Rabbi Marc: We all live and we all die,
but ‘dance’ in between is never predictable

Last week was tough. On Tuesday, I lost three people. A dear friend suffering from ALS passed, and I had to struggle between the pain of our loss and the blessing that he did not suffer longer. We lost the mother of a congregant. She lived a long and productive life. She had been ill for quite some time, but lived to see successful children flourish in life; she died in peace. We also spent the day reeling from the news from a sister city, as the news of a teenage suicide that dropped a bomb into the world of many our local teens who knew her from youth group. The news sent many of us parents into prayers for the family and thanksgiving for the blessing that we still get to hug our children.

For these deaths and others close and further remote in time, I have been called on to help with what seems to be an inordinate amount of grief counseling this week. Most certainly I have been touched by many of the lives over whom people are struggling. Even where I have no knowledge of the deceased, I have very personal knowledge of and a relationship with the people who are grieving.

Most certainly, with every conversation, counselors have to do a “gut check” to struggle with our own grieving issues, and the degrees to which they may or may not be resolved. Somewhere in the mix, we have to still remain focused on responding to those who seek our help. We are all born. We will all die, but the music that leads to our first and last breath and the dance in between is fleeting, fragile and never predictable. What seems uniform is that however our lives end, we leave people with whom we shared relationships wondering what more they could have done while we were alive to keep us alive, make peace, show they care…; the list of guilt-ridden notions is endless. Our hope is that we at least pay attention and show up when we are needed.

It was in this emotional jumble that I approached this week’s Torah portion. I have read it many times since entering Rabbinical school in 1990. This week’s story line is read in its yearly cycle, retold every year at Passover Seders (minimum two a year in my world), studied in Midrash and introduction to Judaism classes … This is the first time, though, that a certain line caught me. The text reads: “Pharaoh rose up in the night, he, and all his servants, and all the Egyptians; and there was a great cry in Egypt; for there was not a house where there was not one dead. He called for Moses and Aaron by night, and said, Rise up, and get out from among my people, … and be gone; and bless me also. (Exodus 12:30-32)”

After all Pharaoh had done, he wanted Moses to bless him. Was he being sardonic, as was Job’s wife? She told Job to go ahead, bless God and die. Of course, she meant for him to curse God and be done with it. Is this Pharaoh’s way of cursing Moses, or is this the plea of a defeated man? He has lost everything – his work force, his fame, his “GOD” status, and so much more. Perhaps this is the plea of a defeated and beaten man. But, there is no blessing for Pharaoh. There is no attempt to help him do his repentance or his healing. Is it any wonder why, left to his anguish, having asked for help and been ignored, that Pharaoh’s heart hardens one last time? Ignored in his immense sense of loss, Pharaoh’s anger rekindled and he loaded up the chariots to chase after Moses and Israel.

There are a lot of people in need. Oftentimes, their need results from their own actions. More often, it is not until they see things fall apart that they even realize that they might have been in the wrong. Our tradition is an incredible one. We are required to keep the gates of teshuvah (atonement) open at all times for all people. Every day, we experience people who, in learning of their failings, work hard to make amends. Every year, on Yom Kippur, we teach that if someone approaches teshuvah with integrity, their slate is wiped clean. Where we refuse to grant this forgiveness, the transgression becomes our own.

Moses had an obligation to seek the blessing for Pharaoh; God (not Moses) was to judge the reality of Pharaoh’s atonement. Moses never asked God to help Pharaoh. We really can have no idea what would have been in Pharaoh’s heart, had his plea been heard. How often do we look past people who express need? How often, in our anger or frustration, do we ignore people in need, because they, at one time hurt us? How many of the revolutions that we read about in history or experience in the news result from people feeling that their cries for need were ignored? I guess ultimately, for whatever reason someone is ill, impoverished or in distress, that is where they find themselves. If we refuse to reach out to them, even where their distress is of their own doing, we will suffer the consequences of their desperate acts to be heard.

Our liturgy demands that we “Oseh shalom baen adam l’khavaeroh – make peace between people.” We bring peace to the world as we heal the breaches that have exiled us from each other – no matter whose fault it was. All the more so, if we are called on to hear the pain of our enemy, when we already have relationships with each other, we need to be even more aware and ready to help. Shabbat shalom.

Rabbi Marc Aaron Kline serves the Temple Adath Israel. Ordained in 1995 from Hebrew Union College – Jewish Institute of Religion, he earned a B.A. from Tulane University, a J.D. from the University of Arkansas, and a Masters from Hebrew Union College. He has taught ethics, philosophy, religion and government in high schools, college and graduate schools and regularly runs a diverse adult education program. He has served as chair of the LFCUG Human Rights Commission and is very active in the greater community.


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