A Celebration of Life
Rosh Hashanah Morning 5786
September 23/24, 2025
Rabbi Alan Cook
Sinai Temple, Champaign, IL
Eighty-five words. The newspaper obituary for my mother, of blessed memory, who died this past November, was eighty-five words long. The obituary the funeral home posted on their website, which allowed us to go into slightly more detail, clocked in at 223 words. What an economy of words to retell the life story of a woman who lived for more than 692,000 hours during her existence on this earth.
How, in that minimal allocation of column-inches, were we expected to summarize the essence of her life, to help those who might choose to read about her over their morning coffee to understand the vibrancy of her many relationships, the brilliance of her educational career, and the multitude of activities into which she immersed herself? Sure, there were—and continue to be—more verbose remembrances in eulogies, condolence letters, remarks shared in loving remembrance. But at the end of the day, we know that no amount of words could ever be sufficient to fully illustrate who she was, and what she continues to mean to me, and to all who loved her.
My mother was a teacher. I mean not only that it was her profession; it was also her defining trait. Beyond the years spent in elementary school classrooms, beyond the mentoring of countless student teachers, she had a knack for transmitting information in a fun and engaging manner, and doing so with clear passion. It was not unusual for former students to reach out to her many years after leaving her class in order to acknowledge her impact. She excelled not only at elementary education, but also was sought after to teach art, cooking, Jewish studies, and many other topics. She taught macrame at a Jewish summer camp; was one of the first in South Florida to lead a class in basic computer skills for kids; and designed and taught a wildly popular hands-on elective course based on the 1970s book The Jewish Catalog[1], teaching teens how to braid challah and craft their own mezuzot. Later in life, she became trained in the classroom management technique “Responsive Classroom,” and mentored countless teachers around the country in its implementation. And of course, there were the indelible life lessons that she taught me and my siblings as she helped to guide us through life. So much of my mother’s life was about teaching—not only facts and skills, but also how to live life fully and meaningfully. In a sense, the stories we continue to tell about our loved ones after they have died attempt to fulfill a similar role, guiding us to draw inspiration from their legacies as we now strive to forge our own paths.
The author John Kenney wrote a humorous novel with the irreverent title, I See You’ve Called in Dead. Though it’s a work of fiction with some rather acerbic wit, it uncovers some profound truths about how we in the western world confront death. The protagonist, Bud Stanley, is an obituary writer for a major news syndicate. In the midst of a personal crisis, he is encouraged by a love interest to attend funerals and wakes for strangers. In the course of doing so, he ruminates on his career, and on the meaning of life.
Kenney notes that perhaps our reticence to think and talk about death is predicated on the fact that we’re afraid to die, because we’re not sure we’ve ever really lived.[2] One character opines that “the brevity [of life] forces you to make choices about what things to focus on and care about…like life itself.”[3]
My mother had many passions she focused upon which enriched her life. For at least a decade, she chanted the Akeda, the story of the binding of Isaac that is our Torah portion for today, at Congregation Emanuel in Denver, Colorado. Many of you know that I often tell our B’nai Mitzvah students of my belief that the parsha and the student mystically find one another. That is, I think that each student ends up with the Torah portion containing a kernel of wisdom that is precisely appropriate for them. I think the same thing happened with my mother and the Akeda. I regret that I never took the opportunity to ask my mother for her own drash on this well-known story, but at least for this year, I’d like to suggest that a key theme of this narrative is how we live when we know we are dying.
