The Spiritual Philanthropist (Yom Kippur, Yizkor, 5785)

The Spiritual Philanthropist
Rabbi Andrew Kaplan Mandel, Yom Kippur Afternoon, Yizkor 5785

When I was a little boy,
my family would visit a restaurant called Friendly’s.
They served hamburgers and French fries and ice cream,
but there was always a big picture on the menu
of this special pink drink called the Fribble.
It looked so frothy and frosty,
and the kids in the advertisements loved it,
and I wanted it.
But it cost at least double the price of every other drink,
and I felt bad about asking for it.

But one day, Grandpa Julie of blessed memory
took me out to lunch, just me,
and said I could have anything I wanted on the menu.
Now I knew Grandpa Julie did not have a lot of money.
This is a man who would respond to the price of any item –
A slice of pizza, a car wash—
With the same reaction:
“Are they out of their minds?”
This was a man who went to the supermarket hoping that they’d overcharge him
So that he could raise a fuss and get something free in return.
But he offered that day at Friendly’s,
and I knew this was my chance to try the Fribble.

It arrived, and I could not have been more excited.
I put the straw to my lips and…
… this was not what I expected!
I think it might have been fruity.
I don’t remember the exact taste; this was maybe 40 years ago;
but I remember feeling
first a bit disgusted
and then horrified
because Grandpa had spent a fortune on this drink,
and so I swallowed my opinion by taking little sips
and smiling as best I could to hide my dislike.
And I will never forget what happened next
– because Grandpa Julie looked me
with his kind brown eyes
and said, “If you don’t like it, it’s okay; you don’t have to drink it.”

I remember that moment to this day
Because my grandfather gave me
not only what I wanted, but also what I needed.
He showed me that he would share what he had with me,
That I was entitled to trial and error,
That whatever I was feeling was okay.
He showed me how powerful it can be
To be seen and cared for.
Because of him, I know in my bones how that feels.

I have since realized
that Grandpa Julie was
a spiritual philanthropist.

He was a simple man from the Bronx,
With no financial holdings to leave behind,
Though we sure tried with lots of Lotto tickets.
But whether he knew it or not, and I don’t think he knew it,
Grandpa Julie was bequeathing me this vital lesson of worth and worthiness,
And he demonstrated to me that
you can make a lasting impression on someone
by simply seeing them.

I imagine that, on this sacred day of memory,
many of us are thinking of at least one loved one
Whose essence touched ours.

At this time of Yizkor, we are remembering
parents, partners, siblings,
friends, teachers, children
It can be a really hard time.

Amidst all of the pain we may be feeling,
part of the task of mourning someone we miss
Is to discern what we received as our inheritance—
and how we can give it away ourselves.

We can often find our spiritual bequest
in the sights, smells, and sounds
that we encounter long after our loved one’s passing,
particularly if we’re able to develop new appreciations
for the significance of these sense memories.

For me, it was a pink drink
Some of you have told me your version.
For one congregant, it was a shovel and pail for sandcastles,
Through which—she’s now realizing—her stepfather
showed her what it meant for someone
to kneel down and meet her at her level
For someone else, it was the smell of fresh challah
Which her wife would spend hours baking each week for Shabbat meals
And which symbolized a commitment to making family time special
For a third person, it was his friend’s tendency
to sing with the car windows open at stop lights
At one time a bit embarrassing to him but now a signal
That you should always give yourself the permission to be yourself.

It’s as if there’s a safe deposit box of objects, stories, aromas, expressions,
Just waiting for us to take them out when we need them.
I’ll give you a moment to consider what you were given.
Sometimes we need to struggle for the blessing
since our relationship may have been strained, or worse,
Or if the person died far too soon, and we feel robbed for what we didn’t get.

Yet it can be a source of strength and comfort
to open up that safe deposit box
and see what we’ve been left, what we can make of it,
and think about how to share it with others.
It’s a way for those you miss to remain present with you
And even to ensure their legacy lives on far beyond you.

In fact, when you find yourself exhibiting the same quality you learned,
Feel free to tell the people around you:
“This behavior of mine was sponsored by my spiritual philanthropist.”

I recently told my six year-old nephew, Julian, about Grandpa Julie,
the man for whom he is named.
Now Julian wants ice cream at Friendly’s.
Just as Grandpa Julie let me try and explore new things,
Julian and I go on our own trips, just us.
He’s talked a lot about tall buildings,
so we went on an adventure
to the new One Summit skyscraper by Grand Central,
…for a king’s ransom, I might add.
Julian held my hand in the elevator,
and I wasn’t sure if he would be scared
To approach those giant clear windows
looming high over Manhattan.
But, when we reached the top,
he ran to press his nose against the glass
And if he hadn’t wanted to, that would have been OK, too,
a lesson straight out of the estate of Grandpa Julie Kaplan.

One of my favorite poems for mourners ends this way:
“Love doesn’t die
People do
So when all that’s left of me is Love
Give me away.”

Zichronam livracha.