A Tribute to my Baltimore Dad: Malcolm Katzen, delivered 4/24/2015

Chesped for Malcolm P. Katzen

Moshe Hershel ben David 

7/20/1923 – 4/23/2015, burial: 4/24/2015

            The author of the Biblical book of Proverbs imagined “what a precious find a woman of valor, an eishet chayil” to be.  Had he run into Malcolm Katzen – had he the opportunity to know him, perchance to have had a suit crafted for him, he may have imagined a different vision of valor:  perhaps one of a man far more precious than prized gems, within whom his wife placed her confidence, and who in turn lacked no good thing; a man who was endlessly good and kind to his beloved, all the days of her life.  Who was clothed, not only in fine cloth, but with strength, dignity, and splendor; who looked to the world with optimistic cheer, his tongue guided by sincerity and kindness.  Always eager to engage with the world, never standing idle for long.  His family comes forward with deserved praise extoling the efforts and fruit of his hand.  Indeed, whenever people gather, his deeds speak his praise. 

            Born in 1923, the oldest of three sons of William and Bertha Katzen, our ish chayil, our Malcolm, grew up with his brothers Stanley and Leslie – better known as Lester - in Forest Park, a Jewish hub of Baltimore in the first half of the 20^th century.  The name Forest Park still evokes a sense of community amongst those who lived there in those years.  Malcolm spent his formative years there, and so many of the friendships that began there have long endured.  His memories of that time, too, have endured, positive and crystal clear until the end.  Just a couple of years ago, at my eager request to see this famed Forest Park, Malcolm gave me a quick tour of his old neighborhood.  His face lit up, with a sparkle of pride and joy, as he pointed out the former site of Beth Tefiloh, his beloved congregation that was so central to his childhood, the house where the cantor lived, the home where his cousin and friend, Phil Sweren lived, the places they hung out, and of course, the house where the girl he was sweet on, Alma Weissman, lived.  You could take Malcolm out of Forest Park, but nothing could remove the old neighborhood from Malcolm’s heart and soul.

            Malcolm was close – very close - with his brothers, and they were all raised to follow in their father’s footsteps in the family business, Oakloom, a men’s suits manufacturing company that as recently as last year (in an article about the buyout of the Jos A. Banks) was described as among the finest of Baltimore’s men’s clothing manufacturers.  Lester sadly died too young to get as involved in the business, but Malcolm and Stanley both took leadership roles that would not only define the business but would come to define their work ethic and love of the industry.   Malcolm would serve as the President of Oakloom from 1972 through the sale of the business in 1995.  He held onto the title and continued to work for the new owners in Frederick until his retirement quite a number of years later.

            Malcolm loved his work.  He genuinely liked his employees, cared for them, and took great pride in providing a living for their families.  He loved the travel involved to meet with customers and to buy fabrics.  He loved sales: both the buying and selling.  I expect he thrived on the interaction with people as much as the business deals themselves.  Simply put, he took great satisfaction in what he did.  He eagerly gave customers tours of his factory and took pride in the quality of his product.  He could always recognize one of his suits.  And not just those green ones commissioned by the USF&G pro golf tournament.   He claimed that Robert Kennedy was wearing one of his suits when he got shot.  One of his bubbemeisses?  Maybe. Maybe not.  These were hand sewn suits, only the best – certainly worthy of the Kennedys.  And, Malcolm knew his suits: he knew the fabrics, he knew the designs, knew a good seam, a good stitch from a bad one.  He had every right to be proud of his work.   And, most of all, more than the pride, he loved that he shared the work, that he had the opportunity to work side by side with his brother Stanley in his craft.

            Malcolm and Stanley were as close as brothers could be.  They not only worked together, they sat in shul together, socialized together, played golf together, even bought their cars together.  Those matching Cadillacs.  I’d see one in the parking lot of the gym, and I wasn’t sure who I’d run into inside.  Would it be Stanley or Malcolm that day?   If I was lucky, perhaps both.  Those cars of theirs were easy to spot in small town Pikesville.

