Rabbi Laurence Skopitz z"l
On Saturday I watched my good friend die, and this (Monday) morning I read his obituary in the daily newspaper. I am still trying to get my mind around the unimaginable. A disease I had never heard of before (myelodysplastic syndrome) had taken Rabbi Laurence Skopitz' life; it had truncated his sensitive, imaginative, artistic energies; it had deprived those who loved him of his incredible ability to "connect" on the most basic levels of human warmth and understanding; and it has left us with a sense of loss that cannot be measured.
I sit in the kitchen and see the sections of the newspaper on the table. I glance through the first section and have no energy to read about the most recent escalation of violence and mistrust in Iraq, as elsewhere in the Middle East. The "Living" section displays and empty crossword puzzle, and I pick up a pencil as a way of forcing the minutes to pass. I am not a crossword player at all; I understand that the easiest puzzles are usually printed on Monday, and the most challenging ones come at the end of the week. My limited experience with these puzzles seems to confirm that this is how the system works. When I do try my hand at the end-of-the week challenges, I can only fill in a few of the words ~ and I am not even sure of those. If I've ever completed an entire puzzle, it had to have been on a Monday. So here I am mindlessly answering the clues... "land measure: acre"; "diminutive ending: ette"; one answer easily unlocks a letter for the next numbered clue; "completely, as in a search: fromtoptobottom" ~ and even more words are uncovered. Half-way through the puzzle, I lay the pencil down, setting the paper aside. There is no satisfaction in working this puzzle; the questions are far too easy, and the answers readily found. I think about the puzzles that come later in the week, and about the people who are really good at solving those intricate and often obscure word challenges. In a way, it's nice to know that there is a cadre of people that knows how to beat the "puzzle master" ~ people who enjoy the match and who can catch onto his hidden tricks, his unpredictable devices.
In the world of the crossword puzzle, there is an unwritten contract. At the end of the week, the puzzle designer will be battling in earnest; there will be no "gimmies" (to borrow another sports metaphor); the victor will have to have used all the resources s/he can muster... But in the end, the game will be fair. There will be no false clues, all the words will eventually fit, one with the other. Before the game begins, one understands that there will be a solution.
When I lead discussions of Torah and we review the way our people perceived their universe in those early days, I often point to the first chapter of Genesis, noting the poetry and the symmetry of the creation story. Day 1 ~ light and darkness, with day 4 ~ sun and moon; day 2 ~ lower and upper waters, with day 5 ~ fish and fowl; day 3 ~ land and vegetation with day 6 ~ land animals and humankind. "And it was very good," so the text says. A universe that makes sense; a balanced, meaningful creation that has a Creator, a set of rules, and way of winning the game.
But I find this model totally unhelpful in dealing with my friend's death. Like the end-of-the-week puzzles, are there clues to the answers that are just too difficult for me to understand; or is it that our particular corner of the universe is defined by words that don't fit together and by clues that have no reasonable answers? Rabbi Skopitz was a traditionalist at heart; he believed in a world where the mysteries of creation would one day be revealed, and where the yearnings of the human spirit would ultimately be answered. In our private discussions ~ usually when we had found time to play some jazz together ~ I often admitted to him that his faith was greater than mine. He would smile and continue playing; and now I am sorely grieved that he will no longer be able to help me solve the puzzle.