On Ancestors

And choosing life

My mom died in October, and I still talk to her often. She shows up sitting at the kitchen table, walking on the sidewalk, propped on her elbow in bed, and she says, “Hey Dan, Danny boy,” using two nicknames for me that no one else on Earth who knows me well ever uses, and I feel seen in her loving gaze, the wholly irreplicable gaze of a mother, my mother, and, whatever’s going on in that moment, wherever I am, I feel a little less lonely.

My mom died, and I am still in mourning, still living within a shroud of grief, albeit one that’s not consistent, one that’s there and not there, which has the effect of leading me to feel tears well up at random pauses in Zoom meetings, for example, or while waiting on the subway platform. Sometimes it crashes against my torso like a wave, and sometimes it’s more like an animal in my blood thrashing to get out.

My mom died, and—now that it’s happened, it feels so obvious that it would be this way—though I miss her terribly, I understand that she has not gone, not completely. She has transformed and become an ancestor.

Ancestors of Living Torah

One of the great powers of the Jewish tradition is its balance of veneration of ancestors and appreciation for the complex—and often ugly—humanity of these same ancestors. The major arc of Bereishit/Genesis is the raw, wild saga of Abraham and Sarah and three generations of their descendants. These ancestors—Rebecca, Isaac, Jacob, Leah, Rachel, all their children—are so often possessed, traumatized, wicked, jealous, angry. They also grow and mature (sometimes), and so we are reminded that ancestors contain the multitudes of human highs and lows.

These ancestors are invoked again and again by the generations that come after them, and therein the Torah models for us what it means to hold those who passed in respect, to see them as teachers on our journeys.

The Talmud too is almost entirely the tale of ancestral communion, with rabbis separated by centuries engaging in dialogue as if seated at the same table. These conversations collapse time, creating a vast ancestral web where the dead remain active participants.

And yet, there can be a tendency to take the respect for ancestors too far, to mistake the insights of our ancestors for their time as answers for our time. Rather than companions, they become masters, their words strict boundaries rather than open and timeless wisdom.

We might do well to remember that there is an essential distinction between that which breathes and that which does not.

Choosing life

In the book of Devarim/Deuteronomy, we find the ancestor Moses summarizing and synthesizing the stories and laws of the Israelites. Not too far from the end, he famously says:

I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life—if you and your offspring would live—by loving your God יהוה, heeding God’s commands, and holding fast to [God]. For thereby you shall have life and shall long endure upon the soil that יהוה swore to your fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give to them.

It’s worth noting that the word for “soil” here, adamah, is the same one used in Bereishit/Genesis for the material used to create humans, shaped from the clay of adamah and imbued with life by the force of breath.

I believe there is a kind of surrender of life, of the magic and mystical power of breath, in orienting our efforts for a better world toward an imagined, glorious past. This is as egregious a mistake in Jewish life, as it is in American life. The unknown call of the future holds far more allure, far more promise, far more potential. We do ourselves a disservice when we worship the past rather than sanctify it, when we defer to ancestors rather than accept their help as they guide us. To be honest, I believe this to be more than merely disservice; it is a moral trap. Asserting that our cause is to return to that which already was can lead us to become blinded to the challenges and opportunities that make growth possible in a reality that unfolds ahead of us in awe and wonder.

What comfort there is in the unknown way of things, the essence of Tao, if we allow ourselves to rest in it.

My mom, the ancestor

My mother appears when I need her—even if I don’t know it—offers guidance I couldn't summon alone, and knows things about me that even I forget. She is as funny and biting and creative and brilliant in her ancestral form as she was in life.

There is so much unknown ahead in my own life, in the life of my communities, in the life of our country, in the life of our world. In this time of fear, anxiety, and moral crisis, I remind myself of this, and my mom reminds me too. She lets me know that I won’t be facing it alone. She also reminds me that even in these days when powerful, broken people attempt to bend reality to their will—or at least make the rest of us believe they’ve done so—they remain mortal specks of dust bound in uncertainty just like the rest of us.

“Oy guttenyu,” she says, “These schmucks all look like they have syphilis.”

And, it must be said, my mom was an excellent doctor.

Her memory is undoubtedly a blessing.

Cited or referenced and a recommendation:

1. If you’re interested in an excellent podcast full of wisdom for this moment through exploring the ancestor Miriam, check out this 5-part podcast series from R’ Jericho Vincent, produced by Judaism Unbound.

2. Devarim/Deuteronomy 30:19-20

3. Bereishit/Genesis 2:7