As many of you out there are reading
After Anatevka, you might be surprised to know that one of the leading questions I get is whether or not Rabbi Syme (Perchik's teacher and advocate) is based on a real person. The answer: of course he is. Rabbi Syme was indeed so influential, that I felt he had to be memorialized in
After Anatevka for he was my first
spiritual advocate.
Fictional Rabbi Syme is based very loosely upon the real-life Rabbi Syme—loosely because my description in the novel is not so much a literal, but more of an evocative recollection and honoring of his influence. Real-life Rabbi Syme and I only spent a collection of minutes together in 2001, but they were crucial minutes. He gave me the gift of delivering the eulogy at my father's funeral service, as well as bearing witness to it when he lead the funeral service, and above all, he gave me an hour of his time months later, reminding me of what was eternal, and chartering a map toward the beauty, strength and individuality my faith. Irreplaceable gifts one can never forget.
The influence of Rabbi Syme proves another true-to-life maxim: that we never know the depth of the influence we have upon one another. A fleeting moment to one, might bear a lifetime of profundity to another, for better and for worse. So it is in these tiny actions that we must recognize that our influence on earth is vast, has meaning, and should never be taken for granted.
I include this story from my memory (also included in my upcoming memoir) in today's post because the prayer Rabbi Syme references, the
Shema' Koleinu, is not only a prayer that is part of the
Amidah (the core of every worship service), but especially significant on the High Holy Days, which are currently upon us.
L'Shana Tova, one and all. May your new years be filled with positive influence that you both give and receive. Here's to a brighter and more peaceful world.
*
Two months after the funeral I went to see Rabbi Syme.
In the Jewish community, a rabbi is viewed as more than just a life cycle overseer, administrator, Bible reciter, or spiritual leader; but also as a counselor, a true community role model, and above all, an educator. The word
Rabbi, in fact, translates as “teacher." At the time I’d be willing to admit that I required all of the above from good ol’ Rabbi Syme, a man I’d known for approximately 2 hours. I walked into Temple Bel El ready to order up the “super size me” platter of spiritual needs. Plus, I felt inexplicably close to him, compelled beyond logic to spend time in the company of the sweet, wise man who had, in such a brief collection of minutes, given me the ultimate gift—the eulogy. He had been the cartographer of the map that chartered the rest of my life.
By the time I got to his office at Temple Beth El I realized, of course, that I barely knew him, and was suddenly embarrassed at my presence there. I knew so little of Judaism, had (unjustly) railed so harshly against it for, up until then, I had only ever associated it with my horrible grandparents. Still, I entered and sat across from him. Two almost-strangers in two tiny chairs.
“So. How are you doing?”
What was I supposed to say?
“Fine, thank you Rabbi.”
I wanted to tell him about everything.
“How is your family?”
Well well well, Rabbi Syme this is all getting a bit personal! I usually wait ’til the third date to list my favorite Mandy Patinkin roles in order of sexiness, craziness, intensity, beard length, let alone discuss my batshit-bonkers family, but I suppose I can make an exception. How. To. Respond. How
can a person respond when “
One time, grandma kidnapped me” is, say, the
sixth most dysfunctional story?
“I… don’t really know.”
Rabbi Syme sat up in his chair and nodded.
“I sensed as much. They were… unusual.”
Rabbi Syme’s Spidey-skills:
for the win.
We talked for a long while that day, Rabbi Syme and I, or at least what felt like it. It was an odd discovery, but Rabbi Syme was more than my first spiritual advisor, in many ways he was the first adult who, even in the mere three hours clocked together, was more interested in my cultivation of wisdom than of knowledge. I knew that the word Rabbi translated as “teacher” in Hebrew, but this exceeded reciting the periodic table. Knowledge is information—a collection of facts. Wisdom is the poetry inside those facts. Wisdom relies on evocation more than description. It is the difference between two photographs: one that looks exactly the way it looked in the moment, the other that looks exactly the way it felt. Memory through a lens.