In Kenney’s novel, a character speaks about a group of nuns who practice memento mori— the act of remembering that you die. He says, “They sit and pray, meditating on this notion, that in every action we should remember, have to remember, that we die. When they were asked if it was depressing, they said no, quite the opposite. They said it makes life so…almost impossibly beautiful.”[4]
Each of us knows, in the back of our minds, that we are mortal. Unlike the nuns, we probably don’t consciously incorporate that knowledge into our daily lives. As I noted earlier, Western society has maintained a longstanding cultural taboo against talking openly about death. A Sanskrit text called the Mahabharata points to this discomfort, teaching, “The greatest wonder is that every day, all around us, people die, but we act as if it couldn’t happen to us.”[5]
The fact that the action in the Akeda narrative revolves around child sacrifice provides a discomfiting backdrop. At least for the first time reader or listener, the tension is palpable; there is a very real chance that Isaac will not survive the ordeal. But if we can bring ourselves to look beyond this terrifying possibility, we can see that arguably, the entire Akeda story unfolds because the three key players in it—Abraham, Isaac, and God—are each starkly aware of human mortality. The narrative plays out with each of them responding in markedly different ways to this reality.
For Abraham, the Akeda would appear to be about cementing his legacy. He wants to prove his fealty to God who has given him a direct command. At the same time, he must recognize that if he goes through with the act, if Isaac is killed, then he will have no one to carry on the novel experiment of monotheism. Through his obedience he underscores the importance of his faith; thanks to Divine intervention, he is also able to have Isaac carry his name and his renown into the future.
My mother left me and my siblings a similarly strong legacy, built on both pride in our Jewish heritage and on celebrating the importance of family. In partnership with my father, she instilled in us a passion for Jewish tradition and culture which each of us, in our own way, have carried forward. And she has her loving husband, children, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren—in addition to countless other relatives, friends, and students—who continue to draw inspiration from her teaching, her energy, and her passions.
For each of us, the Akeda challenges us to consider what we wish our own legacies to be. How will we be remembered? How will pass on our core values to those who come after us, so that our names will continue to be remembered for blessing?
In contrast to his father, Isaac in the Akeda narrative is contemplating a life not yet lived. While he is no longer a mere boy—midrash teaches that he was 37 at the time of the event[6]—he knows that he still has experiences ahead of him including marriage, raising children, and forging his own legacy. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught that the key lesson that the Akeda teaches us through Isaac’s presence is that “a child is not the property of their parents.”[7] Abraham cannot just presume that Isaac will follow in his footsteps worshipping only one God. Indeed, tradition tells us that each of our patriarchs (and matriarchs) had to forge their own relationships with God, which is why we mention them each individually in our liturgy during the Amidah.
Author Brandon Sanderson has written, “We are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us.”[8] Isaac is certainly shaped by this journey to Mount Moriah and the events that take place there. The Akeda represents the only recorded direct interaction that he has with his father, and one of only a handful of stories in the Torah that give us any insight into his life. But whether we read the lack of contact between Abraham and Isaac as stemming from a gentle laissez faireapproach to parenting or a colder estrangement, we can see that Isaac is given ample opportunity to forge his own path as he determines what he will take with him from his father’s instruction and what he will create for himself.
In many ways, my mother was like Isaac, allowing herself to be shaped by the journey. She was not blessed with a great sense of direction, so in the days before GPS, every car trip was deemed an adventure, and required one to maintain faith that eventually you would arrive at your destination. But perhaps more significantly, my mother was always seeking new opportunities, building new friendships, learning new skills. Even in her final weeks, she shared how she aspired to do more travelling, play more pickleball, and take more walks with friends outside. Moreover, she cheered on others as they forged new paths. Neither I nor either of my siblings are in the careers we initially pursued, and each of our turns to these alternate tracks were gently encouraged by both my mother and father.
Isaac and my mother each embody an ideology that reminds us to leave no stone unturned in the pursuit of a meaningful and fulfilling life. As the protagonist of Kenney’s novel states, “The thing we’ve been waiting for? It’s right here, right now in front of us. Do it now. Whatever it is. Do that thing that honors life.”[9] As we prepare to enter a new year, we should embrace this chance to discover new talents and explore new horizons.
At the heart of the Akeda story, we find God. What is God’s role in this narrative? How does the Divine Presence drive the action?
