My grandmother, of blessed memory, used to sing to me the well-known poem: Make new friends, but keep the old, those are silver and these are gold. As a child I misinterpreted this passage. Not knowing the value of silver versus gold, I thought that it meant that both new and old friends were equally good. Not a bad message for a child, as childhood is a time when new friendships must constantly be formed and fostered. But not the intention of the poet.
Joseph Parry wrote this in a poem in the late 19th century. His message, which is elaborated upon through latter stanzas, is that old friendships must be treasured.
Friendships that have stood the test –
Time and change – are surely best;
Brow may wrinkle, hair grow gray,
Friendship never knows decay.
This poem has been on my mind, as I recently had a reunion, of sorts, with many old friends. The circumstances were tragic, and I am not sharing this to cause upset, but rather to offer context. Sadly, one of my close friends from college, Neely, was killed in an accident last month. Neely was a passionate, energetic light in my world and the extensive world that she touched. I will not eulogize her here, that is not the purpose of the moment, but I cannot mention her name without offering a small bit of praise to her eternal spirit.
In attending Neely’s funeral, I was reunited with the people with whom I had shared formative experiences. Learning how to live independently is a challenge for any 18 year old. Doing such in New York City offers additional challenges.
We wrestled with our future, weighing heavy decisions such as choosing a major and choosing a roommate. We shared first loves, and, shared pints of Ben and Jerry’s when these relationships had run their course. We studied in Israel, exploring the land, the people, but mostly ourselves. We travelled Europe. And then, of course, we graduated and went our separate ways, not yet knowing the importance of the spark that we were taking with us from each friend; the light that would support and encourage us on life’s journey. Some of us stayed closer than others, as a matter of relationship or geography. In the intervening years there have been mini-reunions at celebrations—weddings mostly—but those were heavily balanced in the early years, their frequency has waned. Facebook has filled the void in small ways, ensuring that we never lose touch, allowing us to peek into one another’s lives from time to time. But looking at baby pictures and “liking” an article cannot take the place of human interaction. Facebook is not a substitute for relationships.
And now here we were. Somehow, in the sea of over 1000 faces we managed to find each other and sit together. About 15 of us who had shared college years were able to make it to Baltimore for this unsettling reunion. Each wrinkle, each gray hair had an individual story to tell. Compositely, they told our shared story. We’d grown older. Weathered. Wise. Yet, in being with one another we could see our younger selves—echoing the words of the poet: mid old friends, tried and true, once more in our youth renew. Because underneath the wrinkles and grayed hair, we saw old friends—understanding the shared experiences that deeply affected who we are; and honoring the individual stories designed by unique paths of experience.
Jewish tradition suggests that we say a blessing, a brakha, upon seeing a friend for the first time in a long time. There are actually two different brakhot to apply to two different circumstances. The first situation, as described by our sages, is when you have not seen or heard from an individual for a month. The blessing associated with this interaction is well known to us—it is the shechecheyanu. Barukh atah Adonai eloheinu melekh haolam shehechiyanu v’kimanu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh. Praised are you Lord our God, sovereign of the universe who has renewed and sustained, allowing to reach this moment. The thought process behind the recitation of this blessing is that we are grateful to have arrived at this occasion—to see once again a beloved friend. The shechecheyanu accompanies occasional occurrences that bring us joy. Seeing a friend after time apart is an instance of joy. A child returning from camp. A wife returning from a business trip. The proverbial “Hi honey, I’m home,” does not carry enough impact when friends have been parted for a significant length of time.
And so, to express our appreciation we offer a blessing of praise for arriving at this moment.
The Talmud is clear in its instructions that this brakha is required in cases where we have not seen nor heard from a friend. In our contemporary society it is almost impossible to imagine a situation in which we have not heard from a person in a month. Through our constant, virtual interconnectedness we need not lose touch. But in previous generations missing a friend for a month’s time would be necessarily associated with great worry. Given the prevalence of obstacles and dangers associated with travel, as well as the time it took to send communications home, it makes sense that seeing a friend after a month’s time would be a reason for rejoicing.
Concerns for the whereabouts of friends and family led to the designation of a different blessing to be said upon reuniting with a friend who hasn’t been seen in a year.
Barukh atah Adonai—blessed are you O God, M’chaye hameitim—who raises the dead.
There is a lot to unpack from this designation. Let’s begin by identifying this as an element of our fixed, daily prayer. It concludes the second paragraph of the Amidah, the paragraph thematically called gevurot, God’s power, as it outlines the awesome things that God can do. The first several paragraphs of the Amidah as a unit provide elaborate praise of God. On weekdays, these are followed by a long series of requests. Even the youngest child knows that it is wise to butter up his parents before asking for something. And that is exactly what we have inherited in our fixed structure of the Amidah. Our second paragraph reads
You are eternally mighty, Lord…You support the fallen, heal the sick, and set captives free, and keep faith with those who sleep in the dust. Who is like You, Mighty One, and who resembles you, King who slays and gives life, and makes salvation flourish? You are faithful to revive the dead. Blessed are You, Lord, who revives the dead.
