A Chaplain in Wolf’s Clothing

“Why are you just sitting here, staring at me like one of my cats?”

This is what a patient nearing the end of his life said to Rabbi Susan Landau Moss during one of her visits to him. In this guest post, Rabbi Moss shows both the gripping literary qualities a dialogue between a patient and a chaplain can build, as well as the poignant moments that can lift the interaction to a level out of the ordinary. She calls the patient Dom, and tells us, he had “been an in-demand house painter mere weeks before, and now he could not get to the bathroom without help.  At only 57 he was confined to a hospital bed.” Excerpts from her moving story appear below:

I settled in for another visit with Dom, fully prepared for what had become an established routine.  Dom was annoyed at best, aggravated at worst, driven to madness by his sudden lack of control over everything. 

Why are you just sitting here, staring at me like one of my cats?” 

I sat quietly while he surveyed his surroundings and dictated what my housekeeping tasks would be.  I needed to earn his trust each time I visited, and I did so by calmly consolidating cups of ginger ale, refilling ice pitchers, and rearranging his clunky furniture just so. I did it humbly, knowing I, too, would be desperate for someone patient and obedient to help me organize my life if I were stuck in a bed.  Once his basic needs were met, Dom’s prickly exterior softened.  He would turn to me and ask, “How are you today?”  Our real conversation could begin. 

Shortly after we first met Dom helped me get to know him by explaining to me: his spirit animal was the wolf, because he felt alone in the world, yet he also craved a sense of closeness and belonging.  He was estranged from his father, not even sure where the man was living, and disconnected from everyone else who might have once been close to him.  Yet later in life, he had finally found the bond he’d yearned for in his friend, Bill, and Bill’s family.  And whether he used those words or not, it was his dying wish to commit his gratitude to writing so he could know that Bill understood. 

Dom had determined that he needed to write a letter to Bill, his best friend (his only friend).  He was also certain he was incapable of writing something good enough.  “How can you capture in writing what is true in blood?” he lamented.  I felt my eyebrows knit together, matching his anguish.  Who knew this ornery wolf was so poetic in his yearning?   

We explored the letter-writing task from every angle.  I have done this dance with patients before.  The temptation to neatly capture heartfelt sentiment in a tidy package to be presented with sincerity on one’s dying breath…it is compelling as to be a nearly impossible feat.  How many times have I spoken to patients who want nothing more than to write such confessions, love notes, legacies, only to end up paralyzed by a new form of terminal writer’s block. 

I checked in with Dom the next day to find that he had agonized over his writing all night.  He had produced a single line.  Actually, he had produced two equally imperfect potential single lines, having gotten stuck on the salutation.  “Should I say, ‘to Bill, my brother and friend, or ‘Dear Bill, the one true friend I ever had’?”  It was even worse than I had anticipated. 

I had wanted to empower Dom to produce something all on his own.  After all, the idea had been entirely his.  I felt conflicted… But as soon as I offered to help him, Dom’s words began to flow.  It was halting at first.  I took dictation, assisted with word selection.  I offered reassurance after reassurance that his sincerity and gratitude radiated through each painstakingly wrought turn of phrase…

Finally, after a couple days, the letter was ready. But composing it had been only the first step.  Dom explained that it needed to be read out loud so Bill could hear it in his voice.  Otherwise, he feared, it would be too impersonal.  The problem was that Dom knew he could not read the letter without crying, and this simply could not happen in front of Bill.  Thus, I received my next assignment: to read Dom’s letter out loud to his friend without Dom present.

The experience brought me back to middle school, the task of passing notes between two classmates who blushed at the thought of confronting their crushes face to face.  In a charting room reserved just for us, I sat facing Bill.  I read him his friend’s letter while Bill fidgeted and averted his eyes.  He nodded stiffly, every bit the former police officer Dom described him as.  “It’s nothing he hasn’t already told me,” he mumbled when I finished.  But when I offered the printout I had read from, he carefully folded it and held on tight.

I said goodbye to Bill and headed back to Dom’s room.  The wolf looked up with wide teary eyes.  “What did he say?  Did he like it?”  Neither grown man could confess their feelings out loud.  But I saw the truth when I left them to watch their last football game together.  Two buddies, who might as well have been wrestling around the den under the mother wolf’s approving gaze.

