Rabbi Chaya Gusfield

Rabbi Chaya Gusfield, Jewish Renewal, rabbi, spiritual director, chaplain

Chaplain Reflections


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Music/prayer, Prayer, Reflections on Love, Torah/Life Writings
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The Crying Rabbi (Inspired by the Torah portion Vayetzei)

 

This was a first. When I lead services or speak publicly, I have been known to tear up, have my voice crack, take a minute, and authentically show up to the moment, to the place. At this Friday night Shabbat service it was very different.

We were exploring the Torah where Jacob experienced a moment of awe directly from his dream vision.  In his dream he received blessings from God and saw angels going up and down from earth to heaven. There were words like “stairway”, “awe”, “God’s house” and “gateway to heaven” in just a few sentences.  The word, הַמָּקוֹם  HaMakom, which literally means The Place, and is also understood as a name for God, was found numerous times throughout the reading.

Jacob awakens with awe in his heart and says, “There was sacredness here and I didn’t even know it!” And then he says מַה-נּוֹרָא, הַמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה Ma nora hamakom hazeh, “How awesome is this place!” We wondered together why Jacob was given such a profound vision and blessings, and why we are called Israelites, as descendants of Jacob who later becomes Israel. I mean, he wasn’t such a great guy-stealing blessings from his brother Esau, lying to his father, running away from Esau who wanted to kill him, and more.

According to Rabbi Jonathan Saks, one possibility we are called Israelites is because at the time of his dream vision Jacob was alone, scared and away from home. He wasn’t in a good place. And yet, he awoke to the consciousness that God was present. He felt God accompanying him and offering him blessings.  Even in our worst days, even in the days of despair and hopelessness, we are invited to know we are never truly alone.  This is what we learned from Jacob’s experience, and why we are his descendants. Maybe, this is what it means to be a Jew.

This Shabbat was unique. We could feel the impact of Jacob’s dream in the room.  We experienced the sense that we are never alone. That’s what it means to be a Jew, an Israelite.  I could have cried, but I didn’t. Not yet.

The heart was open. The love in the room was strong.  The community was feeling it. And we sang, “MA NORA HAMAKOM HAZEH”, How awesome is THIS place!  If we could have, we would have sang and danced for 10 minutes.  But we had healing blessings to offer and people to remember who had died.

I sent healing to a young child I knew recovering from serious surgery. We sent love to friends we knew with COVID, ALS, Parkinsons, a broken rib, dementia, extensive dental work, etc.  And we remembered our loved ones who had died.

During this time I was surprised to learn about the death of a beloved teacher I hadn’t seen in 40 years.*  While holding space for others, the tears unexpectantly began to flow and flow and flow.  The gates opened to memory and grief.  The tears sang their songs of love and transformation. There was no stopping them. The heart remembered a 25-year-old learning and growing, passionate and creative, finding her way, guided by this teacher. Now he is in a new Place, finding his way.

I hadn’t known how much he had meant to me. I certainly would not have expected such a strong response to this news while I was leading a congregation. Normally I would have been able to stay focused and save my bigger tears for another time.  But, like Jacob’s encounter, I was surprised to be swimming with the Sacred. This time, with Sacred Memory.

Even though it was awkward to have such big public emotion while leading a service, the surprise was in fact a blessing, held by a Sacredness beyond time and beyond words.  The congregation was so supportive. I came to feel, very personally, “How Awesome is this Place!”

מַה-נּוֹרָא, הַמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה

*Peter Gabel, Zichrono livracha, may his memory be a blessing.

 


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Reflections on Love
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Who Will Live and Who Will Die?

No matter how many people I have accompanied or witnessed or just heard about who have died, I am always surprised at the great impact hearing of their death has on Life itself. The bucket, or pot, or cloud, or breath of grief we carry from past losses, from fear of future losses, from losses other than the loss of human life, is touched.  The earth shifts, the birds sing differently, and dreams change. Colors dim or brighten, sounds come into focus.

