The Sermonizer

My wife hates it when I sermonize. I don't blame her. It's my vice. Even when I am venting frustration about politics, I somehow end up preaching, as you've probably found from reading this blog lately. 

So there we were chatting at my wonderful mother-in-law's 85th birthday party this weekend at our home. Most of the crowd had gathered around the dining room table to partake in the various homemade gastronomic delicacies prepared by my wife. All the seats were taken. As it is beyond my skill-set to stand around a buffet table making small talk while balancing an overflowing plate of food in one hand and a fork in the other while trying to stuff my face, I politely took myself and my over-capacity plate (and drink) to the living room couch. I sat there alone for a few minutes shovelling it in, before I was joined by my strapping, handsome, 15-year old nephew. He didn't have a plate, I presume because he'd scoffed his food down as athletic teenage boys do. Looking bored out of his mind, he plopped his muscular 6-foot frame down next to me on the couch and smiled. I said, "I guess you'd rather be playing hockey?" He didn't answer, understanding instantly that the question was rhetorical. I thought to myself, poor kid has no idea what he's in for sitting next to me.

We began talking about school. He's in grade 10 (or as we call it here in Quebec, Sec. IV). I asked him about the government exams he has to write this year. He said, English, French, Science, but the worst, he said, was History. He's not a great student in general. More of a jock-type, as you might have guessed by my description of him. You'd think French or Science would be the tricky subjects. History, the worst? I inquired in a  puzzled tone. Yeah, he said, what do I care about the fur trade? The French colonists? You live in Quebec, I stated the obvious. The government here makes policy that affects every day of your life. Some of it seemingly ridiculous, like the language laws. Understanding the history helps us understand why. "Actually," I say to him, "you probably don't feel it at all. You live on your little island. I get it, believe me. I was exactly like you. Grew up in my English-speaking Jewish enclave. Went to Jewish school. Had only Jewish friends. Went to Florida for Christmas break like all the Montreal Jews. The only time you ever see a dyed in the wool Québecois is on the ice at the arena, I bet. Must feel like you're playing against a foreign team." He nods. "Your world is so small," I repeat, without condescension. "At least this semester we're going to study World War I," he says. "Ah, the Conscription Crisis," I declare. The comment draws a blank. For him, there is a modicum of interest in that period because it's closer to his personal history on one side of his family. His paternal grandparents were born in Europe, survived WWII, came to Canada as refugees, and speak with accents. "You see how important history is," I tell him. "You are history." He smiles politely. "But I have trouble remembering dates," he says flatly. 

Now I'm thinking about how this kid is the embodiment of history. How his grandparents escaped persecution. How he doesn't have a care in the world because of all the sacrifices they made. And of course I'm relating that history to my own which is similar (although my grandparents came before the war), as it is with all Jews. I tell him, "Understanding history, caring about it, is actually a way of appreciating who you are and how far your family has come, what they had to go through to get here." 

It makes me think about our ancestors, I say to him. And not just from the last hundred years, but our biblical ancestors too. "You know, how they came out of slavery, and wandered in the desert, and got the Torah at Sinai and were led to the Promised Land," I say. "Jewish history repeats." Now, I realize I have to tread lightly, because what 15-year old kid wants to hear a sermon from his uncle? But I seem to still have his interest, because I'm sort of connecting his history to our history. He's looking engaged, and not strictly out of respect for adults.

"But even if you don't believe any of it," I say to him. "Let’s say you think it’s all BS. You don't believe in the biblical Israelites, or that we were slaves in Egypt, or that we wandered in the desert for 40 years, or were given the Tablets of Law at Mt. Sinai, any of that stuff. The Torah tells us something else very special. Something that's as relevant today as it was back then. Maybe more so."

"What's that uncle Glen? he asks.

Mindful that I have to keep it short, I say, "At the very end of the story, Moses tells the people, after everything they've been through... not that God has given them all the answers... but that he's given them a choice. God has shown them 'the blessing and the curse', and he tells them to choose wisely. What he means is that it's up to us, no one else, what we do with our lives. There's no one to blame if it doesn't work out, no one to point a finger at." I tell my nephew that I don't think that any other western religious tradition offers that as the ultimate message. Muslims are told to surrender to Allah or be deemed unworthy apostates, like the Jews are. The Christians blame the Jews for rejecting Jesus and we are damned to eternal hell for it. I say to my nephew, "In our sacred scripture, we're told that we have no one to blame but ourselves for our predicament. And that's the secret sauce of our endurance and success. And it's also why you've got so much to be thankful for. The power is yours how to run your life, and thanks to your grandparents, you've had a lucky head start."       

At that moment, my sister-in-law enters the living room and says to my nephew, we've got to leave, get your coat. "Saved by the bell," I say with a chuckle. 

My nephew lifts himself up off the couch like he's carrying a boulder, looks down at me from his towering height and says, "I like talking to you uncle Glen." We weren't talking about the rapidly fading playoff hopes of our beloved hapless Habs (the Montreal Canadiens hockey team), but I can tell he's being sincere.