Dom died a lone wolf.  At the end he was alone in a hospital room, incensed because paint thinners were not allowed in the hospital (even so a dying man could work on his beloved model car), and from knowing he would never be able to paint again anyway.  When he cursed at me about the paint thinners—the latest of many insults– his words retained their sharpness, but I had to sit closer to him to hear.  Dom’s body seemed almost pinned to the bed as it became harder for him to sit up and gesticulate. He fell asleep easily, which made me feel sad.  And it also felt like mercy. 

  Dom used to start our visits with brusque barbs and snarky remarks.  He was also the man who, on multiple occasions, shocked us both by tearfully asking for a “healing hug from someone who really understands.”  Despite his wounds, he was capable of deep friendship forged late in life.  He died alone, but he died knowing that his friend understood what a gift that connection was.  And he gave me the gift of being –ever so briefly – welcomed into their pack.

*************************

Rabbi Susan Landau Moss, Board Certified Chaplain, is the palliative care chaplain at Yale New Haven Hospital’s Saint Raphael Campus.  Prior to serving in this role she was the first palliative care chaplain at Bridgeport Hospital, in the same system, and integrally involved in establishing their outpatient palliative care program.  In addition to palliative care, she developed an interest and specialty in the growing field of telechaplaincy, an essential tool during and after the pandemic.  She was involved in organizing the first international telechaplaincy conference in 2022.  Susan graduated from Brandeis University and was ordained by Hebrew Union College in New York.  She lives in an adorable small town in Connecticut with her husband, “the other Rabbi Moss,” their son, and cat.

Short Story: Talking Past Each Other One Galaxy At A Time

The three Earthling news reporters from Newark, New Jersey couldn’t imagine what the Perfect Worlders in a galaxy sort of far away did for news. What would they report on if there were no wars, plagues, swindles, political upheavals, discrimination, no other crime of any kind, and not even accidental violent deaths? These newspaperpeople were stationed for a month at Perfect World to find out. Martha, with decades of experience as a reporter, figured at least the answer to that would itself be newsworthy. Tina and Clarence, less experienced, were skeptical about there being no bad news at all and were all set to dig deep for some dirt there.

Flammel, a Perfect World reporter responsible for their orientation to Perfect, welcomed the three into their lodgings. Flam (for short) aiming to make the Earthlings comfortable, asked them to describe what it was like to be reporters on Earth. To Flam’s bafflement, the three were anything but comfortable. They were ashamed to speak of all the evils of the human race and even more embarrassing, the eagerness of readers to learn all about such things. When SheHe coaxed a few examples from them, this made the conversation even more awkward, even though they tried to give relatively less heinous examples, such as a politician spending public money on luxuries. SheHe gasped and also felt a very rare feeling, anxiety, followed by other alien feelings, pity and dismay. Quickly Flam changed the topic to what the Perfect Worlders typically report on, as HerHis job was to make their visit as perfect as possible.

Flam distributed a few copies from various newspapers so that the Earthlings could see what in fact they wrote about. Martha looked at one called The Utopian Daily. Like on Earth, there were sections on sports, the arts, fashion and so on. She turned to the front pages to see what they did for headline news. The top story was, Governor of the North Province expressed grief at having missed shaking the hand of one of HisHer fans at a sporting event; all 456 citizens present had their hands shaken except for that one supremely unfortunate soul. The Governor has vowed to make amends by inviting that fan to a private dinner with HisHer immediate family.

Martha marveled at this, saying, “You think YOU have problems.” Clarence and Tina said, “That poor poor Governor. How will HeShe ever recover from that foul deed? This has to be satire.” Flam did not understand irony and sarcasm, as all language on HerHis planet was taken literally. To Martha Flam said, “Well, yes, we do have problems like that, and unfortunately more frequently than we would care to admit, but we must be honest and strive to improve.” To the others Flam said, “Well, let’s not exaggerate how transgressive the Governor was; after the dinner, all was forgiven as it turned out.”

After the Earthlings left, the Perfect Worlders reported their experience with the three newspeople in The Utopian. The headline read, “Three Guest Reporters from Planet Earth Give the Worst News Ever Heard”. The opening sentences were, “The worst news imaginable is that natives on other planets deliberately do bad things. Strangely, when the three Earthlings read our own newspapers, they seemed to think our own news was bad. We are sure this baffles our readers, who have never heard of anyone deliberately doing wrong, yet these Earthlings were disturbed by unintentional wrong…”

Upon their return to Earth, Martha and Clarence and Rita had the following headline in the opinion page of The Star Ledger: “Perfect World Reporters Indulge in Sarcasm”. And here are their opening sentences: “The top story in their newspaper, The Utopian Daily, featured a governor who did nothing wrong except omit one of his (her? their?) fans from having their hand shaken while all the rest of his fellows got to indulge in that pleasure. Surely this was humor on their part, or possibly code for something the governor did that was truly unseemly. Our host, Flammel, was most deceitful, sticking to the story that was printed there as a thing to take literally. Perhaps when our reporters take their next trip to Perfect Planet, they will find the dirt and expose the truth both to the natives there as well as to the people here on Earth.”

