blogs/rabbi-huberman

About three weeks ago, I turned 72. No Mazal Tovs or cards are necessary, but the significance of this particular birthday occurred to me sometime during the day.

Seventy-two—four times Chai.

As Jews, we habitually assign significance to events or passages of time. We look for meaning in numbers, benchmarks and special moments.

Time is just time. But for some reason, turning 72 caught me by surprise, as I considered the four lives I have lived.

I don’t believe that you are that different.

My first Chai was as a child, turned youth. It was about fun and learning the laws of relationships. It was about looking up to my parents and others who I wanted to emulate -- Bob Dylan, Moshe Dayan, Sandy Koufax and my favorite hockey player, Bobby Rousseau.

My second 18, focused on learning a trade—journalism. Eventually, I moved to northwestern Canada where I ultimately launched a newspaper.

There, I began to perceive what my role was on this earth: To tell stories, to simplify what appears to be out of reach.

I made mistakes. I learned humility. But every error, every failure, developed within me spiritual antibodies that prepared me for my third life. 

During my third Chai, I created life and raised a blended family. I deepened my understanding of love. Hopefully, I became more selfless.

I worked in government, taking pride in serving people and stewarding the environment.

And in my fourth Chai, Patte and I moved to the United States, became a rabbi and moved to Glen Cove, where I have served Congregation Tifereth Israel for 18 years.

Three weeks ago, on my birthday, I took a few moments to ponder what my next life may look like.

Now in our early 70s, Patte and I are beginning to experience the weight of lives lived. Many conversations now center upon health, children and grandchildren.

What will our 70s and 80s hold? What can we control, and what is in the hands of God, body and soul?

Like many of you, I am beginning to realize that time is limited.

In the words of Joni Mitchell, “We’re captives on a carousel of time.” Yet, I am neither sad nor afraid.

As I drive to the synagogue each morning, I notice the joggers, the dog walkers and the landscapers as they begin their day; it feels consistent and comforting.

As I observe them, I ask myself—what will my routines be during this next life phase?

Will I become cynical, or will I look at each day with excitement, embracing the potential which awaits?

Will I wake up to the same boring news, pointing fingers at others? Or will I mouth “good morning” as the dog walker passes in front of my car? Will I greet everyone with -- as the Talmud instructs—a “cheerful countenance?”

Can I play a role in beginning someone else’s day with optimism?

Will I call or Zoom someone whom I haven’t spoken with in a while, or will I continue to let regrets take up soul place? 

The passage of time rises to the forefront in this week’s Torah portion. As the children of Israel prepare to cross the Jordan River after 40 years in the desert, they will do so without Moses.

As we close the fourth book of the Torah—Bamidbar (Wilderness)—Moses gathers the people and reflects upon the previous 40 years.

They have made 42 stops along the way from Egypt to the Promised Land. There have been births, deaths, marriages, challenges and celebrations.

Under the desert stars, there have been times of reflection and times of miracles.

Are we that different today? As we look back, let us consider our own encampments along the way. For everything we have experienced and endured has led us to this point in time.

Our first day at school. Our first real friend. The first time our feelings were hurt. Joys and sorrows. Relationships—both the ones that endure and those that have ended but taught us.

Our first job. A change in career. The first place we lived. The old neighborhood. The one where we live now. The losses we have suffered and the births we have celebrated.

Judaism believes life is a Sulam—a ladder. It tells us not to rest upon one rung but rather encourages us to continue the climb through new experiences, new relationships, new opportunities.

And that often means taking risks—or accepting the hand we have been dealt.

As the fourth book of the Torah comes to an end—we ask ourselves -- as Moses encouraged the Israelites to consider 3,000 years ago—“How far have we come—and what unknown river are we about to cross?”

Whether you are in your first 18 years, your second Chai, a third or a fourth, every phase possesses beauty and potential. The great Sage, Maimonides, once asked, “When is it that we actually stop learning?” His answer: “The last day of our lives.”

So, as we complete this book of the Torah, reflect with Moses and consider the past, let us be inspired to double down on the future.

Countless possibilities, experiences and lessons await us.  For no one is finished learning.

As I enter a new Chai, I think about lives growing and lives lost this past year And I am excited about what the future holds, as so should each of us.

Happiness and optimism are attitudes. Children and grandchildren open our hearts to a new level of joy and love; they also remind us that the future and its potential are infinite

For although our time is limited, our possibilities are endless  What new opportunity awaits us today and tomorrow?

Let us cherish today and lives yet to be lived.

Ah, Life. What a blessing. How fortunate we are to live ours.

Shabbat shalom, v’kol tuv.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman