Grandpa Charlie Would Be Proud

Like many Jewish men in America today, I can vaguely remember my Great Grandfather going to shul, conducting Passover Seders and putting on Teffilin in the morning. Sadly, he is the last member of my family to perform these Mitzvoth with any consistency.

If you are anything like me, you have always felt uncomfortable in the Synagogue because you didn’t understand what was going on or where they were in the service and you were also embarrassed at your poor ability to read Hebrew. You know you fall into this category if your heart pounded for the hours and minutes leading up to the time you might be called to the bema for an Aliyah. You’d sit in the back of the Shul practicing the blessings, begging Hashem NOT to pick you, because you’d be embarrassed.

As a 43 year old male I was more familiar with the latest information about potential life on Mars than I was with my own people, customs and prayers. My defenses caused me to be critical of those who followed “Ritual” rather than admirer their knowledge and commitment. I’d wonder out loud how they could take the time to put on Teffilin every morning, or “waste” a Saturday in Shul, or pass on an opportunity to eat an extra large shrimp or spare rib.

It was easier to be critical rather than ask myself why I didn’t follow their example. However, when I was alone contemplating life, I always felt something was missing. In my heart I knew I wanted to know what was going on during the service, I wanted to know how to put on Teffilin, I wanted to say Kiddush on Shabbos, I wanted to see the shrimp cocktail on the menu and ask for a dinner salad instead. I wanted my great Grandfather to be proud of me. I wanted to be proud of me.

I knew what I wanted but like any scary journey I was reluctant to take the first step. Like most people I was afraid. Afraid that I would look stupid, or worse yet, I wouldn’t be good or smart enough. Faced with answers I might not like, I had rejected the unknown rather than embrace it as an opportunity.

That all changed that day I met Rabbi Vogel. The Rabbi is fond of saying “There are no coincidences in life. Everything that happens is part of Hashem’s plan.” I must admit, the plan was a mystery to me; at least it was until I met the Rabbi.

When we first met I felt an overwhelming need to explore all of these feelings I had possessed but never addressed over the years. I asked him one question about the Shabbos service and an incredible feeling overwhelmed me. It was as if a floodgate had burst open. All of the frustration, shame, ill feelings, self-doubt and guilt disappeared in a moment. Suddenly, I didn’t care if everyone knew I didn’t know anything. It didn’t matter if I read slowly. It didn’t matter if I had never made Kiddush on a Friday night. It didn’t matter if I didn’t know how to put on Teffilin. It didn’t matter because I had found a Rabbi, a congregation, a committed group of friends that were willing to answer any questions I had, while allowing me to participate at my own pace.
No one pushed me; no one made me do anything I didn’t want to do. If I wanted to learn how to put on Teffilin I could. If I wanted an Aliyah I could have one. If I wanted to make Kiddush I could, if not I didn’t have to.

What I found was that every time I learned something new, I wanted to learn two more things. On Wednesdays I found myself daydreaming about Shabbos dinner at the Vogel’s. I looked forward to singing Shalom Alechem, saying l’chaim, eating the Rebbetzin’s world-class kugel and then miracle of miracles, Benching after dinner. I kept thinking how proud my great grandfather would be if he could see his great grandson Benching. Benching because he wanted to, not because he had to.

During the celebration of Simchas Torah it is the practice of the congregation that gathers together at Chabad of Delaware to make a Mitzvoth pledge. These pledges can range from memorizing intricate portions of Torah, to pledging to say the Mode Ani every morning. Not wanting to bite off more than I could chew, I promised to learn and one day say Kiddush over the wine on Shabbos. It may not seem like much to you, but it was an enormous commitment by me. Truly, the last man in my family to say Kiddush was my Great Grandfather Charles Cooper, and that was over 40 years ago.

I practiced these three little paragraphs everyday for weeks. It was as if I was going back to Hebrew school. Finally it was Friday, December 26, 1997. It may have been like every other Friday for you but for me it was a night that will live forever. It was a night in which I filled the sterling silver Kiddush cup with sweet red wine, cupped it in my right hand as I had seen Rabbi Vogel do so many times before, picked up my Siddur with my left hand and read the prayers that Jewish men have been reading for thousands of years. It only took three minutes but its three minutes that will impact my life forever. Like a time traveler, I was suddenly linked to my great grandfather, his father, his father’s father and beyond.

When I completed the blessing and my friends at the table said the final Amen, I knew that nothing was impossible. I could now do anything. I had faced all of my fears and triumphed over them. It wasn’t the fastest Kiddush this group had every seen. It certainly wasn’t the most melodic. It definitely wasn’t error-free. But it was my Kiddush. It was a Kiddush that gave me the confidence to explore my faith, my people and my heritage. It was a Kiddush that gave me the confidence to put on my first pair of Teffilin everyday. It was a Kiddush that gave me the self-control to pass on the shrimp cocktail and ask for a house salad instead. It was a Kiddush that nourished my Neshoma, my soul. It was a Kiddush that pleased my mother, my father, my wife and myself. It was wonderful.

It’s funny. It really doesn’t take that much extra time to put Teffilin on in the morning or say the morning, afternoon and evening prayers. Instead of watching Hard Copy on television, I say Mincha instead. I almost can’t remember what it was like not to welcome in the Shabbos Queen with Shalom Alenu on a Friday evening. It hasn’t been a struggle. I simply had to reorganize and reprioritize my time.

Rabbi Vogel likes to say, “No one ever said a Mitzvah has to be easy.” An while sometimes you don’t want to get out of bed in the morning to put on Teffilin, there’s nothing like the feeling you get all day long knowing you did it. While no one ever said it has to be easy, no one ever said it had to be hard either.

There’s something to be said for contentment, fulfillment and satisfaction. My Neshoma is happy, I am happy and somewhere, somehow Great Grandfather is happy too.