A day later, an editor’s note appeared in The Star Ledger: “Upon our return to Earth, we found another article from The Utopian that we had mistakenly taken back with us. It was all about a doctor’s office where a patient had to wait a whole five minutes before being seen. The article concludes, ‘An absolutely unheard of wait time. Readers can only hope that will be the longest wait ever witnessed in their lifetime.’ And all we can say to that is they have a very active imagination.”

Yep, This Author Qualifies: Offbeat Yet Compassionate

If I’m feeling compelled to look into an author, usually the title is what pulls me in. This time, it was Leaf Seligman’s bio, and of course her first name. The bio reads,

“Leaf Seligman considers herself a daughter of the trees, grateful to live in Maple Nation and be close enough to spend time among beloved copper beeches. She has taught in colleges, prisons. and community settings since 1985. As a restorative practitioner, Leaf draws on her experience as a jail chaplain, prisoner educator, congregational minister, college instructor, and human being. She facilitates peacekeeping circles, immersive learning experiences, and restorative processes of accountability, healing, and transformation. Leaf delights in bringing tenderness everywhere. Her previous books include Opening the Window: Sabbath Meditations, A Pocket Book of Prompts, and From the Midway: Unfolding Stories of Redemption and Belonging.”

I thought, aha! I’ve found that rare combination, offbeat yet compassionate. A daughter of the trees? Wikipedia says that restorative practices “ include the use of informal and formal processes that precede (sic) wrongdoing, those that proactively build relationships and a sense of community to prevent conflict and wrongdoing.” These circles give people a safe place to express their opinions and feelings. Oh yes, the title: Being Restorative, which will be out in late March. If you are so inclined and want a link to the book, it’s https://bauhanpublishing.com/shop/being-restorative/

Here is an excerpt about creating a safe space with a community circle in a spiritual setting:

“On a frigid Sunday in January, I led worship for a dozen hearty souls who lovingly labor to keep their lay-led congregation afloat…After the service and some time for fellowship, eight of us gathered near a window as the sunshine streamed in, to practice what I had just preached. We arranged our chairs in a circle and I pulled out a talking piece, a handmade metal key ring with lavender macramé. [ My note: which the author assures me looks something like this: https://www.etsy.com/listing/1042589522/lavender-macrame-keychain-boho-macrame ], and invited folks to speak about whatever felt pressing. Because we have done this several times, folks knew the guidelines: no interruptions, no cross talk, always the option to pass, speaking from our lived experience in the first person, replacing judgment with curiosity and extending compassion. The talking piece traveled clockwise around the circle. As each person spoke, the rest of us listened. In that hour, we provided a refuge from all that was not genuine and gave voice to questions and on-the-spot reflections. [Such as, battling mental illness, expressing grief, and dissatisfaction with religion]We acknowledged our true nature and worth and met our wholeness with tenderness. Not surprisingly, some people find the circle the most worshipful part of the morning because the act of circle allows us to experience unadulterated connection and belonging.”

Just by looking over this one paragraph and doing a little research into circles and restorative practices, this reminds me, as one of Leaf’s reviewers said, “how reckoning with compassion can yield lasting repair.” Anything that leads us there gets a spotlight here, on offbeatcompassion.

The Innards Of A Conversation

While I was in the waiting room of my gynecologist, I wanted to distract myself from the impending discomfort of the doc’s examination. So I initiated some superficial banter with another patient who was there who I will call Lenore. She seemed glad I did, not looking displeased at all with my ultra safe conversation opener: “Pretty good weather to be getting things like this done, isn’t it?.” Just several seconds later, she leapt past the small talk and got to something of concern. I couldn’t help it; my chaplain radar went up and off I went to give her some space to air her feelings.

