?

This brings me to the ride I mentioned. My stepfather, a teacher and dedicated chauffer for his children (and now grandchildren), shared more than traffic reports and a love of “Imus in the Morning” as he drove me to and from school every day. He imparted thoughts on life, liberty and the sorry state of writing skills among high school students. On one such ride he noted that, with regard to religious practices, he believed that if actions he took as a religious Jew caused no harm to others, and further, improved or enhanced the lives of those around him… it was all good.

So how much is gained or lost in daily life by following the directions of other human beings? I find the rabbinical laws, be they arbitrary or G-d-sent, do not negatively impact my life and for the most part are designed to positively affect the lives of those around me. In fact, I find great comfort in knowing that when faced with a proverbial crossroad, I can make a decision guided by the wisdom of others.

So the same way that I brake for a stop sign even on an empty street or wait in line for the ladies room when the men’s room is empty… I often do not really care whether every rabbinical decree is “right.”

But fasting, I do care. I hate it. I challenge the notion. It does not bring me to a higher spiritual level, nor help me ponder the pain of my ancestors. I do not feel it makes me a better person. It makes me nervous, tired, dizzy, angry and … it forces me to ponder in frustration.

Fasting conjures my doubts. It compels me to contemplate my commitment. To wonder why I follow this “rule” I am so unsure of and by association, the thousands of others provided by the same sources. And ultimately, to surrender, each time I fast, to the fact that in total, I do respect the interpretations of our Rabbeim. I appreciate the rules and restrictions and the freedom they paradoxically avail. I realize that I am a person of faith, not blind faith, but thoughtful faith. Hungry still for the something that religion provides.

And hungry for that apple on the table before me. There is more to say, but the fast is ending, and I can now think of nothing more than that apple on the table, the pizza that will follow and the ice cream that is calling me back to the distractions of every day.

Ilya Welfeld stops to cherish the chaos, writing about balancing work, life and faith for The Jewish Star. Share your thoughts with her at ilyawelfeld@gmail.com.

Remembering Ellie

It was about this time last year. E had gone into the hospital for stomach surgery. A bowel obstruction. A few months later we stood by her grave, hurting as her three-year-old yelled the impossible questions above our sniffles, “Why they putting my Momma down there? Is Momma in there?”

The days I spent with her in the hospital are not hazy. Not really the blur you expect one year later. Crystal clear instead. Her nearly unrecognizable face, swollen with fluid, her untamed eyebrows and grey hair roots signaling the time since she’d been “free.”
As her husband interviewed nannies with urgency, I walked the hospital halls with a potential candidate’s toddler, purporting to keep her company as she kept mine.

By the time we let E go, it was a relief. Stomach surgery such as hers can be routine. But nothing for E was routine. Born with a congenital illness, my childhood friend lived a life I dare not imagine.

On the first day of third grade, E, a gap-toothed eight-year-old welcomed me with a huge smile and a thermos of mysterious enzyme drink. An empty desk pushed opposite hers seemed to be waiting for me. At eight, E wore her illness on her sleeve, but it was like a small pocket there, sometimes overflowing, but often unnoticed, blending into the fabric of the bright eyed, old-souled child she was. It was one of the first things we discussed, on par with Judy Blume and first crushes.

By the time we were nine another classmate “S” announced to the lunchroom that her mother was a nurse who said E would die as a teenager. I ran after E as she went crashing through the bathroom doors and into a stall to cry. She stunned me by explaining the horrible prediction was likely a fact. But we were kids and went on to fumble our way together through puberty with interludes during which she spent several weeks each year in the hospital “recharging.”

Decades later, when I visited E in her Riverdale apartment, looking so cool in her cute jeans and long hair, refereeing toy tug-of-war between our two babies, I felt like we were sticking it to “S” and her nurse mother. I was mesmerized and befuddled by her each time we spoke, enjoyed sushi, or compared novels. I enjoyed being her “chariot ride” away from the NYC hospital that cared for her each time she needed treatments. A social worker by trade, the master’s degree she earned was only a mark of distinction for those who did not know her. She was a born listener, always able to offer firm guidance with a snarky humor. E would have made an unrealistic character in a novel, a girl who faced death at every turn but knew she deserved the education, the guy, the house, the kids and even the cats. One would have to suspend disbelief to imagine her world.

For the last years of her life, E lived states away. The day before she moved, I hijacked her for a makeover at Bloomingdales and wondered as I dropped her off at home whether I would see her again. It was always like that, each time we parted, I wondered. Over the years, we bridged the gaps created by children, jobs, and ultimately the distance of her move midwest with the wonder of instant messaging. Late night chats were heady, a blend of parenting woes and work stress punctuated by frustration about the increasing challenges to her health.

Today I find myself looking at the SUV on my right or the dinner table to my left wondering – what loss have they sustained? And marveling that here we are, the living, inexplicably going about our daily activities, hopefully making the most of them as best as we know how. It’s so cliché to talk about what we’ve learned from those we’ve lost. E could have waited for the death she knew would come before she’d lived a full life. Instead she defined living as what we do when we make the most of every day we have.

Just before she went into the hospital for the last time, E saw the movie Up with her boys. She cried a little too much, a little too long. But this is the sentiment she shared with her friends later that week. “Thanks for the adventure. Now go have one of your own.”