In the Akeda, God can be seen to represent the continuity of tradition. Like each of the human players in the story, God is similarly concerned with legacy—God’s own legacy, that is. Abraham has proven himself faithful; Isaac has thus far gone along for the ride. But in the long-term, will humanity’s end of the covenant be maintained? Will there still be people around to celebrate the faith, to call upon God, to enable God to do what God does best?
According to the rabbis, the Akeda was God’s tenth and final test of Abraham’s faith.[10] Whether Abraham passed or failed is a question for another time. What is clear, as odd as it may be to say such a thing about God, is that like all of us, God wants positive feedback—an assurance that even when the stakes are high, we will reciprocate the unequivocal love that God has shown to us.
When our loved ones depart this earth, perhaps that’s the most important assurance we can provide to them, as well. We pledge to carry forward their traditions as we honor their memory. We promise to spread to others the same love that they showed us during their lifetimes. As Morrie Schwartz reminds us in Tuesdays With Morrie, “Death ends a life, not a relationship.”[11]
I made promises to my mother, both explicit and implied, to keep her memory alive by celebrating her personality and her traditions. I reflect upon how she would take pride in her grandchildren’s achievements, and how they have each continued to develop traits and interests that echo hers. The past ten months or so of my mourning process have felt at times like a test. I find myself pondering what my mother might have advised in a given situation, or wonder whether a choice I’m making suitably honors her memory. Of course, this is part of the normal grieving process; I don’t claim that I’m unique in this regard. And I also understand that this is not a test that my mother has consciously imposed on me, but rather one I’ve created for myself through longing and through love.
In the Torah, the Akeda ends with a bit of a question mark. Isaac has been spared, with the ram offered in his place. Abraham emerges from the test with his son still alive, and his relationship to God secure. And God is assured that the covenant established with Abraham will be carried forward into the next generation. But what comes next? Abraham and Isaac’s relationship is indelibly changed; they do not speak again in the Torah text. God never again refers to the incident. There has been a seismic shift, but no one wants to directly address it.
Those of us who have experienced bereavement have sometimes felt the same way. We lack the vocabulary, not to mention sufficient time and space, to adequately celebrate the ones we loved. Next week during yizkor we will make mention of many other beloved individuals from our congregation and community; my mother certainly was not the only soul lost this year. But she was mine. I pray that this insufficient ode, like the other obituaries and tributes already shared, will help to honor her memory. And I pray that those of you whose lives have also been touched by loss this year find your own meaningful ways to keep love and memory alive. Kenney’s book reminds us, “What death dares us to do, is celebrate it. To celebrate the gift of life in its fleeting face.”[12]
It's a new year. May we celebrate it, and its many blessings, with joy, even as we treasure the memories of people and years that are no longer with us. As Kenney writes, “[Our] script is unfinished. But we believe the story we’ve been telling ourselves about who we are and where our life leads. The story isn’t written yet…[So] here we are, all of us, on this lovely day, alive. What are we going to do with that?”[13]
May we live this year, and all future years we each are blessed to enjoy, in such a way that when our script is finished—God-willing, many years from now—the story of our life will be one to be long-remembered.
Shana Tova.
[1] Siegel, Richard, Michael Strassfeld, and Sharon Strassfeld The Jewish Catalog, (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1973).
[2] A paraphrase of a segment from p. 225 of Kenney, John I See You;ve Called in Dead (New York: Zibby Publishing, 2025)
[3] Ibid, p. 67
[4] Ibid, p. 50
[5] Quoted in ibid, p. 265
[6] Genesis Rabbah 56:8
[7] Retrieved from https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/vayera/the-binding-of-isaac/ September 10, 2025
[8] Sanderson, Brandon The Way of Kings (New York: Tor Books, 2010)
[9] Kenney, p. 181
[10] See, for instance, Rambam on Pirke Avot 5:3
[11] Albom, Mitch. Tuesdays With Morrie (New York: Doubleday, 1997)
[12] Kenney, p. 262
[13] Kenney, p. 216; 267
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