My notes of the conversation follow, but with some unusual annotations. The actual speech is in quotes. In my part of the interaction, I put my thoughts about what Lenore was saying in parenthesis. In hers, I imagine her supposed thoughts and put them in brackets. Of course I couldn’t know what she thought but it might be revealing to guess. Chaplains and social workers reading this know this is called a verbatim; a learning tool where student chaplains transcribe interactions with patients with comments about what we were feeling and what we were trying to do for the patient and what might have gone wrong. Then it is shown to other chaplains for critique. Anyway, what we actually say out loud is but the topmost layer of all the thinking and weighing of options that leads up to it. As I said, I use parentheses for my own thoughts, andI use brackets for Lenore’s part of the conversation about what she might have been thinking as she spoke.

After I bring up the weather Lenore says,

“It’s a little chilly to walk, so I took a two-minute drive to get here.” [Yippee; I have someone to talk to to give me something else to think about than my appointment.]

Karen: (Lenore is smiling, so she’s glad I started talking.) “Two minutes sure is quick. Even though it’s cold, I decided to walk anyway.” (I wondered why she drove such a short distance since it was sunny and a nice chance at some exercise and to enjoy the sun. I hope she didn’t think I was guilting her though about getting exercise.)

Lenore: [I don’t want Karen to think I am lazy so I’ll explain a little about why.] “I don’t walk much these days….I used to walk though, but I don’t like to walk alone. I used to walk when I had my dog, so I got out of the habit when he passed.”

Me: (People often don’t acknowledge grief over a pet, or even do worse by saying things like get a new pet. Not me!) “Oh gee, you lost your pet. So sad.”

Lenore: [Karen might want to hear a bit more about this. So I’ll go a little deeper. Cool.] “Yeah. So I don’t like to walk alone because it reminds me of my dog.”

Karen: (She is signaling that she wants to talk about it more. Here I go) ”How long ago did your pet pass away?”

Lenore: “Last June.” (She pauses, and shrugs, as if to say it was so long ago that maybe she was afraid I would think she should be over it by now. I would make sure to show the opposite. Onward I march against disenfranchised –i.e. not-seen-as-legit– grief.)

Karen: “Did you have your dog for a long time?”

Lenore: “Yes, for many many years. He was such a big part of my life.”

Karen: “That’s why you miss him so much of course.” (I wanted to reinforce the idea that this is real and legitimate grieving even though it’s been several months.)

Lenore: “Yep.”[Thank God Karen isn’t saying anything irritating and insensitive like why don’t you get another dog. I wonder how she knows this. Maybe she had a pet she lost too]. “It’s been five years since I’ve seen a gynecologist…” (the conversation with Lenore continues on that note until I’m called in to see the doctor. I wonder why she hesitated to ask me anything more personal than where I lived during our whole interaction. How is it that people sense I am more a listener than a talker?)

As people converse with each other, we are continually and instantly gauging what we should or could or would like to or not like to say next. It is fascinating to examine a given dialogue and see it yield so much detail. I think increased awareness of what we say to each other raises the quality and sensitivity of our discourse.

Why It’s So Damn Hard To Be In The Moment

If you were to find a way to ask any animal besides humans to stop and live in the moment, to savor all the beauty they see in the forest and the sea, and the food they eat and all that, I bet a land mammal would answer: “What, are you nuts? When I go to the watering hole to get a drink, I have to watch out for predators who might take advantage of my vulnerable moment to make me be the thing being consumed not the refreshing water. But I have to take that risk or I’ll die of dehydration.” As for sleeping, a whale for instance would say, “even when sleeping I have to be on guard, with one eye open, which is how I have to handle it or die from sleep deprivation. Some deal. Sweet dreams indeed!”

Maybe our personal experience or our evolutionary history makes our species skittish too about reveling in the sensations of the moment. We are frequently on alert. Just about anything can make living in the moment take second place: anything as benign as an anticipated interruption, to serious issues such as finding enough food for the day. In other words, living in the moment is a great luxury, only possible when one feels safe. And so the dilemma for all those sages who talk about ways to be in the moment such as breathing peace in and breathing negative thoughts out, is that they are up against eons of how organisms have functioned since life began. I do read about breathing to relax. I do read poetic prayers. But I am battling all of human and pre-human history.

And so to attain these wonderful moments at all we have to go against the grain to gain this luxury. I do try, as I said, but often the alarm bells intrude. However, the times I can achieve it, no matter how incompletely, is still worth it. Merely being aware that being at peace in the here and now involves swimming against a mighty stream might make us less dismayed at how very elusive it is. When those tiny interludes of moment-savoring do come our way, we can recognize them as the astonishing luxury that they are, and be grateful over our persistence in realizing these spiritual treasures.

