You Are Enough - Shabbat Shuvah - Sep 14, 2018

I am so honored to be on this bimah in this role for the first time. Tonight we begin Shabbat Shuva, the Shabbat that falls in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The name is taken from the beginning of the haftarah, in which the prophet Hoshea implores:

שׁוּבָה יִשְׂרָאֵל עַד ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ כִּי כָשַׁלְתָּ בַּעֲוֺנֶךָ

Return, Israel, to the LORD your God, For you have fallen because of your sin.

Now these are the heavy, awe-filled days of teshuvah. We are called upon to reflect, repent, re-align ourselves, return to God, return to the best of ourselves. It is a serious and deep undertaking.

On Yom Kippur, we will confront our own mortality. Many of us will stop eating and drinking for the day. Some will wear a white robe called a kittel, which is designed to be reminiscent of a burial shroud. We are called upon to do a personal accounting: a foreshadowing echo of the kind of life review that can happen at the end-of-life, especially if death is imminently anticipated. There are many parallels between the holiness of this time of year and the holiness of the time spent in preparation for death. 

In this week’s parsha, Vayelech, Moshe prepares for his death. He is 120 years old. He already knows that he will never cross the Jordan River. God says to him: קָרְבוּ יָמֶיךָ לָמוּת (“the time is drawing near for you to die”).

Moshe then begins an organized process of passing on the Torah to future generations and transferring leadership to Joshua and Aaron. He reassures the Israelites that God will be with them. He instructs: “be strong and resolute” חִזְקוּ וְאִמְצוּ “and do not be afraid” אַל־תִּירְאוּ.

Moshe’s end-of-life is about legacy. This resonates with me especially now, as I’ve recently completed a rotation as a hospice chaplain. 

For one of my patients with whom I was very close, his end-of-life was also about legacy. He had been a professional musician, but could not play the piano anymore, and he wanted to direct where his piano would go after he died. He called it his “dear friend.” In the end, I could not find the piano for him — just a vague explanation from his brother that it was no longer in his apartment. I could not give him what he asked for, but we sat and talked, week after week. I played his favorite jazz music on my phone, Ella Fitzgerald. One minute, he was complaining to me that they forgot to bring his chocolate ice cream in the dining hall, and the next minute, he told me he was scared of the pain of the dying process. He shared this holy time at the end of his life with me, and I gave him all the presence and care that I could. It was really all we both could do, and it had to be enough. 

Another of my patients had haunting war memories, acute physical pain, and a deep loneliness. I could alleviate some of the loneliness with my visits, and I could consult with the hospice nurse about his pain — but for the memories, I could only bear witness and show him that I was there and I was listening, and he wasn’t alone. 

When facing death and doing this kind of life review, there is comfort in knowing that at this late hour, that it has to be enough. The mistakes have already been made. There is no more piano-playing ahead. The war is over. It has to be enough. 

Also, of course, it usually isn’t enough — not enough time, not enough life, not enough strength — but still, the thing is, at the end of life, it just has to be enough. When looking back on a life lived, I tried to bring peace and acceptance by signaling, however I could: Your life was enough. You are enough. 

And the beautiful thing is that my patients reflected this beautiful message back to me — even when I wasn’t expecting it.

My 95-year-old non-verbal Alzheimer’s patient always sat upright in her wheelchair, laughing, making playful noises, and banging on the table to a rhythm. My initial plan was just to sit with her and to be a calming presence, because I knew that we couldn’t have a conversation. But one day, up for a bit of a risk, I tried a new way to interact with her, to meet her where she was. I mimicked her tentatively, banging on the table softly, and I watched her reaction what would happen. To my delight, she laughed and mimicked me back and started banging on the table with me! When I asked for permission to join her in her world, she actually let me in! And it felt miraculous in that moment.

I learned how to be creative and brave in my communication by using the playfulness that I had learned as a child. My patients taught me that I already have all the skills of a sentient being, of an animal, of a human. 

In the beginning, I saw a mountain of knowledge and experience that I thought I needed first in order to be good at giving pastoral care. It was humbling, and I certainly have more to learn. At the same time, there is another mountain of intuition and understanding that I discovered I already had — I just forgot that I knew it, and I forgot how to access it. 

There is a midrash in the Babylonian Talmud, tractate Niddah, that fetuses in the womb know the entire Torah — the entire Torah! But when they are born, an angel slaps them and makes them forget it. And so we then spend our lives trying to remember the Torah that we already knew in the womb.

So too did I already know how to connect with people at the end of their lives; I just forgot that I knew. 

As I sat with my patients and we tried to accept that their lives had been enough somehow, they taught me that I was also enough for them: my presence, my words, my prayers, my singing voice. I walked into those rooms and I felt that I was enough.

Now, for most of us (thank God), we are not at the end of our lives, but this is the time of year when we do life review too. How do we do it? 

I hope that we ask hard questions: Which of my relationships need repair? Which behaviors need repair? How can I stop hurting others? How can I stop hurting myself? What moral commitments have I held in my heart, but not done anything about?

I hope that we ask generous and gentle questions of ourselves too: Did I mostly try to be good? Did I love people? Did I let people love me? Did I mostly do my best?

Now this doesn’t mean we can’t do any better. We are all who we are, and we can stretch this much here, this much there — a lot sometimes, a little other times. But how much we can stretch is limited.

I love that the idea of our inadequacy being adequate, our not-enough-ness being enough, is reflected in our high holiday liturgy. We say to God as part of the Avinu Malkeinu prayer: Favor us, answer us, כי אין בנו מעשים — literally, “because we do not have deeds”. We do not have enough good deeds to make it into the Book of Life using some grand calculation or divine tally sheet. 

My supervisor in hospice, Rabbi Mychal Springer, teaches that this failure can actually be comforting. If it will never be our deeds alone that bring us whatever good comes our way, then we are fully dependent on God’s grace and love, which we receive even though we do not have the deeds to merit it, even though אין בנו מעשים. She teaches that if we can really accept that, then we can learn how to treat other people with grace and love too, and how to have that same kind of love and respect for ourselves, even though we’re not perfect, even though we’re not even close. 

So stretch as much as you can in the coming days before Yom Kippur, and in the years of your life (may you live to 120 like Moshe). And know that you are enough as you are, and what you can do now is enough. 

Remember, you knew the entire Torah once. Shabbat shalom.