Mirrors, What a Jewish Communist Funeral Might Look Like, & Va-Yak-hel

I got an interesting funeral request yesterday that had me looking in the mirror.

It was for an 89-year-old man, an artist who lived his life as a fighter, speaking up for justice, creating art that was a commentary on society, as he believed art should be (as any good Communist would know). A a Renaissance man, knowledgeable about all history, politics, music. An admirer of Diego Rivera (whom he got to shake hands with once while visiting family in Mexico), a man who never rested, according to his wife, creating “food for the soul.”

He believed that it was neither education nor social status that gave a person their dignity. Rather, simply being human made you inherently deserving of it. He didn’t like jokes that made fun of people (and I’m guessing, like my father, jokes that made fun of a person’s race, ethnicity, or language).

A Red Diaper Baby (like me), his family had been directly involved in the Spanish Civil War, with stories of men sleeping on the floor of their house in Brooklyn, getting ready to go to Spain and join the fight.

His family spoke my language, despite my now being a rabbi. They reminded me to be proud of my Communist heritage while all my years growing up I was told I should be ashamed by those outside, who didn’t understand it, or had misconceptions about it, just as I was taught by modern American culture and those in my inner circles to be ashamed of becoming involved in Judaism on a “spiritual level.”

We spoke the same language, except there should be no mention of God at the funeral, or the soul, because he didn’t (and I’m assuming his children don’t) believe in that stuff. The only concession was the Mourners Kaddish at the graveside, as requested by a grandchild who is involved in Jewish community “on a spiritual level” where he lives. Not a problem because there’s no mention of God in the Mourners Kaddish.

What songs would be meaningful, what poetry, I asked.

The Internationale, the daughter said with a laugh as a question.

No problem, I said, laughing in response; “We sang that at my mother’s funeral!”

So here I am, looking at myself in the mirror, seeing my whole upbringing reflected back at me, represented by this man who is among the few left alive from this bygone era. Yes, a little funny, asking a rabbi to do a funeral and saying, “No God, please.” But I can do that. I’m totally comfortable with these kinds of people. Like I said, we speak the same language, hold the same values.

It’s like I’m home with them.

This week’s Torah portion continues with the construction of the Tabernacle for the Israelites to make a temporary “home” for “God” to dwell amongst them. The instructions are more specific this time, with measurements given. The people are asked to bring gifts of gold, silver, copper, and yarns of different colors.

They are asked to do so as their hearts move and impel them. They bring with so much generosity that they must be told to stop.

One curious line refers to the laver for holding water for the sanctification of the priests to be constructed out of copper. It says, “He [Betzalel, the artist) made the copper washstand and its copper base out of the mirrors of the dedicated women who congregated at the entrance of the Communion Tent. (Ex. 38:8)

Our ancient rabbis mused about this. What were these mirrors about? And they came up with a story that the mirrors came from the women who, while still enslaved in Egypt, used them to see themselves reflected with their husbands to lure them with their beauty.

The purpose? That their husbands shouldn’t give up on continuing to create future generations, despite their seemingly hopeless situation of centuries of backbreaking enslavement.

According to this story, this midrash, Moses at first rejected these mirrors for the vanity they posed, but God insisted that they were holier than anything else created for the Tabernacle; they contained love and hope. Thus, the washing bowls were made from these copper mirrors.

It’s interesting to be asked to officiate at this funeral. Yet, I see no contradiction. This man held the highest Jewish values of all. He refused to give up on humanity, despite a lifetime of discouraging political developments over decades. He was a fighter, as his family told me, in so many ways. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t believe in God or the soul. He, like Judaism teaches, believed in love of all people, that all are made in “God’s image,” even if he used different language to express this idea. You don’t need to believe in “God” any more than you need to be an atheist in order to have a deep commitment to justice.

I will be proud to lead this funeral tomorrow. And next week I’ll give you a report on how it goes.

In the meantime, let’s continue to look in the mirror, and see reflections of what some might call “God,” equally deserving of love and dignity, no matter what we look like. And when we walk outside, let’s take this lesson and aim to be generous of heart and make a practice of seeing that same image deserving of respect and dignity reflected in the faces of all those we cross paths with, despite anything we might normally judge them on.

And for one more week, let’s not give up on humanity.

And please say Amen.