To see my microblogging, see me at https://spoutible.com/KarenBKaplan  

Post Script, February 8, 2024: Unlike most of my posts, a few friends and associates responded in detailed emails about this one. Ironically, they said this post helped them to experience being in the moment. Spiritual practice is full of paradoxes, so this is a most satisfying result.

Horror of Horrors: Halloween Poem

The local New Jersey poet Lillian Washington could not shake off a disturbing dream she had, even hours and days afterwards, until she locked it up into a poem and thereby banished it for good. For us readers on Halloween, however, the scary feelings are just beginning. Note how she uses repetition to reflect feeling stuck. She can’t break free from the same patterns of words, and can’t break free from her inner demons. The words seem simple, but the rhythm and rhymes somehow intensify her predicament. But as she writes the last word, rolling her whole experience into it, I believe she finds her way out by naming it at last.

Stuck in My Dream

I’m awake now,

but still stuck in my dream

And can’t break free.

It’s another night now

And I’m trying to see

If I’m out of my mind

And trying to find

my way out.

Why am I

being kept away

from who I am

from who I used to be?

I’m trying to remember

who I did see.

I’m in this dream

And I don’t want to be in it

no mo for sho.

That is not a place I want

to see, again.

Am I stuck in my dream?

And I can’t break free

I don’t know how long

I’m going to be

Stuck in my dream

and not be my me

because

I’m stuck in my dream

And it’s a nightmare.

—————-

Lillian wanted to balance things out on a lighter note, thus we have,

He Shows You

Let God show you

Just begin,

and He’ll be with you

while doing what you have to

You

just

begin.

Amen!!

For a former post of Lillian’s poetry, see https://offbeatcompassion.wordpress.com/2022/08/30/my-mind-walks-in-my-sleep/

Announcement: I have left the third-to-the-last letter-of-the-alphabet micro blogging place and am now on Spoutible at https://spoutible.com/KarenBKaplan

An Hour in the Life of The Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina

In speaking of a woman selling fruits and vegetables at a farmers’ market at a time when only men were doing so, Edna Ferber in her novel So Big observed that the farmer didn’t get many customers because the ignorant “veer away from the unusual.” When my husband and I go on a vacation, we seek adventure in terms of exposing ourselves to cultures unlike ours and to people whose assumptions are at variance with our own. As we browsed through the various predictable pickings for tourists going to Charleston, a notice stood out as exceptionally unusual and which Ferber would have liked to write about: “The Citadel dress parades consist of about 2,000 cadets while the regimental band and pipes perform and cannons are fired.”

For me, anything having to do with the military is novel ground for me, and the anticipation of a bit of ritual, decoration and music appealed to me as insurance against potential boredom. Before the parade, we took a breather on a bench near one of the school’s administrative buildings. It just so happened that the campus was open that week to prospective students and their parents. A cadet dressed in a smart white uniform graced with a crimson sash giving the tour to one such family stopped right near us. He did not take notice of us or ponder why we were there but just went on with his planned remarks at that point of the tour: “There is something very serious I need to say to you. We have an honor code that says there are four things you must not do or you will get expelled. Immediately. Those four things are, and I mean this very seriously, are: Number one: lying. Number two: cheating. Number three: stealing, and number four, anyone who tolerates the first three. Why just this morning, there was a senior caught cheating, and this same day, he was expelled. That was a senior! Now come follow me as we walk to…”

When it was time to walk closer to the parade, we overheard a young teenager on another family tour longingly glance around at the grand white and austere buildings on campus and burst out with, “O I really really want to go to this school!” I wonder if he had heard about the four rules yet. Kidding aside, he might be part of a family who has many members in the military and who therefore take pride in the challenges of strict discipline and the prospect of earning military honors.

We went on, and within fine viewing distance of the event, we shared a bench with a couple from Puerto Rico. They told us they had several family members who have served, and that they come regularly to this parade. After we revealed that this was our first time, they filled us in with details like, “you know, the rifles they are using for this ceremony go back to the Civil War, and the uniforms, not the original ones of course, but their design goes back to the Civil War as well.”

