Rabbi Janet Marder

October 5, 2007

Mountain Man

Over the fireplace in our family room hangs a painting of the Grand Tetons, just south of Yellowstone in northwestern Wyoming . The Tetons rise more than 10,000 feet above sea level; some call them the most majestic range in North America . Their peaks are golden in this view, ringed with a collar of evergreens, reflected below in a still glacial lake.

I love to look at the painting, though it's not a great piece of art. It's a gift from my parents, and it always makes me think of them. My dad, who turned 78 years old last month, still climbs mountains; my mom has gamely trudged along on many hikes in the eastern Sierras, where our family gets together every summer. We go there because of my dad, because he loves to be in the great outdoors  -- he’s a lawyer who once studied to be a forest ranger.

It was our dad who introduced us to the mountains, taking us on five-day trips to the High Sierra camps, sometimes with pack mules, sometimes carrying our stuff on our backs. We walked through flower-filled alpine meadows, learned how to make chili mac in a bucket, and discovered that we could live without indoor plumbing. We sat around smoky campfires on cold nights and listened to him play his harmonica. Just before bed he’d take a sip from a small flask of whisky he brought along just for these occasions, to help him sleep in the high altitudes.

My dad doesn’t say much – he never has.  When he does talk, his voice is quiet – you have to listen hard to make out what he’s saying. It’s surprising how much I’ve learned from a man of so few words.  I’ve learned to appreciate the stillness of open spaces, where you get away from noise pollution and light pollution and smog and can breathe clean air and think good thoughts.  I’ve learned the names of some flowers and birds and lakes and rocks. I’ve learned to carry the load I’ve been given to carry. I’ve learned to keep walking, even when it’s all uphill and you’re really tired.

My father’s teachings are as solid and sturdy as granite. I’ve asked his advice about lots of things, from politics to real estate to taxes and contracts, but I can’t think of a single time when he’s given me moral guidance. And yet I always learned about the right thing to do, just from watching him.

He’s modest and unpretentious, never self-promoting. He follows through and keeps his promises. He’s scrupulously honest in financial matters. He works hard and conscientiously and always does his best. He’s generous and charitable in the most understated way. He has a dry and gentle wit. He never uses profanity. He’s loyal to his friends, some of whom he’s had since junior high school. He loves his family. He was a good son, both to his own parents and to his mother and father-in-law. 

All of his six children grew up knowing that other people respect our dad a lot. His colleagues, his clients, his friends – everyone looks up to him and trusts his counsel. All through my childhood, I can remember my grandmother, my mother’s mother, saying: “Your father is the finest man I know.”  It was because of him that I knew the kind of man I wanted to marry.

It was my dad who cared most about Judaism in our family. He’s never said very much about his reasons. But it was important to him that our family always belong to a synagogue – and my parents still participate in theirs, long after all their kids are grown and gone. It mattered a lot to my dad that we receive a Jewish education, that we celebrate the holidays and go to services, that we never, no matter how much we begged, have a Christmas tree or Christmas lights on our house.

Even today, when there are two rabbis in the family, my father leads the Passover Seder when we all get together. He is not the only reason – my mother and grandmother were powerful influences, as well -- but he is an important reason that my parents today have 11 Jewish grandchildren.

Parents have many crucial roles to play in the lives of their children.

They provide for their kids, and help them feel safe and secure in the world. They help them feel valued and loved. They set standards, define expectations, teach life skills and lessons about respect and honor and hard work. Jewish parents have another crucial role to play – and it’s one that may be especially hard for fathers. It’s what we might call the job of spiritually nurturing our sons and daughters.  

Here’s what some women told Dr. Wendy Mogel in a Jewish parenting class she leads:

“My husband Walter saw his family’s suburban temple scene of the late 1950s and 60s as shallow, primarily social, and not at all spiritual. It ruined Judaism for him. Now he stays at the office late on Friday evenings even though he knows how much I would like to have a Shabbat dinner with our children.

“When I first met my husband, Howard, he told me he had been raised in an Orthodox home and described how he hated it…..Howard felt that Judaism was oppressive, that it was rammed down his throat. He associates it with narrow-mindedness and a ghetto mentality. He can’t imagine depriving our kids of Friday night sleepovers for the sake of a Shabbat dinner, or voluntarily going to synagogue to pray.

“Because my husband never went to Sunday school, he doesn’t have any religious skills. Larry is rarely in situations where he’s a clumsy beginner, and I think he feels self-conscious about what he doesn’t know…..prayers in Hebrew, the format of the synagogue service, even the songs. The children are better at the routine than he is. It’s awkward for him at services. He stands at the back and shuffles his feet. He can’t wait to go home.”

Blythe, who converted to Judaism when she married Nathan, said this:

“My husband is against my taking Judaism seriously, and trying to make a Jewish home for our children. He sees going to synagogue as another obligation, another place to drive in our overly busy lives. He complains, ‘I married a beautiful shiksa, and you’re turning into my grandmother’.”

Just the phrase “spiritual nurturing” probably makes a lot of dads uncomfortable. It sounds fuzzy, mystical, wimpy – not like the kind of thing a man would do. All it really means is sharing your knowledge, values and beliefs with your kids – helping them to grow up with a strong set of principles and commitments.

According to halacha, Jewish identity is passed on through the mother, and for that reason you might think our tradition sees mothers, who do more of the childcare, as most responsible for creating a Jewish home and Jewish children. In fact, the Talmud envisions fathers as the primary teachers of their children, including young children. [Kiddushin 29a; Rambam, Hilkhot Talmud Torah 1; See also Megillah 20a;Chagigah 1:7; Rashi Avot 5:21].