This text is understandably problematic to the modern ear. Its literal translation defies science and reason. This disconnect has been addressed in several different ways. Instead of saying God michayeh hametim—gives life to the dead, Reform prayer books, as early as the 19th century, offered an alternative rendering, m’hayeh hakol—God gives life to all, maintaining the overall theme of God as powerful in the prayer while eliminating uncomfortable or irrational references to resurrection.
In the years that followed, some progressive prayer books altered the text in order to avoid proclaiming a literal resurrection of the dead, opting instead to praise God for giving life, and for creating memory, through which all life becomes eternal. In other cases, contemporary siddurim choose to maintain the original Hebrew text, while altering the English translation. There is an ethereal attachment to the exact words of our liturgy, despite the fact that it includes ideas that do not resonate to the modern mindset. Our own Sim Shalom siddur employs this strategy—maintaining the Hebrew text, but using an interpretive translation, “Master of life and death.” On these High Holidays the interpretive translation provided by our machzor is “Praised are you O Lord, who gives life to the dead.”
Throughout these High Holidays—throughout the year—we encounter scripture, liturgy and law that are not to be taken literally. This is not a new approach to our tradition, rather it is the archetypal methodology that we have inherited. The classic example for exploring whether text should be taken literally in our tradition comes from the 12th century scholar, Abraham Ibn Ezra. Ibn Ezra juxtaposed two verses from Torah. The first is from Genesis, regarding ritual circumcision “You shall be circumcised in your foreskin—it will be a covenant between you and Me.” This, says Ibn Ezra should be taken literally, as it is a command that can be followed. His view of this verse is supported by the fact that brit milah remains a sacred covenant for our people.
The second text, from Deuteronomy, states: “You shall circumcise the foreskin of your heart.” Regarding this text he teaches: It is unreasonable to apply literal meaning. Rather, to circumcise your heart means to avoid the crude desires of the tasteless, or perhaps its meaning is to purify the heart to understand the truth. Ibn Ezra’s rule for encountering text goes as follows: Anything that reason does not contradict we interpret literally. It shows that his “default” position is to look at the text literally, but he will not stretch the text to become irrational, thus he opens up the subjective lens of metaphorical interpretation.
The rabbis understanding of life after death is not uniformly clear as presented in the Talmud. We continue to question whether their statements were literal or metaphorical, also recognizing that views varied from person to person.
Perhaps the rabbis felt pressured to espouse resurrection as within God’s power, as the rise of its centrality in Christian doctrine did, so they would not be seen as less faithful, while at the same time seeking to de-emphasize such stories lest be confused with Christians or validate the claim of Jesus’ return. In other words, resurrection must be in God’s power, but it is unreasonable to expect to see it. We have faith in its potential occurrence.
This theological view is supported by Maimonides. In his 12th century discourse of the attributes of God, his 13th and final principle is indeed that God can resurrect the dead. Yet that it is his final statement —almost an epilogue– coupled with the fact that his extensive works offer little mention of the subject, leads some scholars to conclude that his understanding of this text was not a literal one.
In employing the phrase m’chaye hametim for one never dead, our sages let us know that this proclamation can be understood metaphorically. It is as if the rabbis are winking at us saying, see, we covered our bases—we haven’t limited God’s power, but we know that resurrection is not an expected element of the human experience.
Remembering that the rabbis of ancient time, and every generation since, struggled with how to read passages of scripture, law and liturgy strengthens our contemporary relationship with these texts. We not only have permission to engage in exegetical explorations of the text, it is our obligation to do so when we encounter text that—to our estimation—does not conform to logic.
Saying michayei hametim in the Amidah is a declaration of faith in God’s infinite power. The question that arises in our day addresses whether the b’rakha still relevant upon seeing a friend—are there many occasions of truly losing touch with a friend in the modern, connected world? But I argue that the usage of this b’rakha remains applicable, significant and powerful. If we think of Facebook or other evolving forms of social media as the replacement of a relationship, of personal interaction, we lose crucial elements for the human experience. I look directly at friends and see God. I look at Facebook and see a screen.
Seeing old friends at Neely’s funeral, wordlessly interacting with them because no words can describe how we feel, and because no words are needed to understand one another, that is an instance of t’chiyat metim.
Make new friends but keep the old, those are silver, these are gold. My grandmother did not only sing the song, she lived its message. She acquired friends everywhere she went, and maintained friendships through the span of decades. This was solidified for me last year, in all places, on Facebook. One of the interesting functionalities that has evolved is the ability to memorialize the dead. An individual’s profile remains even after she no longer walks this earth, thus giving life to the dead.
Last year, a picture appeared on my news feed that touched my heart. It was posted to the page of Goldie Solot, my grandmother’s super-cool 93 year old friend who used Facebook—which always amazed me since my grandmother never learned how to use any technology innovated after 1950. Goldie had recently passed away, outliving my grandmother by only a few months. Her family and friends were using this space to share stories and post old photographs.
And there they were—Goldie and Annette…friends since the first day of kindergarten. The photo showed them in 1938, at high school graduation. So much was ahead of them—could they have possibly imagined that this friendship would continue for another 75 years, outlasting their marriages, and welcoming not only grandchildren but great-grandchildren? And seeing these old friends smiling with their diplomas, aglow together in the wholeness youth, I couldn’t help but say…barukh atah Adonai mechayei hametim.
Shanah Tova