            As important as work was in his life, Malcolm always cherished family.  He and his first wife, Judy, had no children of their own, but Malcolm eagerly doted on his nephews and niece: Margie (z”l), Ronnie, and Jeffrey.  As they grew, their families became Malcolm’s family.  Ronnie and Ellen’s children, Sara and William, and Jeffrey and Debbie’s twins, Marilyn and Norman, were like an extra set of grandchildren to Malcolm.   He especially cherished his regular Shabbat afternoon visits with Jeffrey, Debbie, and the twins.  He loved watching them, and he loved showing them off to the rest of us through his pictures.

            Though Malcolm and Alma would date while still in their teens, it would be decades before they would marry.  During the war, they went their separate ways marrying others from their circle of friends in the neighborhood.  Alma married Rev, and Malcolm married Judy.   They all remained friends and continued to socialize even as they moved away from Forest Park to the Liberty Heights corridor and Pikesville.   Malcolm and Judy settled in the new Colonial Village only to find their lives sadly soon complicated by unexpected and protracted illness.  It wasn’t easy for them, but Malcolm remained thoroughly devoted to Judy and to her care until her death in 1979.   As we’ve all seen first in in the last few months, Malcolm is a fighter.  He doesn’t give up quickly, and he certainly didn’t on Judy.

            Malcolm and Alma’s story is one that makes me believe in the possibility of fate.  Having remained friends throughout their adult lives and having both endured the loss of a beloved spouse, it seemed only natural that they would rediscover love and passion in each other.  Not to diminish in any way the value of each of their first marriages (Malcolm would be the first not to), it is as if Alma and Malcolm were meant to be together all along.  As Chuck has said, it was best for both of them. Malcolm adored Alma, and as Rabbi Buchdahl once remarked to me, Alma smiled more with Malcolm in her life.  It’s as if he brought her joy to the surface.

            Married for over 30 years, Malcolm and Alma had the joy of watching and nurturing their growing family.  Though he came into their lives late in the game, Malcolm cherished his new sons: Lou, Chuck, and Wayne. He respected their independence while also being eager to be involved in their lives.  He managed to achieve the perfect balance between being their friend and growing into, becoming their Dad.  He and Alma welcomed Yvonne, Cindy, Barbara, and myself, graciously into the family.  He loved us as if we were his own.  His graciousness is evident in how he has treated me even in the midst of my and Chuck’s divorce.  Having none of my extended family here in Baltimore, Malcolm always made it clear to me – even up to his last days, even as he had trouble excepting our decision, that he was still my Baltimore Dad, no matter what.  And, he always sealed this promise with a gentleman’s gentle kiss to the back of my hand.  That was classic Malcolm.  Generous, gracious, and loving.  I hope I was able to treat him with the love and respect he so duly deserved from a daughter.

            While Malcolm came to fatherhood late, he became a grandpa in due time right alongside Alma.  Together they celebrated the births of their six grandchildren: Orrin, Sam, Chelsea, Hannah, Ande, and Rachel.  You meant the world to Grandpa!  Each of you.  He was happiest when you were happy.  He loved being able to provide for you – to give you something – whether advice, a new sweater, something from Alma’s closet, an old car – his love and concern for you was selfless.  Even if it didn’t match what you wanted to hear -- he was from a very different generation than you, he was old school, it was always offered out of a generous and loving spirit.   He loved the family gatherings where he simply got to be with you.  And, in the last number of months, he cherished your visits.

            Kohelet claims that there is a time for everything under heaven. I don’t know if I agree with him generally, but I’d argue, in Malcolm’s case, it was time.  After over 91 years, he was no longer able to live in the manner that mattered to him.  He was no longer able to get up, put on a sport coat and slacks, and meet Tom for lunch.  He was no longer able to be productive and, for example, volunteer at the attorney general’s office as he had done for years after retirement.  He was no longer able to gather around the table with family and share a beloved story.  He was no longer able to get in the car and just drive.  He was no longer able to go to Temple Emanuel for Shabbat worship where he felt so welcomed and cared for by the “clump” of regulars.  He was no longer able to enjoy the companionship of his most recent new friend Elaine or take her out to dinner as he so enjoyed doing.  Malcolm was lucky in so many respects – for one, his personality was intact to the end; he was even in his final moments an absolute gentleman. But, the stark reality was that he was no longer able physically to be the best of who he was and who he wanted to be.    