Food tastes different even with the death of people I didn’t know well, but impacted my life.  Like a kind Jewish lesbian writer extraordinaire*, and an attorney I worked with in my youth for whose passion and craft freed prisoners unjustly convicted of crimes.** And then there is the 102 year old woman who hosted a cheese and wine gathering days before her death. She changed lives with her love pouring all over you, so you couldn’t help but love yourself.***

We ask big questions at High Holy days, “Who will live and who will die, and how?” “Who by cancer, who by suicide, who by fire? Who by racism and who by negligence?” Other questions are arising, “Who will I lose as family and/or whose family will I join?”  “How will I be surprised?” And “Am I willing to accept the change?” “What part of myself is forever changed this year?” ”What part of the earth will survive and what part of our precious earth must we mourn?” “Can I hear the wail of God?” “Do I join their weeping?”

For now, my queries and responses are coming through my art, and less through words, so I share some with you.

*Elana Dykewomon (Oakland)

**Dennis Riordan (San Francisco)

***Lizie Goldwasser (Champaign, Ill.)

May their memories be a blessing

 

 

 


Filed Under: Cancer Reflections, Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing
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I Forgot to Breathe

 

I saw a gorgeous man at the café. He might have been 23.  I forgot I was 66 years old.

I also forgot I was a lesbian.

Oh, and that I was married.

I forgot when I run, my back can hurt for days, and sometimes my hips give in.  In my heart, I am skipping and running with the wind, the sky, the song.

I forgot how much my heart was holding, even before I went to work in the hospital every day.  I never forgot my beloved was being treated for a terminal illness.   I forgot to cry about the toll it took on my spirit, until I wasn’t holding the hands and comforting patients anymore.

I forgot I will need my beautiful baby as I age, to feed and dress me.

I forgot how much I crave the quiet and endless time without interruptions.

I forgot how much I miss you when I am alone.

I forgot to breathe. It might lead to crying, and then lead to wailing, which could lead to despair.

I forgot I can handle despair.

I forgot to listen to the trees and the plants.  I forgot their language.

I forgot a longer life means I might start to forget; turning off the stove, the names of people we know, and I can’t remember what else.

I forgot my password to my password file.

I forgot I have grey hair and my skin hangs.  I feel like I am 20. Ok, maybe 35.

I forgot I never really had that boyfriend I always knew I would marry.

I forgot the name of my hamster and turtle I loved as a child.

I forgot how to live without parents.

I forgot to breathe.

 


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Prayer, Reflections on Love, Spiritual Direction
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We Can Dance

We can’t always be brave, but we can get out of bed in the morning, even when the demons of the night have held us captive in clammy moments of terror. When sleep is a foreign concept.

We can find reasons to live when our mind screams otherwise.  Yes, this is brave.

We can sit with another as they face the end of their life with regrets, grieve their unrealized dreams, and cherish their memories.

Without words, we can gently hold the hand of the young mother about to lose her child. Our hands touching, being the strength allowing her to be present for one more moment.  Yes, this is brave.

We can’t always be brave.

We can go to the street where a fire has devastated homes, and bless the survivors with words spilling out from the throat, from the heart, from the precious sanctuary of this moment.  Only this moment. Yes, this is brave.

We can’t always be brave, but we can sigh deeply as we slowly breathe our way into forgiveness, even when bitterness and anger feel more comfortable.

We can love with the music of the wind on our faces, and create a new life when climate change is burning, wars exploding, and the future uncertain. Yes, this is brave.

We can’t always be brave, but we can speak the truth about injustice when doing so is bigger than our own safety.

We can continue to breathe, go to the grocery store, eat a meal, and get dressed when our hearts are broken and shattered.  Shattered and broken.  Yes, this is brave.

We can’t always be brave, but we can cry out for a witness, for accompaniment on the journey of despair. We can take the hand offered. And hold on.

We can sway, moan, groan, wail.  We can sing.  Yes, this is brave. All of it.

We can’t always be brave, but we can dance.


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Healing
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Our Many Names

The encounter invites a new name.

A silent name whispered during a sacred moment never to be announced.

Some will no longer know your name.

You will forget your own name, only to call to your soul for another.

And another.

The one who cries.

The one who never cries.

The dancer, the healer, the mourner.

There is also the shy one leaning into the quiet spaces of the day.

The mother emerges and soothes the heartbreak, feeds and washes her beloveds. Carefully.

We go by many names, the private ones and the ones we announce proudly to all.

 

When no-one remembers your names, you will join the Nameless. Becoming one with them all.

 


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Kaddish Musings, Prayer, Reflections on Love, Torah/Life Writings, Writings on Suicide
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Celebrating Rabbinic Ordination

This is the drash (sermon) I gave at my rabbinic ordination in January, 2006.  It is still relevant today. As I celebrate my 16th year as a rabbi, I share this with you.  The Torah portions mentioned were read in synagogues during the prior two weeks during 2021/5782.

