Shaarei Shamayim

TOLDOT 5771

Have you ever been so exasperated or heartbroken with your children that you threw your hands in the air in frustration asking why you ever became a parent in the 1^st place? Rebecca does that and more in today’s parsha even before her children are born.

Rebecca was infertile. For years, she and Isaac had tried to have a child and failed. Month after month, year after year, they try and hope and pray for a child—to no avail. When she finally became pregnant, it should have been a time of the greatest joy. Rebecca’s pregnancy, however, was very difficult. There were 2 children struggling within her womb, and the pain of her pregnancy was almost unendurable. And so she shrieks out to her husband: Im keyn, lama zeh anochi, “If this is my situation, then why should I go on living?”

We feel for Rebecca as she cries out in anguish. Who cannot feel for a woman whose pain is so great that she doesn’t want to live? And yet, forgive me for saying so, but it seems to me that her pain was not really so terrible. After all, it was only temporary. Even if it lasted for the whole 9 months of her pregnancy, still, 9 months is not such a long time in the total scheme of things. It seems like a bit of an overreaction.

The Sages of the Midrash try to understand what caused her anguish. One says it was the knowledge that she was going to give birth to twins, and if they were already fighting with each other before they were even born, what was to be after? Another says that it was the anguish that Isaac might have to choose between his children just like his father Abraham did.

Justified or not, when a person feels that his/her life has no purpose, when a person feels that he/she has no reason to go on living, it’s an awful thing. And so we feel for Rebecca and understand how deep is her pain and her anguish.

There is probably only one thing worse than a person who feels that he/she has no reason to go on living. It’s when parents come to feel that their child has no reason to live. Parents start out with such high hopes for their children. They dream and fantasize about how brilliant and how talented they’re going to be. They play classical music and read for them while they’re still in the womb so that they’ll acquire a love of music and literature. Expectant mothers watch their diets every day of their pregnancy, and they obey every instruction that they receive from their doctors, in order to make sure that their child will be born well. And then?

What do you do when you find out that your child is not well and never will be? What if your child has been born with a congenital defect—like Spina Bifida, or Down’s syndrome, or Muscular Dystrophy, or a Jewish genetic disease like Tay-Sachs? What do you do when you look at your child and realize that this child will never be able to have a life like other children? What do you do when you realize that this child—who is your future—has such a difficult future ahead?

If you’re human, you scream out the same words that Rebecca screamed. You say to Gd, with all the anger you can muster: Im keyn, lama zeh bini, “If this is its future, what reason for living does my child have? Why does my child live?”

There are no easy answers to this question. But I’d like to share with you the testimony of one parent who is living with this. Andrew Goldsmith is the director of the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary [my rabbinical school] and the Center for the Jewish Future at Yeshiva University—and he is the father of a highly impaired autistic child.

I think that the fact that he heads a rabbinical school and the Center for the Jewish Future sharpens the question. Here’s a good pious person; how can this be happening to him? He is the director of the Center for the Jewish Future, what kind of future will his child have? Perhaps he thinks, “What did I do wrong to bring about this calamity? What did this innocent child who came into this world in purity and goodness, do to merit such a life?”

Goldsmith and his wife have struggled with the question of what earthly—or heavenly—purpose can there be to their child’s life? Who does it benefit and what purpose does it serve to have such a handicapped child? He recently wrote an article for The Jewish Week that tries to answer this gut-wrenching cry:

A few years ago, my wife and I joined an elite club, the club of parents “with a special needs child,” the hardcore group of those whom others respond to with, “thank Gd that’s not my kid,” or, “It’s not polite to stare at him”. We fought it kicking and screaming all the way, but a nursery school teacher’s call that our child was not playing with the other children brought us, 6 months later, to a diagnosis of autism.

            3½ years into the battle, it’s still touch and go, and despite monumental amounts of therapy and expense, autism is still ahead. It is an extraordinarily cruel disability. Those who are stricken with it usually have average or above average intelligence, but lack the ability to communicate. That part of the brain is simply set to “off.” The essential human need to communicate is there, but the tools with which to do so simply are not.

            The experts said that a typical school environment provides our son with the best chance of success—the chance to “rewire” himself, as one doctor put it. We found a Chabad nursery school that, although bursting at the seams, nevertheless accepted and embraced our son. From there we sent him to a yeshiva that—in boldly fighting a long-standing prejudice against special-needs children—bravely welcomes these children, despite all their disabilities, and permits them to attend classes alongside other children. It’s very hard for our son. Every day is a real struggle.

What emerges, though, is the growing realization that he will probably never be like the other kids. He will probably never be able to have a meaningful relationship, or feel love, or raise a family, or experience all the beauty that our world contains. No matter what our affiliation, we Jews define our value in this world by service to Gd, the Creator of all (and autism too), whether through acts of kindness or study of Torah or by living wholesome, meaningful lies. If so, what possible meaning can the life of our son who lacks the ability to communicate possibly have?

            I have the privilege of teaching at a university that excels in teaching our students to strive for excellence. What kind of excellence can my son or any other special-needs child, be capable of? What contribution can my child make to the world besides serving as an object of pity?

            About a month after I wallowed in these thoughts, my son’s teacher quite innocently told me about something that happened on the school playground. Yeshiva Darchei Torah, which is the school he attends, is filled with 1^st-rate teachers, but tight on funding, and so there is apparently only one toy car that all the boys can play with during recess. They line up in some semblance of order, and each child gets a chance to drive the car. My son, whose name is Shimmy, can’t express his desires verbally, but wanting to be part of the action, he got into the line too.

            Comes his turn, and some other boy from another class pushes him out of the way, yelling: “You don’t get a turn!” knowing full well that there’s not much Shimmy can do about it. A split second later, 2 of Shimmy’s classmates (may their children be blessed forever) yell back: “Everybody gets a turn!” and help my son into the car where, with a broad grin, he gets his turn. In fact, they give him three turns—his own and theirs!

            Some people say that we should be nice to special-needs children because it is chesed (kindness), and because it is the Jewish thing to do. I would like to offer another reason, which is that typical children gain more from having my son, Shimmy, in their class than he ever will. Shimmy’s classmates develop personal principles. They develop the ability to assume an advocacy role for a friend with disabilities, not because the teacher says they should, but by instinct born of watching him struggle to succeed. Every day my son is in class, he teaches those around him (and his parents too) great life lessons; in tolerance, in understanding, and in patience. It’s true of his classmates, and it is true of all those who associate with special needs children or adults.

So what is Shimmy’s purpose in life?  One could do far worse.

We feel for Andrew Goldsmith and his wife and at the same time we are awed and inspired by their courage and unqualified love. In the parsha, Rebecca gave birth to her 2 children. And after she did, all those questions of: “Why do I live?” “And what is the purpose of my pain?” faded from her memory as she focused, not on the pain of her pregnancy but on the task of how to raise her children.

For those who are engaged in a struggle like Shimmy’s parents, a struggle that goes on for more than 9 months—a struggle that does not end as simply and as quickly as Rebecca’s did—I pray that the answer of Andrew Goldsmith and the answers that were given by their son Shimmy’s little classmates may enlighten.

Just because a child doesn’t embody our initial vision of the life we hoped for him/her doesn’t mean their life is not a blessing. Yes Shimmy and every impaired or disabled child is also an image of Gd, a holy soul whose life has meaning and purpose and can enrich the lives of everyone around them. May Gd bless them and may we be so enriched. Amen! (With gratitude to Rabbi Jack Reimer who shared this story with me and his approach to it.)

Rabbi Mark Hillel Kunis

11/6/10