The Rock of Age

What makes living so difficult is that we have received so many mixed signals.

When we were young, the choices were minimal.  In fact, there were only two: right and wrong.  Life was simple because that was what we were taught and what our intellect could grasp.  Every action of the kids in the sandbox had a definition - it was good or bad.  If little Yankle threw sand into Havvah’s face, Yankle was punished.

As we grew, more messages, often contradicting our primary understanding of behavior, began to emerge.  Now, it was more important to win than lose.  Possessions began to matter to the extent that they defined our life’s purpose.  People who had a lot of things counted for more than people who had less.  Coming out “on top” in school, sports, various competitions, play, music or whatever became the focus of our endeavors.           

About the same time, hues of gray became more numerous than the black and whites of youth.  Truths were fewer while relative or ephemeral truths grew more numerous.  It became harder to tell the good guys from the bad guys.  Now when Yankle threw sand at Havvah, we asked what Havvah did to provoke Yankle.

Growing up brought with it ‘relative morality’.  Nothing was absolute any more.  There were no rights.  No absolute wrongs.  Everything depended upon your viewpoint.  In order to be truly objective, you had to understand every facet of a tale before making a judgment.  Of course, this made making judgments rather difficult, if not impossible.

A legend tells that Abraham and Sarah were the first people to grow old. Until their time, people aged but on the outside their appearance remained the same.  They did not grow wrinkled, infirmed, or stooped.  Young and old looked alike. Father Abraham became distressed because people confused him with his son, Isaac. “Master of the Universe,” he begged, “Make a distinction between father and son, between youth and old age.  In this way the elderly will be honored by the young.”
“Very well,” God replied.  “I will begin with you.” Abraham drifted into sleep.  When we arose the next morning he looked at his reflection in a pool of water: his eyes had grown dim, his hair turned white.  He turned inward.

The story overtly says something about aging.  Yet, under this veneer, the tale also reveals another deeper change that happens with time.  The race with others comes to an end.  “More” did not make us better people.  It did not even have a cap: more was simply a limitless chasm that could never be bridged.   “More” was a yawning, insatiable hunger that refused to be filled.  Beating the competition was also short-lived.  Around the same time, we stopped blaming the victim and instead took their side.  Almost miraculously we discovered that we were born to give, not take.

Maturity, whether it comes early or late, is referred to in our tradition as the “Shabbat of our Life.”  When we finally grow beyond the limitations of relative morality and emerge on the other side of life, a remarkable transformation has happened. 

In the Torah portion of Va-eira, we are told that Moses and Aaron were 80 and 83 when they came to demand the release of the Hebrews from Pharaoh.  Why does the Torah bother to interrupt a vital narrative that will result in the creation Jewish nation to tell their age?  Because, as the Sages tell us, Moses and his brother were not ready to deliver the people, receive the Torah, guide the foundling nation until they reached the age of maturity.

             Time can be a great gift, the greatest one we will ever receive.  “With years, comes understanding” as the Talmud sagely tells.  Like Psalm 91 states, “With age, we will flourish like a cedar of Lebanon.  Planted in the courtyards of our God, we shall bear fruit, even in old age.”  Seek the growth that comes with maturity.