D’var Torah for
Parashat Lech Lecha
October 27, 2017
In Memory Of Michael
J. Mingo
I admire Abraham our Father—Avraham Avinu—the first Patriarch of the Jewish People.
A man of love—so much so that, setting out on a journey to a
new world and a new religion, he didn’t go it alone, but rather took along his
whole household, including his orphaned nephew, Lot, whom Abram and Sarai (as
they were called then) were raising as their own.
A man of compassion, who fearlessly—though respectfully—stood
up to God to plead the cause of perhaps two handfuls of good people who—he
believed—must be there among all
those other, evil, men of Sodom, a people God had vowed to obliterate one and
all, young and old.
A man of such great faith, that upon hearing God’s command
to set out on his sacred journey, he obeyed at once—obediently,
unquestioningly—leaving behind family, people, and the warm comfort of home.
A man whose trust in God was so perfect that he needed no
guide, no Sherpa to show him the way, who with full certainty knew that God—and
God alone—would be his guiding light.
A truly great man.
I wish I were like that.
But I’m not. I’m a lot less trusting; my faith is not
blind—at least one eye is always open, to see what might be coming around the
curve. As they say, the light at the end
of the tunnel just might be that of an oncoming train.
Unlike Abraham, I am a simple man, whose search for justice
is sometimes obstructed by a stronger urge for vengeance. And I never go anywhere unfamiliar without a
map. Unlike Abraham, I need guides and
landmarks, pictures and arrows to show me the way.
One of these guides in my life was a man named Michael
Mingo. Mr. Mingo was my English and
Creative Writing teacher in high school.
And just recently I learned that he passed away last year.
When I first arrived in the United States, my knowledge of
English was almost non-existent. It took
teachers like Mr. Mingo to help me master the maze of rules and exceptions with
which English is riddled. Having left
behind my childhood friends and familiar ways of expressing myself, I turned to
creative writing as a mode of self-expression.
And when, one day, Mr. Mingo returned a short work I had turned in with
the comment, “Hey, that’s pretty good!” I felt as though I had just won the
lottery. A term paper I wrote in Mr.
Mingo’s class on the novels of William Golding—the Nobel Prize-winning author
of Lord Of The Flies—taught me much
about characterization and interpretation, providing me with tools that I use
to this day in my own writing.
There were many other lessons I learned from Mr. Mingo, but
most of all I appreciated him because he showed me a way to get past the
language barrier that stood in my way, enabling me to grow and mature both as a
person and as a writer.
Fortunately, we all have these guides in our lives. Some of them show us a way to understand
ourselves, while others encourage us to follow a particular path. Some teach by example; others cheer us on along
the way.
This week’s Torah portion, Lech Lecha (Genesis 12:1—17:27), tells of Abraham’s journey to an
unknown land. Lech Lecha, perhaps by coincidence, perhaps not, was also the
portion for which I wrote my senior sermon as a rabbinic student at Hebrew
Union College. I remember wrestling with
the idea—the ideal—of Abraham’s unlimited and unquestioning faith and trust in
God. My advisor wisely suggested that
perhaps Abraham presents a model for us—a model of perfection— against which to
measure ourselves, but not necessarily to emulate. Would you, after all, be willing, without
question, to sacrifice your wife or child the moment you thought
you heard God’s voice telling you to do that?
I suspect most of us would be more like the prophet Jonah, who chose to
run away and hide in the belly of a ship, or of a great fish, to sink into the
darkest depths of the sea, rather than to simply obey God. No, Abraham’s faith is very different from our
own, but it is against this model of perfection that the Jewish People has been
measuring its faith, along its journey through the ages.
We measure—and often find ourselves wanting. We struggle with our beliefs. Science, facts, history, our own
circumstances, daily events, all lead us to doubt ourselves, our faith, and the
faith of our fathers. We don’t read in Lech Lecha about any misgiving that Abraham
might have had along his journey. But
we
have them.
Unlike Abraham, who trusted God to show him the way, we need
guides. We need people to encourage us
when our faith flags; to cheer us on when all about we see a rising tide of
hatred; when we feel disheartened by the collapse of our ideals; when our dreams
of a just, fair and equal society are shattered by events that fill the evening
news. We need their light and example when
dark cynicism and irony threaten our previously innocent existence.
Perhaps that’s what the story of Abraham offers us: Not a
model of impossible faith, but rather a beacon that keeps us marching on the
right path.
I believe almost all of us have a Mr. Mingo—or someone like
him—in our lives. It might be a teacher,
a parent, or even a rabbi. A past student of mine is now a student at Cornell
University. As you might know, Cornell
has recently experienced a spate of ugly anti-Semitism. My student, always immersed in her Judaism,
is active with the Cornell University Hillel.
Though she felt personally threatened by the posters and messages of
hate, she organized counter-rallies and demonstrations; she invited professors
to speak about anti-Semitism on campus and encouraged the entire community to
attend; she wrote letters to the administration, to the student newspaper, and
to the ADL. When I messaged her with words
of support and encouragement, she replied that she had long carried with her a
lesson she learned from me, about the meaning of the word Yisrael—Israel: that being
Jewish often entails wrestling with people and even with God.
And maybe—at least for this time around—this to me is the
lesson of Abraham’s great faith. Not so
much that he was perfect. He had his
flaws—as do we all. But rather,
Abraham’s faith is a beacon, a warning, a message sent across the
centuries: There are times to fight, and
times to take flight. There are times to
argue, and times to keep silent. The
challenge is to know when to do which, and then do it wholeheartedly, with
courage and even daring.
All along our journeys, there are guides seemingly just waiting
for us, mentors who, with a message or lesson, with a kind word—or, sometimes, if
necessary, with a stern word—who, with understanding, compassion and love, hold
up for us a shining lamp to show us the way.
They are a true gift, a blessing to us all. And what we hope for in return is that some
day, we
can be that person for someone else.
So goodbye, Mr. Mingo, and thank you. Your lessons from so long ago still live
through my work and life today. Your
memory is an ongoing blessing in my life.
May we all be so fortunate and blessed to have kind and wise
mentors in our lives; and may we, like Abraham, but each of us in our own way
and day, be there for others, to hold up similar lights of love, compassion,
faith and trust, to show the path forward for all who might need guides along
their journeys.
Ken y’hi ratzon,
may this be God’s will
© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman
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