In this week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, Jacob blesses his son Joseph, by giving Joseph’s sons Maneshe and Ephraim a blessing.  He says “y’varech et hana’arim v’yikare b’hem shmi v’shem avotai avraham v’yitzchak .” (Genesis 48:16)  “Bless the young ones, may MY name be called through them and in the name of my forefathers Abraham and Isaac”

Simply stated, “May the memories of the ancestors be upon them as a blessing.”

We also see in Shmot, next week’s parashah, God says to Moses, “Ze shmi l’olam, v’zeh zichri l’dor dor.”(Exodus 3:15)   “This shall be My name forever.  This is my memorial from generation to generation.”

Once again, the name is used for a blessing.

In our tradition, we say of loved ones who have died, “Zichronam livracha” “May their memory be a blessing.”

Sometimes we say, “alav or aleha shalom”…May peace be upon him or her.

This is one of our most precious meditation practices.  When we mention the dead and stop to say zichrono livracha, or aleha shalom, we have the opportunity to continue our conversations with them, to receive blessing, and to offer them blessing, through the process of remembering them.

One day, I received an unexpected call from someone I didn’t know from New York who was trying to reach someone else at Kehilla Community Synagogue and stumbled upon my name and number in the process.  She told me that she knew my family from when I was a child.  My whole family.  And then she said, “I knew your sister Julie, zichrona livracha.” She said that they were the same age.  It made me stop.  The fact that she said her name and then followed it by zichrona livracha took my breath away.  I don’t believe I had ever heard anyone say Julie’s name with that blessing before.  I asked myself, what was the blessing that I was suppose to receive by remembering her in this moment?  I thought about it for many days.  What is the blessing?  My sister died a tragic death and for most of my life remembering her did not always feel like a blessing.  It was a difficult memory.  It brought great pain and suffering to our family.

I suspect that there may be people in your families who have died for whom remembering them wouldn’t always feel like a blessing.  And yet, our tradition asks us to remember them as a blessing EVERY TIME we mention their name.  Is this a mean trick–a way to ignore reality?  I believe it offers us an opportunity.  An opportunity for healing.

Reb Marcia invites us to see a bracha (a blessing) as the process of humbling ourselves by bending the knees (birkayim), reaching into the pool (breycha) and  experiencing the fountain of blessings as ENDLESS POSSIBILITIES.

Zichrona livracha –“may her memory be for endless possibilities”.  Whether you are the survivor of someone who experienced a tragic death, whether you have only difficult feelings about the person who died, or whether all you can remember are sweet moments, by saying zichrono livracha, we open the door to endless possibilities.  To anger, radical amazement, deep grief, a softening of the belly, the warmth of our heart, deep humility.  The key is that there are endless possibilities…The door is open to those who have died, and to our own healing process.

“Zecher tzaddik livrecha l’chayei haolam haba” “Remember this good person for a blessing for life in the world to come.”  By saying this expression when we remember someone who has departed, we send blessings to them-endless possibilities-in the world they inhabit.

We come together today in sacred community, a day filled with many brachot, many blessings.  A day that offers us endless possibilities from the deep pool of blessing.

Please join me in dipping into that pool by bringing into your heart and mind someone in your life who has died, to remember them for a blessing of endless possibilities.

The door is open to continue your conversation with them.  We may think we know what this conversation should be, but just for today, just for today, allow the conversation to arise on its own-in the quiet and sacredness of this community.

Zecher tzaddik livracha   —  May their memories bless our lives….

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Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Prayer, Reflections on Love
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This Poem Was Always by My Side (revised, October 1, 2021)

I.

The dead. The alive. And those in between.

They are always with us.  They always have been.  They always will be.

Whether they are invited or not, we hear the hum of their unmistakable presence.

As we learn how to talk about the unspeakable, and when we fail miserably.

By our side, sitting on our shoulders, they comfort us during the nightmare, and whisper reminders of caution when memory is clouded by rage.

They carefully place breadcrumbs for us to follow when we are seeking a path to travel.

We feel them smile when we arrive home.

Our parents. All of them.

Ex-lovers who died before we could become family.

Future lovers, waiting in the wings.