            There were moments after Alma’s death, that Malcolm expressed a fear that he might lose his family, that the lack of biological connection would somehow weaken the bonds nurtured so well over time.  That with Alma gone, the boys –as they were always called - would forget about him or feel less compelled to include him.  An irrational fear, of course, but one that unsettled him nonetheless.  The three of you, Alma’s boys, proved him wrong, simply by being who you are: his sons.  You have made your mother proud, and you’ve given Malcolm a most extraordinary gift. 

            On behalf of Malcom’s sons and nephews, allow me to express appreciation to all of his care givers: to his companion Lucy for her care and company when family and friends couldn’t be by his side and to the care givers at Sinai hospital, Keswick, and most recently at Levindale who nursed, encouraged, and dealt with his at times impatient eagerness to get well sooner rather than later over the last four months.  

The end of life is full of challenge, and the challenge of it is compounded by our wanting to hold on to our loved ones for as long as possible. Let us take comfort in the words of the modern poet Alvin Fine:

            To the living –

            Death is a wound.  Its name is grief.

            Its companion is loneliness.

            Whenever it comes – whatever its guise,

            Even when there are no tears,

            Death is a wound.

            But, death belongs to life –

                        As night belongs to day

                        As darkness belongs to light

                        As shadows belong to substance

            As the fallen leaf to the tree,

                        Death belongs to life.

            It is not our purpose to live forever.

                        It is not only our purpose to live.

            It is no added merit that a man lives long.

                        It is of merit only that his life was good.

There should be no doubt among us: Malcolm’s life was long, but its merit came from the incredible goodness, the valor, he put forth in the world.  May we model our ish chayil, our Malcolm – may we live by the example of his generosity, his vibrant spirit, and his eagerness to get up, be involved, and engage with humanity.  Thus, through us will his name and legacy endure to eternity.

[A live stream video of the funeral is available through July 2015, http://www.sollevinson.com/notice.php?lr=loc&id=26505]

Vayishlach: Jacob's History, My History, Your History, Delivered 12/6/2014

This past week, I read an article by Dr. Heather Miller-Rubens, the Catholic scholar at the Institute of Christian & Jewish Studies (ICJS), on the subjective nature of history.  The article has come across my desk – or more accurately, my laptop -- as part of the reading assignments for this fall’s Clergy Forum, an on-going study opportunity for clergy that ICJS offers.  The Clergy Forum always tackles interesting and challenging topics in order to foster intentful while respective dialogue between Jews and Christians.  This year, they have expanded their mission to include Islam in the conversation with the welcoming of their first Muslim scholar into the conversation.

This fall Forum’s focus is the Middle East, specifically on what we Jews call the matzav, the “situation” or “condition,” a singular word that in Hebrew conveys the weight of the conflict between Israelis, Palestinians, and the neighboring countries that share borders with Israel. 

I have always found this word, matzav, to be an interesting idiom for this complicated, emotionally laden, and often violent, “situation.”  The use of such a common, ordinary word to describe it is telling of how Israelis have come to accept This Situation as the normal state of affairs.

But, I digress.  Dr. Miller - Ruben’s article is required reading for our forum because it reminds us to question the truth of the histories to which we hold on so tightly.   We, Jews, need this reminder when it comes to Israel.  A central challenge to the situation, the matav, in Israel is the differing narratives that exist and a lack of cross-cultural respect and validation for those narratives.  As I discussed on Erev Yom Kippur this year, our – the Jewish - understanding of Israel and how it came to be is not the only truth, it may not even be the best truth.  It is one truth, but our story alone isn’t the full history.  There are other peoples who have equally powerful and compelling narratives regarding this sliver of geography that sits between the Mediterranean Sea and Jordan, and it is thoughtless and irresponsible of us to dismiss those narratives and the people who hold tightly to them.    Of course, Ferguson, Missouri is a stark reminder that we Americans, too, fail miserably in validating the narrative of the other.

