Tribute from Rabbi Gershon Winkler

TRIBUTE TO AN OLD FRIEND

Rabbi Aryeh Hirschfield passed away last week. He was a dedicated
rebbe who served his community well, with heart and soul, with
mindfulness and cheer.

A long time ago, I remember a quiet moment with Aryeh. It was the
first time we’d met. He had invited me to Oregon to do a weekend
of teachings for his community. He looked me in the eye as we sat
together in the awkwardness that two men left alone often find
with one another. We could find nothing to share in the moment.
Not sports, not CNN, not Talmud, not Kabbalah. We were stone
silent, in what I call a male coma, just eyeing each other,
feeling good that we were sharing time together but clueless as
to what to do with that time. Women always have something to
discuss with one another and with men. Men are different. We are
not always in the discussion mode. In fact, we are rarely in the
discussion mode. We just want to exist, with as little thought as
possible. Kind of like a stone. It’s complicated, hard to explain.

Reb Aryeh finally broke the silence.

“This has been absolutely great,” he said.

“I agree,” I replied. At which point we both rose, shook hands,
hugged, slapped one another on the shoulders and parted ways. It
had been an amazing encounter, none like it. Other men would have
forced conversation, discussed questions of Torah or Jewish law
and lore, or asked what I thought of this or that or even the
other. Reb Aryeh?  He, like myself, was satisfied to have shared
common sofa space for fifty-two seconds without a word.

Well, almost.

As I approached the door, he called me back. “Gershon. You have
got to be kidding. You’re not really leaving, are you?”

“Of course I am. We’re done.”

“But you just got here! I’ve waited years to finally meet you!”

“Good. Wait another four hours and I will be speaking to your
congregation.”

“Come on, I was just joking when I said ‘this was absolutely great,’
I didn’t mean it as an ‘good-bye’ gesture.”

“Look,” I said, turning toward him while remaining in the doorway,
“we’re men. Let’s act like men. We have nothing to say to one
another. We are creatures of silence and introspection.”

Reb Aryeh looked at me completely puzzled. Then he walked over to
where I was standing, put his right hand on my bald head and
blessed me: “Thank God for you. You are crazier than the schmelves.”
The schmelves are Jewish elves. I made them up years ago and Reb
Aryeh was drawn to me because of the stories I made up about the
schmelves that I’d made up. He could care less about my knowledge
of Talmud, Tenakh, Midrash, Kabbalah, Halachah; all that intrigued
him about me was his fascination with my tales of schmelves.

He took me by the arm and ushered me back to the living room
here we sat down again and spoke for well over an hour. He shared
with me his concern for the dormant Jewish soul, as he called it,
still in hiding from millennia of trauma, afraid of emerging and
dancing in the sun light of newer and better times.  He spoke of
Rabbi Shim’on bar Yo’chai (2nd century) and his son Rabbi Eliezer,
who were forced into hiding during the Roman massacre of rabbis,
a decree issued by Caesar Adrianus Pluribus who realized that the
teachings of the rabbis were responsible for the anti-authority
sentiments and rebellious attitudes of the Jewish populace across
the length and breadth of the Roman Empire. These two rabbis hid,
buried themselves up to their necks in the sand of a cave in the
Galilee, and when the Caesar died and the decree was abolished,
they emerged from hiding but with a disdain for the world and
for anything worldly. Whatever they would cast their eyes at
would burst out in flames – so high and spiritual had they become
after more than a decade of seclusion. Then, a heavenly voice
rang out: “What!?  You come out of the cave to destroy My world?!
Return and get your act together.”  They returned to the cave
where they spent another year grounding themselves, debriefing
themselves from the harmful blend of trauma and spirituality
that had distorted their consciousness. When they re-emerged,
whatever they set their eyes on would heal or mend. Another
version of the story is that when they re-emerged, wherever
Rabbi Eliezer directed his eyes flames would burst forth as
before, but his father Rabbi Shim’on would then direct his eyes
at the catastrophe and it would be fixed. A perfect marriage of
past and present, of what had been and what could be.

“That’s where we’re at,” Reb Aryeh said, his eyes piercing with
so much passion I was afraid he would set the sofa on fire.
“We’re still trying to emerge from the cave of a tragic past,
but we are having difficulty with our vision of future. Everything
we look at bursts into flames, everything we try to renew and do
differently and better somehow melts before our eyes. We haven’t
succeeded in bringing out the fullness of our spirit, of the
Jewish Soul. We’re Jewishing with more joy and in a more user-
friendly way, but the soul of Judaism remains buried, hidden away
in the cave of our trauma. We are dancing again, but have forgotten
the music that goes WITH the dance.”

Reb Aryeh saw. He saw clearly and he lamented the plight of a
re-emerging Judaism as much as he celebrated it as well. Publicly
he brought joy, sang, joked, told stories, taught with lightness.
Privately, he hurt for what could be and wasn’t, for what could
happen and wasn’t happening.

Fare thee well, old friend. The schmelves, too, bid you adieu in
their very unique way. They hum your tunes at dusk every other
Wednesday in odd-number years, and every other Monday in even-
numbered years. As for me, I will never forget what you shared
with me on your sofa back when, and promise to do my part in
restoring for our people what was left buried in the caves of
our lengthy exile.

I’ll start next Tuesday.