Childhood friends, and even those we had hoped would play with us on the playground, but never did.

Babies we didn’t plan for who never came to be, babies yet to be born, and those who only dreamt of their birthday.

The dead, those alive, and those in liminal spaces, are always with us.

We dance with the memories of those we have yet to meet, woven into our moving hips.

II.

We wail with the ancestors we never knew. Some fled their homeland of Poland leaving families in lost graves. Never to return.

We journey to find them, behind locked Jewish cemetery gates crafted in the shape of menorahs.  The cemetery is so large, one wonders how they were ever lost.

We celebrate with the grandson of a distant cousin becoming a bar mitzvah. In Argentina. During a pandemic. Masked on Zoom.

We have known these prayers and melodies for many lifetimes.  They fill our eyes with life and heal wounds we didn’t know we had. They touch places that have no words.

We love a great-niece we have never held or touched or smelled.  She cracks a smile and babbles through cyberspace. Making sounds of sheep.

The heart hears. The soul sees her neshama.

They all find a place at our delicious Shabbes table.  Every one of them.

There is homemade challah. Even dessert. Sometimes there is an apple cake.  Or chocolate almond cake so rich you wonder if heaven might taste like this.

We hear the unexpected cries of the shofar in the neighborhood.  Is it close?  Or from another time and place?

We send sacred blasts back to the unknown shofar blower.  We have always known each other.  We don’t need to know their name.

They arrive for Shabbes and find a place at the table.  They bring sweet wine.

We breathe for the man in the bed struggling to find his breath. We hold up the nurse who is caring for him and so many others with COVID-19.  She is tired. We comfort her with song and sweets.

We swim in the river with the children, and we bury the ones who died during the Great Deluge.  The First Flood, and the ones that continue.

Grief permeates. Swirling throughout our dreams.

Joy and despair from every time and space make their home within us.  They find a place at our Shabbes table and raise a glass.

They are always with us.  All of them.

L’chaim


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Healing, Spiritual Direction
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Kehilla Rosh Hashanah Teaching (on Zoom), Sept. 8, 2021/5782, Rabbi Chaya Gusfield

 

Shanah Tovah!

The book “Why we Swim” reports this story from Iceland. There was a fishing boat with 5 fishermen on a routine fishing trip.  The seas were very cold, but they were prepared for the cold. The seas were rough, but they were skilled in navigating rough seas.  Yet this trip turned out different than they had expected.  The storm was bigger than they could handle and their boat capsized.  Each fisherman struggled for his life, but four of them eventually succumbed to the cold sea.  Everyone knew that you had to get out of 41 degree water within 30 minutes or you would die of hypothermia.   Yet Guolaugur Frioporssons (“Gudleger Friososon”) swam and swam, 3 miles through pitch darkness.  He swam for 6 hours and then hiked barefoot an additional mile across jagged icy terrain. He came to land and appeared at the door of the first home he found, barely alive.  He spent a month in the hospital recuperating.

Every day of those 30 days his father came and sat at his bed as he listened to his son tell the story of his survival over and over.  I imagine the conversation he had with his father.  That he shared about how scared he had been and how he didn’t understand how he had survived.  His father listened to his grief about losing his buddies.  He listened to his pain and his gratitude and he watched him sleep. He brought food and fed him. He listened as his son repeated his stories over and over until he had the koach, the strength, to get out of bed, and finally go home.

Gudleger became famous. Scientists all over the world wanted to know how he survived and after many tests, they discovered he had an unusual thick fat layer that protected him from hypothermia.  They called him “the human seal”.  What happened during his time in the hospital is what really interested me.

His dad brought him the gift of PRESENCE.  Showing up, day after day, sitting by his side, and listening.  No advice, no problem solving, no accolades, just accompaniment.  A joining, a listening with devotion.  For some of us, to show up without trying to offer a fix would be like crawling across jagged icy terrain on our bare hands and knees.

At times, our habit to fix, to problem solve, even to offer blessings and encouragement with praise will override our ability to offer the gift of a non-anxious presence.  To accompany.  To be silent when no words suffice. Our habits of convention often fill up the spaces that would otherwise be filled with depth/mystery and wonder.