Which leaves us with a challenge: how do we honor our own story, one that carries immense power and truth for us without invalidating the story of another human being who shares in the broader history of humanity?

Perhaps, Jacob’s wrestling match can inform us.  The assumed, the popular, understanding of this match that takes place in our Shabbat portion is that Jacob wrestles with a representative of God and prevails.  And for this gallant effort, he receives, in addition to a bum hip, a new name, Israel, that serves to forge his identity as a patriarch of the Jewish people.   But, is that how it happened on the shores of the Jabok?  One of my favorite things about studying Jewish commentary on Torah is that here we are comfortable with many truths.  The Rabbinic method, at least the aggadic, the story telling, tradition, opens the text to many different understandings, to differing truths.

Louis Ginzburg, for instance, culling a number of earlier midrashim offers a different perspective than the most commonly expressed.  His midrashic narrative views Jacob as being subject to bullying, if you will, from God’s angels, who, lead by Michael, ganged up upon him.  In this telling, Jacob doesn’t prevail against God; rather, God saves Jacob by assisting him in prevailing against these angels that were going rogue.  Scolding one of those angels for harming Jacob, God is clear, “You are my priest in heaven, but Jacob is my priest on earth.”  This rendering brings a very different nuance to our history.  Instead of Jacob earning his name for his physicality and his ability to vanquish even a Divine messenger from on high, his new name reflects his valued status and his meriting protection in his role as patriarch.

The Torah text itself provides little in the way of detail.   Jacob is left alone after sending his family ahead.  He wrestled an “ish” until dawn, and when this “ish” didn’t win, he did something to Jacob’s hip.   It is the word “ish” that leaves this history open to various understandings.   The peshat, the plainest meaning of the word ish is man.  But, biblically ish can also denote a distinguished person, someone of rank or a position of public office.  It is not, on its own, a word typically used to refer to God, and it is rarely left without further clarification.   

As I expect I’ve shared previously from this bema, I like to think that Jacob was wrestling with his own demons.   I imagine him faced with a bout of insomnia on this eve before he reunites with his estranged brother.   What must have been going through his mind?  After agreeing to go along with his mom’s plan in tricking his father, did he feel as though he deserved the wealth and power he had accumulated?  Perhaps he was struggling with the reality of his life choices: were his really any better than his brother’s?  Did he ever treat his brother with respect, or was the lentil incident just an episode of normal sibling rivalry?  He and his brother came from the same place, yet their histories diverged in two dramatically different directions.  Was that Jacob’s doing? Is he in part responsible for their estrangement, or Esau’s being shut out of the Israelite line?  

I imagine that Jacob tossed and turned on these questions so fiercely throughout the night that he bruised his own hip on the stone filled ground upon which he tried to sleep and later dedicates.  “Oh my God,” Jacob uttered, “I have survived this tumultuous night.”  But, he did so with renewed clarity, strengthened and ready to cross the Jabok in order to reconcile with his brother before shouldering the responsibility of Israel.   

Jacob’s internal wrestling should inspire us to wrestle with our own assumptions about what we consider true about our history.  Those experiences that are most significant, most formative to us, may have led to very different, and quite possibly detrimental, consequences for others.   We can’t undo the past, but like Jacob, we can work to come to terms with the multiplicity of narratives present in any history so that we can move forward.   It is incumbent upon us to consider historical narratives besides our own if we are ever to achieve honest and mutual respect and understanding.   Whether it’s Israel, Ferguson, or even Plymouth Rock, we must remember that our story isn’t the only significant story.  It certainly isn’t the only truth.

Tolodot: The Important of Isaac's Story. The Importance of our Story. Delivered, 11/22/14

This past week, our Rabbi Emeritus, in his eulogy honoring the life of Ruth Lederer, invited us to consider which phrases stand out as most important in Torah.   As he noted, there are quite a few good choices, some that might come immediately to mind are: the Shema, a text which tradition asks us to keep at hand and recite twice daily.  We certainly recite it on Shabbat; Bereshit bara Elohim, those first words of Torah which started it all; Anochi Adonai Elohecha, God’s identifying Godself at Sinai and those famous Ten Utterances that followed.  Rabbi Buchdahl had other examples of choice words from Torah, but his point, and what he so beautifully (and so appropriate to Ruth) expressed was that rarely, if ever, do we think of  יצחק תלדות אלה (Eleh toldot Yitzchak), “these are the generations of Isaac” as one of the more memorable sound bytes of Torah.  Perhaps, we should.

