Dear Friends,
This week, I lost someone important to me. Rabbi Jordan Cohen was the first rabbi I worked with following my ordination, at Temple Anshe Sholom in Hamilton, Ontario. He was a mentor and a colleague, but more importantly, he was my friend. Jordan was a wonderful rabbi who served Jewish communities around the world, loved to travel, and loved good Southern BBQ and music in equal measure, all with a terrific sense of humor. And while I learned an enormous amount from him professionally, this week I’ve found myself remembering the laughter, the conversations, and the joy of simply spending time together.
Jordan loved a good Jewish story, and one in particular was among his favorites. His son, Zachary, lovingly retold it during the funeral:
One Friday afternoon, a poor man approached the town miser and asked to borrow an old wooden spoon for Shabbat. The miser reluctantly agreed.
After Havdalah, the man returned with the wooden spoon and a beautiful silver spoon.
“What’s this?” the miser asked.
“Wonderful news!” the man said. “Your spoon gave birth over Shabbat!”
The miser was delighted. The following week, when the man asked to borrow an old, beat-up cup, the miser happily obliged. Sure enough, after Shabbat, the man returned with the cup and a beautiful silver Kiddush cup. Another birth!
So when the poor man came back the next Friday and asked to borrow the miser’s finest silver Shabbat candlesticks, the miser didn’t hesitate.
But after Havdalah, the man returned empty-handed.
“Where are my candlesticks?” the miser demanded.
“I’m terribly sorry,” the man said. “They died.”
“Died?! That’s ridiculous! Candlesticks can’t die!”
The poor man shrugged. “You had no trouble believing that spoons and cups could give birth!”
I can practically hear Jordan delivering that punchline. And while the story is certainly about greed, I think it has another lesson tucked inside.
The miser was perfectly willing to believe that spoons and cups could give birth when it meant something good for him. But the moment that same logic brought him something painful, he refused to accept it.
Of course, life doesn’t work quite that neatly. We don’t get to choose only the parts we like. We welcome the joy of friendship, the excitement of new experiences, and the comfort of people we love. And sometimes, we also have to face the heartbreak of losing them.
Our tradition recognizes this tension. The Mishnah teaches that we must offer a blessing for the bad just as we do for the good (Mishnah Berakhot 9:5). Not because loss is good, or because we’re supposed to be grateful for suffering, but because both joy and sorrow are part of a fully lived life.
And perhaps that’s one of the gifts of Shabbat. We don’t have to leave the difficult parts of our lives at the door. We come to Shabbat carrying whatever the week has brought us. Some weeks, that’s joy and celebration. Other weeks, it’s sadness, worry, or grief. And sometimes, as it is for me this week, it’s a little bit of everything.
I am so grateful for the years of friendship I shared with Jordan. And I am terribly sad that there won’t be more of them. Both things are true.
As we enter Shabbat, I hope we can make room for it all. For gratitude and grief, for laughter and tears, for the people who are still sitting beside us and the people whose absence we feel so deeply.
And maybe, while we’re at it, we can make a little more time for the people we love. Because the ordinary moments we share with them often turn out to matter most.
I will miss Jordan very much. I am grateful for everything he taught me, but even more grateful that I got to call him my friend.
May his memory be a blessing.
Shabbat Shalom!
Cantor Rebecca Moses