Then, what I first thought was an effort to make themselves interesting and sociable, they asked, “Did you know that Kamala Harris is going to speak near here tomorrow?” I confessed that I did not, and said only, “wow, that’s very interesting.” As I reflected on this conversation afterwards during the parade when the band was playing and the cadets were marching exactly in step and simultaneously shifting their rifles from side to side, I think they had been trying to gauge our politics. Maybe because our response was vague and noncommittal, they felt comfortable enough to share their own politics: “We were at a Trump rally yesterday, and our buddy was there.” She fondly drew forth a photo and with great pride and affection said, “Look at that, that’s my buddy posing there with Donald Trump.” As if reading my shall I say internal wonderment at this, the wife went on to explain, “We are unhappy with the Democrats; look what they did in Puerto Rico when Hurricane Maria struck.”

As the parade continued, we got to hear the promised cannon blast—yes, sufficiently loud thank you very much —and I thought some more about what the couple had imparted to us. I think all politicians have a lesson to learn: as in other areas of life, whether medical, religious or occupational, that above all, people want to feel cared about. Why, just yesterday, our little town of Kearny (near New York City) had its first virtual mayoral debate. There were three candidates and I was potentially set on a Mrs. Carol Jean Doyle but was open to hearing the other two. What clinched it though for me after they all talked about the hottest topic, which was how to deal with scarce parking, is when they turned to how COVID had been handled here. Jean said, “Yes, our town had the vaccines ready and got out information and kept people safe, but what we did not take into account was the suffering and after-affects of how isolated our seniors were.” Once she said that, I knew she cared about us Kearnysonians (a term I first heard at that debate after living here since1997).

Upon returning to our Charleston Airbnb, we told our host about the parade. She, a therapist,said, “Oh, we get many students coming to us for our services.” I then commented, “Such a strict environment must make for a lot of pressure.” “Oh yes indeed,” she replied.

By the way, if you like that old show Columbo, one of the 1974 episodes is set at The Citadel. It’s called “By Dawn’s Early Light”and shows the grounds and the barracks as well as the inside of an administration building. Great plot, too, and a magnificent preparation for our trip.

Robot Repentance?

I rarely follow trends, but this time I challenged myself to write a sermon on Yom Kippur about AI. As regular readers of offbeatcompassion know, I put a sermon on the blog in advance of the High Holy Days for anyone to ponder or to reuse as they wish:

Artificial intelligence—Is it good for our spiritual lives as Jews? Is it good for the spiritual lives of all humanity? Well, for the purposes of this sermon, the answer is…yes indeed. Oh come on, you mutter. Probably an AI told you to say that. No, not at all. No robots involved. And I am saying that they can be good for us because I’m going to show you not only how they are not superior to humans, but also how they fall short in the human being department. Thus they are not a threat to us in terms of our identity. Actually they are doing us a favor, not intentionally of course, by challenging us to really get at what it means to be human. The High Holy Days are all about self-examination and reaffirming our link to the Divine. Part of that process at the most primary level is to think about who we are. To think about our essence.

Yes, yes, AI can do lots of things faster and more efficiently than humans, like paperwork and even diagnosing diseases more reliably and more quickly. They do things like help you take better pictures with your cellphone camera. But these fine things do not make them human. They are machines, and contrary to any hype out there, no existing AI is sentient. They are not conscious. Yet I read an article by a Jewish scholar recently who was worried that we might “hurt a robot’s feelings”– if we were not polite and respectful to it. Robots can mimic feelings, but make no mistake; they don’t have them. Besides, let’s first worry about getting humans to be more considerate to other humans like at meetings and political events before we worry about social niceties with robots, 2001 Space Odyssey not withstanding.

The difference of AI from humans, or let’s say, our difference from AI, becomes much sharper when we bring our religion into it. Look no further than the 26^th verse in the very first chapter of our Torah, where it says we are created “ b’tselem elohim” in the image of God. The Sages take this to mean that we each have a unique soul. That’s like a divine spark that enables us to connect with God and imitate qualities like moral intelligence. It’s also, according to the tradition, the eternal part of us that remains in an afterlife.

Moral intelligence means we can discern right from wrong and make choices about our options. We have free will to go ahead with something or to refrain from propelling ourselves forward. And not only that, we may agonize over those choices. Robots do not have moral dilemmas. They do not torment themselves with doubts and grey areas. They don’t hesitate or vacillate. I can’t understand what it would mean for a robot to have a soul. Or to make moral choices. Or to be made in the image of God. I do not think robots, even Jewish ones, ha ha, would be very busy attending all the High Holy Day services because they would not be repenting for anything, no matter how horrible. You can put programs in them to mimic emotions and states of mind such as gratitude and repentance, but they are just following and implementing human directions to sound a certain way and to say certain words.