Eleh toldot Yitzchak.  Literally, “these are the generations, or this is the line, of Isaac.”  But, where are the generations?  Seriously, let’s look at the text we are about to read (Gen. 27:19ff): “These are the generations, or this is the line, of Isaac son of Abraham.  Abraham begot Isaac.”  That’s it.  No other begots.  The text immediately proceeds not to a genealogical list descending from Isaac but rather to tell us that, “When Isaac was 40 years old he married Rebecca.” From that point, the focus is on Rebecca’s pregnancy and the birth of their twins.

 So, where are the generations?  Arguably, after such an announcement, “These are the generations…,” we would expect a genealogical list, specifically in this case, a list of those who descend from Isaac.  But, instead, we are only told about Abraham’s lineage:  Abraham begot Isaac.  A pointed redundancy since Isaac has just been identified as Abe’s son.  In the paragraph preceding the start of this week’s portion, we are reminded of the other half of Abraham’s line, that of Ishmael, but there we are given a list of Ishmael’s descendants.  So, where is Isaac’s list?  Why does Torah not list Isaac progeny, Jacob and Esau, similarly? 

One way to understand the text is to imagine that somewhere in the editing process of the Torah, Isaac’s short genealogical list got cut out.   More likely, the word toldot had a more nuanced meaning in its ancient rendering.  Instead of “these are the generations, or this is the line of,” a more appropriate translation of eleh toldot here, and one suggested by our creation story told earlier in Genesis (“Eleh toldot hashamayim v’haaretz b’hibaram” – this is the story of the creation of heaven and earth [Gen 2:4]), so too,  Eleh toldot Yitzchak,  “this is the story of Isaac.”

This is the story of Isaac.  Now this makes much more sense.  The text highlights that particularly in Isaac’s case, he is more than just a passing link in the chain of tradition.

Though the text will move quickly on to discuss Isaac’s sons, Eleh toldot Yitzchak, reminds us that he is central to their story.  We don’t often think much about Isaac.  He easily gets lost, or as I characterized a couple of weeks ago when discussing the Akeidah, he gets silenced not only by Torah, but by the arc of Jewish literary tradition.  Even the midrash elaborates on his father and his kids far more than on him.  The Midrash reminds us that his father smashes idols and exemplifies devotion to a singular God.  Jacob is characterized as eager to leave the womb when his mother passes a place of study whereas Esau pushes to get out when passing a pagan temple.  Another midrash regarding Isaac’s sons notes that the Hebrew word for twins used here in the text is missing its silent letters, a grammatical form labeled “defective,” to indicate that only one of the twins is righteous.

There is plenty our tradition says about Isaac’s dad and his boys born to him and his wife Rebecca.  But, what about Isaac?  Isaac remains quiet, yet Eleh toldot Yitzchak his presence is vital not only to his immediate family but to the line of the Israelite nation.  Isaac is presented as the one who rebuilds and preserves.  We read this week of his re-digging the wells that his father dug that had then been filled in by the Phillistines. And, he renames them, not with his own names but with the same names his father used.  This effort is arguably one of the most important insights we have into Isaac’s character.  He isn’t an innovator, but he is a consolidator who enshrines tradition and ensures the continuity of his father’s legacy.  He is clearly characterized here as the vital link of tradition between Abraham, his father, and Jacob, his son.

  Eleh toldot Yitzchak, Isaac’s story is important.  Even though the author didn’t give Isaac much of a voice, even much of a characterization, eleh toldot Yitachak, he understood the value of Isaac’s life and underscores Isaac’s contribution to Israelite history, to our history.