We are in a particularly unfixable time. We need to especially find ways to accompany one another that don’t try to fix that which is unfixable. This requires a slower than usual communication pace.  Not so easy. And yet, if we can embrace a slower pace, a gentle quietness, and welcome the uncertainty of the moment, even just a little, we can begin to listen to the kol d’mama dakah, usually translated as the still small voice. Translated more literally as the voice of a thin silence, a whisper or an utter silence.    Imagine-listening to the voice of silence.  

(Taken directly from the KINGS (Kings I 19:12) , “Kol” is a voice (Exodus 19:19). “Dak” means thin (Isaiah 29:5), and Damam (Exodus 15:16) is silence or stillness.)

As a spiritual director, rabbi and hospital chaplain I immerse in Talmud texts about visiting the sick, healing psalms and liturgy both in Hebrew and English, and I find the best niggunim for healing blessings that match my voice and heart.  Ultimately, however, I have learned through experience, it isn’t about technique, or the right music, or the right psalm.  It is about whether I show up and listen for the silent voice within, ready to embrace the unknown, the unexpected, and the uncertain.   Also, sometimes by showing up in this way I receive images or thoughts that I may not understand, but may become important.

For example, when serving a woman with end stage cancer, I saw an image of a tall mountain I thought might be a symbol of challenge.  When I shared the image with her, she saw it as a symbol of strength and resiliency and she found the image very helpful for the next part of her cancer journey.

And quiet accompaniment cannot be overstated.  I sat with an elderly woman in the hospital during her lunch. After a long silence, a very long silence, I would slowly get up to leave, and more than once she would say, “please don’t go, I am really enjoying our visit.”   I came to understand how much communication, accompaniment, and comfort happens between people without the need for words to fill the space.

The Talmud  (Bava Metzia 30b) also speaks to us about the importance of presence as a healing force between people. When visiting the sick as a peer the Talmud teaches we have the potential of reducing their suffering by 1/60th.   To have an effect.

We might apply this sacred obligation to every person we encounter, whether they are physically ill, emotionally struggling, in mourning, the target of systemic oppression or violence, or the survivor of some other trauma like a worldwide pandemic. We all need presence and accompaniment by others that reduces our suffering.

With support, we can learn how to do this.

I have been exploring ways to show up for ourselves, and for each other through Spiritual Direction group work.  Together we accompany each other with devotional listening, a practice distinct from active listening or even empathic listening. The goal of devotional listening is to help each other deepen our awareness of the Divine or Sacred in our lives.  In our everyday, including our stuck, grieving, wounded, and confused places.  Where we yearn, or where our heart needs tending.    We are not trying to figure anything out.  We ask ourselves, do our responses expand rather than restrict a person’s arena of exploration?  After several weeks of practice, we found this awareness got easier. Being the recipient of devotional listening offers us a profound restfulness.

We are going to take a few moments to reflect on where we are in our relationship with the Sacred today. Please, notice if you need to remove any distractions that might be in your environment. Feel free to lay down, close your eyes, doodle, or move your body to get more comfortable.   I am going to ask you a few questions to reflect on during our precious time together.  You might not find answers today.  And that is fine. This is just a taste.  The answers may come later.  Sometimes just asking the questions is enough to create an opening.

What is on your heart that needs tending to right now?  Bring that into your mind. Bring it into your heart.   Is there a prayer or image that is emerging? An image might arise today or over time as it incubates.  Quiet and spaciousness might become its friend.   Is there a yearning?   Consider if you want to share what came up for you later with someone or keep it private.  Please come back into the room and if you want, take a look around in gallery view at the fellow travelers here, and quietly greet the sacred in one another.

Developing spiritual friendships where we can share what is truly on our heart, and know we will be accompanied by another, is precious. Pirkei Avot and the Chasidic traditions both strongly encourage spiritual friendships. Let’s study this together!

My hope for you for this Rosh Hashanah is for you to find a sacred place where you can offer and receive devotional listening.  It may mean developing a spiritual friendship with someone or joining a group focused on spiritual listening.

By showing up for others through devotional listening, listening to the silent voice within, and embracing the unknown or uncertain, our habitual instincts to fill up the empty spaces will be slowly replaced with more sacred and meaningful connections. We might even get to experience deep rest for ourselves in the process.

As Leonard Cohen says, in one of his poems, truly a prayer:   “Not knowing where to go, I go to you. Not knowing where to turn, I turn to you. Not knowing how to speak, I speak to you. Not knowing what to hold, I bind myself to you. Having lost my way, I make my way to you.”

Shanah Tovah!