More to the point, robots cannot repent or examine themselves because they cannot be pulled by contradictory goals, or struggle with complexity or ambiguity. They can’t deal with internal conflict or leave things unresolved. Guess who can? Us! Suppose we are caring for a loved one and we want to do our best. But then we have to balance their demands for us to be with them constantly, with our own need to have quality time for other loved ones and for ourselves. Or suppose we don’t know how to go ahead with a big change such as a move or a new job or unexpectedly caring for a child, and so we delay the decision, perhaps debate and discuss it with many people. That’s ambiguity and uncertainty that I’m talking about. AI would just take on changes, no matter how big, such as incorporating new software, with no indecisiveness or debate. Ambiguity, indecision, gradual adjustment, this is the kind of stuff being human is about. We know that not everything is resolved by the end of Yom Kippur. Hello, that’s why we keep coming back to services every year, right? Robots wouldn’t go for that at all so to speak. I mean they don’t strive for change and they don’t resist it.

This business of robots abhorring internal contradictions reminds me of a Star Trek episode, yep, a nice Jewish source. A gigantic computer takes over the USS Enterprise spacecraft. At first it seems helpful, making things more efficient and all, but then it goes overboard, wanting to take over the ship and dispense with those “unnecessary humans.” At first, Captain Kirk’s attempts to control this AI or curtail it fail. In the end, Kirk figures out how to outsmart it though. Otherwise how would the Star Trek show go on to the next episode? And so, how does he outwit it? He asks the AI, “What is your purpose?” and it says, “to protect lives.” Kirk then reminds it that it had acted contrary to its purpose by killing people, which it did when the crew first tried to disable it when it got out of control. But this ultimate computer can’t live with this internal contradiction. It’s not resolvable, and it shakes to and fro erratically until all it can do is shut itself down permanently. Whew! It’s a really cool episode, you should see it sometime. It’s called The Ultimate Computer. Anyway, I’m digressing, which is another thing only humans do.

People worry that the newest robots coming down the pike will devalue our own human worth. A car can take us further and much more easily to another city than walking, but does that take away the value of walking? In fact it enhances walking as an activity to enjoy in its own right. Walking has new purposes. A car doesn’t take away the need to walk, it gives it a new role. I think, as with all new technologies, humans will have different kinds of jobs and play different roles in society, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be needed. Maybe for example doctors will spend more time with patients now that robots can do more and more of the paperwork and research for them. So robots do not devalue us. More important than that, they cannot value us either. What would it mean for a robot to value something, to find meaning in something, to care about it one way or the other? Now we are back to spiritual matters. We are the ones who value one thing over another. We can value robots, but they can’t value us.

You know, being able to care about or not care about something has a lot to do with a major theme of the high holy days: and that is about God remembering us. God not only takes note of our good and bad deeds, but how all these have fit into our lives and the circumstances we have been in as we make our choices. We also interpret such remembering as God paying attention to us and deciding what is important. Robots do not remember one given thing more than another; it indiscriminately remembers everything in its data base, good bad or neutral. AI does not evaluate what is good and bad about us or about all of its own data. The kind of remembering we ourselves do is about taking stock of our behavior over the past months, and God so to speak is giving us a careful review before deciding our fate for the coming year.

If you still are not convinced, let me ask you: what would it mean for a robot to perform a holy act? Let’s say it was sitting beside you at these services and absorbing what is in the prayer book and even singing along. Why wouldn’t these acts count as holy? Because they would have no impact beyond providing more data to our AI friend. As for us, their motions or melodies or movements would not be done with intention to communicate with God but would be neutral activities.. There is no possibility for moral impact on them from praying. There is no affliction of the soul. There is no soul at all. I point this out because comparing AI with humans forces us to get at our very most fundamental concerns: finding meaning and acting on what we most care about. This is exactly what is at the core of being human. The high holy days remind us of this core. We have heard the sound of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah; we will heed the sound of the shofar tonight as the last sound of the Yom Kippur service, calling us to be as deeply human and as tightly connected with the Divine as possible.

Halifax Travelogue: Loud Surprises And Quiet Ones

If you had perused my previous travelogue post which was about Dublin, you probably would think we don’t get things right. We left Ireland for home on St. Patrick’s Day. That wasn’t a great idea because the bus schedule was all in confusion. And for this trip to Halifax (Nova Scotia, Canada), we were there during July 4^th, Independence Day. Actually, July 4^th was a great day to be there because my husband and I did not have to work, with the stock market being closed in the U.S. And all the shops and entertainment venues in Halifax were open. Besides, we aren’t big fans of fireworks.