Isaac is so often painted as the unsuspecting victim.  Not only in the Akeidah, but here in this week’s portion when his sons, with their mom’s help, trick their father out of his blessing for the first born.  Perhaps, Isaac isn’t so unsuspecting.  An insightful midrash, one I believe included in the Plaut commentary, asks us to imagine Isaac as knowing exactly who his sons are by their choice of words during that famous incident of trickery.  He doesn’t need to see them.  He knows his children.  He knows how they speak, and he recognizes Jacob by his immediate reference to God.  Why doesn’t he speak up and put a stop to the game?  Perhaps because Isaac understands his own story more than we generally give him credit for.  He understands that his role is that of preserving this covenant laid out by God.  A God that he knows Jacob recognizes and Esau ignores.  Isn’t it better for him to let Esau believe he was tricked out of blessing then for him to know it was never intended for him in the first place? That he wasn’t God’s chosen one?  Indeed, a difficult question for any parent to answer.  

Eleh toldot Yitzchak.  This indeed is the story of Isaac.

Where is Isaac? Delivered Shabbat Vayeira, 11/8/2014

Isaac.  Where is Isaac?

            Most often, when we read and study this week’s Torah portion, Vayera, our focus falls squarely on Isaac’s father, Abraham.  Abraham’s eager hospitality; his (and Sarah’s) news of impending parenthood in old age; Abraham’s willingness to argue with God over the fate of the residents of Sodom and Gemorrah; and finally, at the end of the portion, Abraham’s being called up to sacrifice his beloved son.  Despite Isaac being a central figure in the narrative of the Akeidah, the story of the binding of Isaac, he is silenced by the text.

            Soon, the focus will be almost entirely on Isaac’s sons, Jacob and Esau.  Their story, too, we know well.  We know how they competed for blessing and about their separate journeys.  We know even more about Jacob: his work, his love affairs, his brood of sons, his struggle with God.   But, where is Isaac?   What do we know of Isaac?

            Born to elderly parents, we know little about his life other than his brother was sent away, and that he was, without being given an option, bound up to be offered as a sacrifice on Mount Moriah by his father.  He isn’t treated much better by his own son who, at his mother’s bequest, tricks Isaac into giving him his brother’s blessing.   Isaac is, for the most part, through all of this a silent character.  He isn’t even deemed capable of finding his own wife.  A servant is brought in to the narrative for that task.    Our Rabbinic tradition, too, isn’t so kind to Isaac, either.  For sure, his place among the patriarchs is assured by tradition, and he is viewed as a critical link between the generations.  But Maimonides' opinion is reflective of much of the literature.  He notes that “there would seem to be no benefit nor any great honor to Isaac.”  He didn’t do anything, Maimonides argues, he added nothing innovative or of value.

            With all due respect to the RAMBAM, I’d argue differently.  I’d argue we’ve let Isaac down.  What does Isaac have to say after his father kills the ram and finally unties the binds that held him into place?  Abraham offers the ram in place of his son Isaac, God blesses Abraham for his steadfast faith with a promise that his descendants will be as numerous as the stars above and the sands of the shore. God promises Abraham that all the nations of the earth shall be blessed through him; and then, the text reads: “Abraham returned to his servants; they got up and traveled to and settled in Be’er Sheva.” 

The text begs the question, where is Isaac, and we have failed to provide a compelling answer.  The biblical authors, our Rabbinic sages, and we too, have left him silent.  His story could have been fleshed out in a manner that allowed Isaac to be strengthened by the capacity to survive this traumatic event.  Instead, we’ve ignored his voice.  We do not hear from Isaac again until the end of two eventful chapters, when he reappears to witness his future wife, Rebecca, approaching on a camel.  The Midrash imagines Isaac as having great concern for his mother’s well being, but where is the concern for Isaac himself? 

There is great opportunity to fill in Isaac’s story, to give him a legacy from which we can draw inspiration.  He is a figure that survives trauma and disappointment.   He is a character that deserves more of a voice than he is given by our tradition.  As we read Vayeira this Shabbat, let us be moved to consider what Isaac would have said in response to God’s impossible request.  To his father’s dutiful (yet, thoughtless) willingness to comply.     Perhaps if we can imagine Isaac’s response, his coping strategies, how he moved forward from this tragic event, then perhaps, we will be less likely to silence those who experience trauma in our world.  Perhaps, we will be less likely to ignore their voice.