blogs/rabbi-huberman

Parashat Tetzaveh

My Uncle Allan

I was nine years old when my Uncle Allan shared a lesson that inspires me to this day.

Both my father and my cousin were born on the fifth day of Chanukah, and so it became a tradition that the children of Rebecca and David (Duddy) Huberman (z”l) and their families would gather above their small grocery store in Montreal to celebrate the holiday together.

Eventually, across four families, we would total 11 grandchildren. I fondly remember the “parade of the grandchildren,” as Bubbie Rivka and Zaidie Duddy, seated in the middle of the room, would hand out a $5 bill to each grandchild.

Bubbie Rivka had a particular way of stuffing Chanukah gelt into our palms, with a look that made each child believe they were the most special.

So, there we were on that night in 1962, playing with our newly acquired Meccano sets, chemistry kits, and Mattel products, when my Uncle Allan walked into the room and said to me, “Let’s take a little drive.”

I nodded. I always liked Uncle Allan. Within a family which often seemed to be locked into Jewish regimens, Uncle Allan --who married Auntie Rae—seemed to possess the key to a wider world. He knew things.

Uncle Allan told my parents, “I need to go somewhere for a few minutes, and Irwin is coming with me.” They nodded.

As we descended the flight of stairs from my grandparents’ apartment, my uncle shared with me, “I want to show you something.” We got into his car, and drove in silence, until we stopped in a brightly lit non-Jewish neighborhood known as Outremont, about five blocks away.

There were Christmas lights everywhere. My eyes popped at the spectacle. I had seen Christmas lights before—but usually around the houses of the non-Jewish families in our neighborhood.

“Look around, look everywhere.” said my uncle, who was fiercely proud of his Jewish identity.  “These are people who believe in God too. And just the way we are lighting candles on Chanukah, they are celebrating with their lights for Christmas.”

We sat in silence. And in those quiet moments, I began to understand that each of us, as human beings, is in search of answers. We are all in search of light.

A few minutes later, we merged back into the party, but somehow I felt a bit older, and wiser.

As our family grew so did our family gatherings. At one point we had so many grandchildren, that we ran out of Chanukah menorahs. My grandparents would drill six holes into potatoes so that the youngest could recite blessings over their own candles.

Over time, my table discussions with Uncle Allan evolved. We engaged in sometimes heated conversations about politics, the 60s, civil rights and the Vietnam War.

He would frequently chide my naiveté and challenge me from the right—often, as my brother would observe, baiting me.

But what my uncle was really trying to do is teach me is that life can include more than one perspective—about Judaism, about politics and even our interactions with people of other races, cultures and backgrounds.

One Sunday morning my uncle called me. “I could use some help at the store,” he said. “Are you available?”

A few hours later I was behind the cash register at his store, International News. Some called the store a bookstore, but for me the real activity occurred within the first 15 feet inside the front door.

I was tasked with stacking—on a series of narrow vertical shelves—Sunday papers from across the border, and around the world.  I became fascinated by the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Detroit Free Press, the Boston Globe, the Miami Herald—each wrapped in color comics.

During quiet moments, I would thumb through a few, and there began my lifelong love affair with newspapers.  All kinds of people would enter the store: Politicians, intellectuals, writers—and to my excitement, players from the Montreal Canadiens.

My newspaper passion continued, and a few years later I enrolled in the Carleton University School of Journalism. And, in part, I thank Uncle Allan for that. Then there was the time when Uncle Allan saved me from “high school humiliation.”

After I graduated from Jewish public school, since I was not a great Jewish student, it was agreed that I would attend a public high school.

As I sign of tolerance toward the Jewish population, the principal assigned me to two major jobs: Student Council Treasurer, and the one and only ad salesman for the high school yearbook.

As I went from business to business around my high school trying to sell ad space, I was repeatedly turned down. When I shared my frustration with Uncle Allan, he said, “Come with me.”

We went door to door—10 miles away from my school—to the local tavern, the convenience store, the gift shop, the florist, and even a car dealership. These were owned by neighbors who conducted business on that block.

“This is my nephew, Irwin,” said Uncle Allan.   “Buy an ad in his yearbook.” And within one hour, I sold out.  I learned from Uncle Allan, that life is not so much about what we sell, but rather the relationships and bonds we develop.

And when it became time for me to be ordained as a rabbi 14 years ago, Uncle Allan and Auntie Rae came down from Toronto to mark the occasion.

We encounter many people in life. Parents are there to raise you, so are grandparents.

But somewhere in between, are the aunts and uncles. You don’t spend as much time with them, but they are there to add tone to your life. Uncle Allan was such a life force. Two weeks ago, Uncle Allan passed away at 90.

I regret not visiting him more often in recent years, yet there we were at the shiva, reminiscing about those days and sharing Uncle Allan stories.

There were once eight aunts and uncles who sang, ate and celebrated under the crystal chandelier above my Bubbie’s and Zaidie’s dining room table. Now there are three.

A few days ago, in a Toronto hospital not far from Uncle Allan and Auntie Rae’s condo, Amara, the great granddaughter of Rivka and David Huberman, gave birth to a son. And so, the life of our family continues L’dor Vador.

This week’s Torah portion,Tetzaveh, describes how Aaron, the chief priest, maintained the first menorah.

And I am reminded, that our family menorah which started with Bubbie Rivka and Zaidie Duddy more than 100 years ago continues today, with their light now extending through countless grandchildren and great grandchildren.

Each of you shares a story similar to the Hubermans.

Each of us stands upon the shoulders of our parents, grandparents, and yes, aunts and uncles. Each has played a role in making us who we are.

This week, as we read the Torah’s accounts of those initial Jewish traditions, I will be thinking about my family’s Passover Seders past, the Chanukah potatoes, that crystal chandelier, and that little ride that helped teach me, perhaps, one of the most important lessons of all.

We are all children of Adam and Eve. We are all light.

Uncle Allan, you knew things.  Wherever and whenever your children, grandchildren, family or friends spoke, you listened and responded with an honest heart. You were present.

Thank you, Uncle Allan, for at times disagreeing with me, but above all, loving me.  That was your gift to me, and perhaps to all of us.

Thank you, especially, for being my uncle.

I will never forget.

Please rest in peace.

Shabbat Shalom, v'kol tuv. 

Rabbi Irwin Huberman.