“Do you know the
Shema' Koleinu” he asked, as if I actually might?
“Rabbi, I wasn’t invited to the Bar Mitzvahs
or the quinceañeras if you catch my drift.”
“I ...do not.”
“I’m kind of a
Cashew.” He stared at me blankly. “A Catholic-Jew? An interfaith secularization situation?”
“That’s very clever.”
“Thank you.” I continued, nervously, “Well technically I was invited to both the Steinman kids parties and for what it’s worth I played Golde in
Fiddler sophomore year of high school—”
“I—” he stopped me, kind but swift, “I understand.”
He went on.
“The
Shema' Koleinu is the sixteenth paragraph of a central prayer of Judaism, called the
Amidah, which is the core of every Jewish worship service.
It reads:
אָב הָרַחֲמָן, שְׁמַע קולֵנוּ, ה' אֱלהֵינוּ, חוּס וְרַחֵם עָלֵינו, וְקַבֵּל בְּרַחֲמִים וּבְרָצון אֶת ‘תְּפִלָּתֵנוּ, כִּי אֵל שׁומֵעַ תְּפִלּות וְתַחֲנוּנִים אָתָּה, וּמִלְּפָנֶיךָ מַלְכֵּנוּ. רֵיקָם אַל תְּשִׁיבֵנוּ.
"
Hear our voice, O Lord our God; spare us and have mercy upon us, and accept our prayer in mercy and favor.”
Hear Our Voice is the essence of this prayer—and I sense that your voice has always been heard, both of the spoken and the sung variety. The eulogy proves that.”
“Really?” I replied, not entirely understanding where he was leading me, all I knew was that I was willing to follow.
“Well I believe so. What do you think?”
No one had ever asked me anything remotely like this, and I grew hot and uneasy fearing I would offend him, or say the wrong thing.
“I really don’t know how to respond.”
“There is no right or wrong here, Alexandra,” the Rabbi pacified, “it’s just a simple question. One of the beauties of Judaism is this ancient tradition of the dialogic process. Of discussion! Jews recognizing that understanding comes from meaningful exchanges, from challenges, not only with one another but with God Himself.”
“Oh! Like in
Fiddler how Tevye has a kind of dialogue with God!”
“Exactly like that. God and Tevye have a very personal relationship.”
“I really like that.”
“So do I,” he smiled. “So? What do you think of ‘Hear Our Voice?’”
“We all… want to be heard.”
“Yes.”
“And we all struggle to listen?”
“I think so.” He leaned in. “Hear Our Voice is a very simple request, but it indicates that we want to engage beyond ourselves. It acknowledges the desire to be heard, and the
validity of that desire.”
“Wow,” I gasped. The thought took my breath away.
“That’s why you are here today, isn’t it? To be heard?”
It certainly was. I nodded.
He continued.
“The prayer continues a few lines on: ‘
Renew our days, as of old.’ Almost as if the speaker is a little skeptical: Alexandra, do you think it is possible to recover the days of the past? And I’m not saying it isn’t.”
“No but…” And then I saw.
If prayers were only knowledge, prayers would fail. As wisdom, the prayer was true as anything. My father was dead. That was the fact. But the poetry of that fact could continue for the rest of my life if I turned these days of pain into lessons. Yes, the past indeed is truly “passed,” it is unrecoverable, and none of us can truly live there. But the wisdom gained by reflection upon that past is why we are alive. To make meaning. To understand better. I looked at Rabbi Syme and said as much.
“Do you believe, Alexandra?”
“I believe you.”
I did—it wasn’t an evasion.
“You know what I’m asking.”
“I do. I can’t believe I’m saying it but I do. I believe in something.”
“Well, good. ‘Something’ is possibility. ‘Something’ is something.”
I thanked Rabbi Syme and left him that day, never to see him in person again. But his impact would be ever-with me, his name etched upon my heart, and, forever synonymous with integrity.
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