Not only that, we got to celebrate two Independence days in one week. We were in Canada on Canada Day, July 1^st. While not exactly like July 4^th, Canada Day marks a milestone in gaining full independence from the United Kingdom and is a time for Canadian pride. Lots of Canadians were dressed in red that day like the leaf on their flag, or wore or waved that flag. We had heard that we should head to the Halifax Citadel Hill for the real celebration. By chance we had gotten there at noon, which turned out to be the time for a 21-gun salute, the volleys coming from long thin cannons. Here we were, counting ourselves lucky to escape the July 4^th fireworks, and we were met by great plumes of smoke that assailed our noses and by blasts that traveled from our feet to our ears. Yes, especially the poor ears.

Another venue that everyone was going to after that was the Halifax harbor. Quieter, yes, but jammed with people. At one point, we saw children clambering up a giant sculpture of a wave, and they kept sliding down before trying again. The derring-do was delightful, but I wondered at no one being concerned that it was dangerous. The next day we decided to return to that spot hoping it would not be crowded,and it was not. Not a single child was climbing up the wave. I asked one parent about that and he looked at me as if I were suggesting something perilous and pointed to a sign, somewhat obscured by soot, that said “ For your protection, no climbing permitted”. The power of the crowd had been swept away as well as my impression about Canadian fearlessness. Abashed, I looked away from the man and contemplated the mighty Atlantic. I then indulged in a less controversial pleasure, eating a food that Halifax is famous for, the “Beaver Tail.” It turned out to be similar to the beignets of New Orleans fame (fried dough with sweet toppings such as powdered sugar in New Orleans, and maple syrup and even brownies in Halifax).

All this is very charming to you I’m sure, but it is the unremarked upon details that for me make a vacation, like the window washer I had mentioned in the Dublin post. (Got you curious, huh? See here at https://offbeatcompassion.wordpress.com/2023/04/02/a-travelogue-of-dublin-but-naturally-an-offbeat-one/ )

The surprise detail is this: at some of the busy crosswalks, instead of a crossing guard, I noticed pedestrians plucking little orange flags from a container attached to a pole on either side of the street, and then after reaching the other side, placing it into the corresponding container. And no one was keeping them as souvenirs! Someone explained to me that this do-it-yourself crossing guard routine has cut down on pedestrian accidents. Now that is a brilliant take-home idea… er, well, but we shameful Americans might empty out those containers in a manner of minutes. “O Canada! O Canada!We stand on guard for thee…”

My Mother The Electric Car

Just wondering: The 1965 TV show My Mother the Car only made it through one season, and was called the “worst TV show of all time” by an IMDB reviewer (Internet Movie Data Base). Then why do I remember it so well? The story was a bit macabre, about a man who bought a custom-designed antique car built out of parts from a 1924 Model T and who hears his deceased mother’s voice from the radio. That is her only way of communicating with him after reincarnating into that car. Yes, I suppose that does sound perverse but everyone was charmed by Mr. Ed, weren’t they?

My own car is a 2021 Toyota Prius Prime plug-in that I bought a few months ago. No deceased relatives talk to me on the radio, but all its gadgetry spooked me out after fifteen years of driving a 2004 Honda Civic for over 225,000 miles. That was the kind of car where you had to put a physical key in the ignition, if you will recollect. Having what amounts to a computer screen in the new car on the dashboard and hearing directions boom out on Bluetooth throughout the Toyota makes me feel like I am lost within the belly of a giant computer. I was so overwhelmed at first I felt nervous about driving and God forbid parking it. A friend said, “Your change from the 2004 to the 2021 car is like you’ve gone from a horse and buggy to one of those horseless wonders.”

With all its written warnings and comments such as “window left open” and “you are getting a score of 70 out of a hundred for environmentally friendly driving,” it might just as well BE talking to me just like Mom or Dad did. And like Mom, the car even does things for me, like locking the doors as I get in, turning the headlights on or off as conditions warrant and deciding when to use gas and when to use the electric battery as I drive. It’s a wonder she—I mean “it”–doesn’t open the door for me when I want to come out.

Oh yes, and one other way my car is just like a parent: when I forget to put on my seat belt, there is a gentle warning at first as I start driving, and then if I keep on driving more (wait wait, I can’t pull over yet! I plead to the car), the warning sound becomes mercilessly more frequent and louder. I understand, Mom. You just want to protect me and punish me for my own good.