The holidays of Tishrei require significant physical and spiritual preparation.
Of course, there’s cooking, building a sukkah, selecting an etrog (citron), and more cooking. We also get a whole month warm-up to begin our spiritual accounting and teshuva (repentance) from the past to make the New Year great (again).
Since the Hamas massacre of Oct. 7, it’s also unavoidable to approach the holidays with trepidation and anxiety, especially as the war is still raging and hostages remain in Gaza.
Personally, approaching Tishrei brings a sense of foreboding. Weeks before Rosh Hashanah 1996, I received the horrifying confirmation that my father’s cancer was no longer treatable and that he had weeks to live. He went into hospice care immediately.
As my wife lit the candles, ushering in each holiday – Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and the beginning and end days (two days each, as we were still in the Diaspora) of Sukkot, as well as each Shabbat in between – I had a sickening feeling that if he died, we might not know for a day or more. Grandparents had died, even a close friend from college, but this was my father, and it was my first time dealing with impending death.
It was something I never prepared for, not intellectually, not religiously, and not as my father’s eldest son. Certainly not being so young – both me and him.
Six months earlier, doctors attempted the Whipple procedure to remove the tumor from his pancreas and surrounding blood vessels, which became constricted as the tumor grew. After just two to three hours of what was supposed to be a several-hour operation, the surgeon, who must have had his bedside manner removed, announced that he was not able to remove the tumor – in short, my father had six months to live. The blood rushed from my head, I turned ghost-white, and I nearly passed out.
Even observant Jews are unfamiliar with the intricacies of Jewish laws and customs surrounding death and mourning before they are confronted by these, especially those like myself who had been raised in a home that was not religiously observant.
I called my rabbi, Yosef Adler. Over several minutes, I shared the horrid news that had nearly made me pass out. I asked him what I needed to do, how to prepare. He listened thoughtfully, likely just letting me vent, as he probably had his answer ready to go but needed to give me that time and hear me and my concerns.
“I’m not having this conversation now, Jonathan,” he said calmly, with a sense of authority and caring. “Your job right now is to be your father’s son.”
It was not the answer I was looking for. I wanted a technical answer, the X, Y, Z of what to do. Part of his greatness is that he knew what the right answer was. As long as my father was alive, my only job was to honor and respect him.
Six months later, on the evening of October 9, corresponding to the 27th of Tishrei, I called Rabbi Adler from the room where I had just seen my father take his last breath and told him I needed to have the conversation about what to do now. He listened and walked me through the next steps, mindful not only of Jewish law and customs but also of my family background, taking into consideration all the factors that required his guidance.
Lasting lessons of Rabbi Adler
He drove more than 90 minutes each way to be at the funeral, even though it was a Friday and he needed to be back home for Shabbat. He did the same during shiva, the week of mourning.
Over the years, I came to appreciate other aspects of Rabbi Adler’s greatness. He was nearly a generation older than I was, and he had never experienced mourning for a parent. Because honoring one’s parents was so central to who he was, it was known that if you had a question about observing certain customs related to mourning and wanted a more lenient answer, it was best not to ask Rabbi Adler. Maybe “machmir” (stringent) is not the right word as much as “smart,” but during the mourning period everything was about honoring one’s parents. I hope I did my best.
He was right. Especially when one cannot do anything more to honor one’s parents when they are alive, this was the least I could do. I wasn’t looking to cut corners.
A few years later, he spoke before “Yizkor,” the memorial prayer, during one of the holidays. His parents were both still alive, though he surely had encountered more than his share of death in the community. He made a comment that he only knew by association – that the death of a loved one makes us more sensitive to the loss of others. Also true.
I approached him afterward and commented that he was right, but that selfishly I would rather have my father alive than be as sensitive as I am to other people’s loss. He nodded.
After making aliyah, I found myself back in the old country during the shiva of a friend’s father. When I saw Rabbi Adler arrive, I got up to greet him enthusiastically. Later that week, on Shabbat, he mentioned in his sermon something that I certainly triggered but which he no doubt saw in many mourners’ homes: a lack of decorum and even frivolity.
He never would have chastised me openly or in person and had no way of knowing that I would be there to hear him (speaking to me through the congregation). Nevertheless, he tied my enthusiastic greeting, inappropriate in a house of mourning, into a connection with the Torah portion and used the experience to elevate and educate the entire congregation.
As my father’s 29th yahrzeit (anniversary of death) approaches, it is correct that time does heal grief. But it also never goes away. This year, my father’s fifth great-grandson was born, the first to carry our family name and the first since his grandfather, maybe longer, not to be named for a deceased grandfather. A good family tradition to finally break.
Sadly, a month before my father’s yahrzeit, Rabbi Yosef Adler died. He lived too short a time but long enough to see great-grandchildren. Surely, God willing, there will be many more. I was mindful as I drove to his funeral that even though it was way out of the way and on the eve of all the pre-holiday responsibilities, there was no hesitation that I would pay my last respects.
Listening to his children speak about him, it was clear that he had imbued in them the lesson he had taught me 29 and a half years earlier: to be their father’s child as he struggled through his own illness.
I hope that his family will be comforted by stories like this, not only as a way to remember Rabbi Adler but also what he stood for and how that lives on even decades later.
In memory of Rabbi Yosef Adler, who reminded me to be my father’s son, and in memory of my father, whom I will always miss. Please do something to honor your parent, living or deceased, this week.