The People of the Book

By Rabbi Elyse Winick
Associate Director for KOACH

My house overflows with books. That's a source of great joy and, at times, great consternation. There just isn't room for all of them and they aren't well catalogued. But there's no way I could live without them.

Nothing compares to standing in a bookstore or a library, feeling overwhelmed and strangely nurtured by the volumes and volumes I will never get to read. I have very intense memories of the neighborhood bookstore of my childhood, thousands of books crammed into a tiny storefront, shelves towering high above my head. Just to step through the doorway and inhale was a compelling experience for me.

For me, it's all about books.

When I was a rabbinical student, one of our graduation requirements was a rotation as a hospital chaplain. It was a responsibility I approached with some trepidation. Hospitals, illness and death are my kryptonite.

I signed up for a training program at a Boston area hospital, determined to fight my demons and conquer the challenge. On the first day, we spent much of our time meeting one another and discussing the conceptual aspects of what we would be doing. We didn't meet a single patient or family, though we reviewed what those visits should include. At the day's end, I went to the bookstore and bought at least 12 books on pastoral care, from Jewish, secular and even Christian perspectives. I was sure that books would be the key to my comfort. I stacked them next to the bed, tucked in cozily next to them and went to sleep.

In the morning, I woke up and called the director of the program to tell him that I was dropping out. All the books in the world were not going to get me through the door. I was embarrassed – I'd never given up on anything before, no matter how difficult. But I just wasn't ready. I took a summer job at a desk and tried not to think about it.

When I returned to school, I knew that I had no choice but to fulfill the requirement. Working through a contact at a hospital nearby, I set up a one-on-one internship with the in-house priest, shadowing him at the beginning and, eventually, seeing patients on my own. It was a grueling experience. But it had to be done.

Today, when a call comes that pulls me into the danger zone of illness and death, it takes me a few minutes to settle in, but I can open myself to the vulnerability that comes of other people's pain and be there for them. What I have learned from books about the experience of being present for others in those circumstances is invaluable, it's true. But it could never compare to what I learned from jumping in and doing it.

My teacher Rabbi Yaakov Rosenberg z"l left me with many gifts, all carefully recorded in a tiny notebook I diligently brought to his class. One which I do not need to read to remember was, "Judaism cannot be taught, it can only be caught."

It's true. We are the people of the book. That legacy should never be discounted. But even the study of our sacred literature is meant to happen in community, with a partner with whom to study and the ruckus of other pairs learning all around us. Books may be the foundation, but being in relationship with other people is truly living Judaism. All that has been written, quite beautifully, about what it means to observe Shabbat can't possibly compare with experiencing Shabbat. All that one might read about the sociology of community can't compare with being part of a community.

Judaism isn't a laboratory religion, or even a library religion. At a certain point we need to put our books aside and put what we have learned into practice. Only then can we give life and meaning to the words on the page.

[Posted 12/7/10]