 Mothers are seen as an important source of mitzvot and ethics, but fathers are the ones who are supposed to teach a three year old to say the Sh’ma, or a five year old to sing Hamotzi, or a seven year old to know the Hebrew letters. Fathers are supposed to read Bible stories and discuss the Torah portion each Shabbat with their children as a way of inculcating Jewish values and beliefs. Fathers are supposed to teach their 13 year olds how to put on a tallit, and continue to learn with them as they grow into their teens.

Fathers, in our tradition, bless their children each Friday night, in a ritual that involves six essential elements: touch, the spoken word, placing a high value on the child, envisioning a positive future for the child, linking the child to our Jewish past, and demonstrating an openness to God’s role in the child’s life.

What I’m talking about is not just a series of mechanical rituals. It’s character formation. It’s the deepest, most important kind of teaching a parent can do. It’s the sacred work of passing on our heritage and building the inner strength of the next Jewish generation.

Nowadays, of course, liberal Jews include mothers fully in our vision of family learning. And that’s wonderful…..but it’s not enough. I speak tonight as a daughter, a wife and a sister of men I love and admire. Think about what’s lost when fathers withdraw from the role of spiritually nurturing their children – when they hand this critical task over to mothers alone, or worse, entrust it entirely to professionals in religious school and Hebrew school.

The transmission of Judaism is based on a brilliant idea from the Torah: matters of ultimate importance are conveyed to children with love by the most important people in their life. The Judaism that children receive from parents and grandparents is imbued with the love and respect they have for the people who gave it to them.  Fathers who don’t nurture their kids spiritually never activate this powerful dynamic.

Why are so many dads uncomfortable taking on this role? Part of it, I’m sure, is just lack of time. When you’re out working hard, spending long hours to support your family and build a career, sometimes the kids just end up spending more time with their mom. But you lose a lot when you no longer see yourself as spiritual nurturer of your children, and when they no longer see you as someone they look to for meaningful guidance and support.

One poll I saw said that 70% of teenagers have daily conversations with their mother about an important issue in their lives; just 53% said they have those conversations with their dad. That means that an awful lot of dads are out of touch with what’s really going on with their kids.

That lack of closeness carries over past the teen years, too. Many adults talk regularly to their mother about what’s happening in their life; often, dad is the one who answers the phone, and after a moment of perfunctory chit-chat, hands the phone over to mom.

When your life is incredibly busy, deciding that you want to provide spiritual nurturing for your children means a shift in priorities. It means that you decide to value people over things, spending less time with your computer, television, car, boat or newspaper.  It means you sit down with your wife or partner and talk about how you can work together to create a rich Jewish home environment for your kids.

It also means that you think carefully about the negative baggage you may be carrying around, and ask yourself whether you really want to pass that on to your children. Maybe Judaism was transmitted to you in a painful, boring, shallow or oppressive way. Maybe your own growing up left you without good, rich Jewish family memories. That doesn’t mean your kids can’t experience Judaism in a joyful, positive and loving way.

Maybe, despite your college or graduate degree, you’re still harboring a third-graders’ view of God and prayer, and the whole idea strikes you as ridiculous. You don’t need to bequeath cynicism and ridicule to your children. For their sake, maybe it’s time to dig a little deeper, learn a little more, and figure out what you really can believe and affirm.

Maybe you don’t feel you know enough to be a good teacher to your children. Find something Jewish that you love to do, and share it with your kids with a smile. You can learn the skills and the stories and the history, and I promise you your kids will enjoy learning them more from you than from any religious school teacher. But in one area you’re already an expert: you can teach your kids about yourself: who you are, how your beliefs have changed over time, the principles that guide your life, why being Jewish matters to you.

A special word to non-Jewish fathers who are raising your kids as Jews. The fact that you’re here tonight shows that you take that responsibility seriously – and I can never tell you often enough how much I honor and thank you for the gift you’ve given to the Jewish people. You nurture your kids spiritually in powerful ways: through the active support you give to your spouse in making a Jewish home, by showing your own respect for Jewish practice, by sharing your personal ethics and values with your kids, by cultivating a sense of God in their life.

A father who spiritually nurtures his children doesn’t necessarily stand around giving religious lectures at the drop of a hat. In fact, I’d advise against that. But if you think the sunset is amazing, let your kids know that. And if you’re blown away by looking at the stars, or by how the human body works, or by the structure of DNA, make sure your kids know that about you. If you care about social justice, don’t just write a check or gripe about what’s in the news; find a way to share the mitzvah of tikkun olam with your family.

And even if you’re full of questions and doubts, think about ways to open up a conversation with your kids about what you think about things that matter – and listen to what they have to say, as well. It’s ok if they disagree with you – at least they know what you stand for. A strong father provides a firm foundation for them to push off against as they launch themselves into their own lives. It’s pretty amazing, when you think about it: you are the Rock of Gibraltar in your son or daughter’s world.

Which brings me back to my own foundation, and the rock on which I’ve always stood. And so I conclude as I began, back in our family room, with a view of the Grand Tetons, majestic and golden, cresting thousands of feet in the air. Ancient and beautiful mountains that speak to me of my father: the power of his teachings, the granite firmness of his integrity, the quiet strength of his love.

Someday, I know, my dad won’t be climbing mountains anymore.

But the loss of his physical strength won’t matter a bit to his children. Our respect has nothing to do with that. For us, you see, he is the mountain. And he always will be.