Memorial Service Eulogy, April 19, 2009

(This is the text of Rabbi Toba Spitzer's eulogy from the memorial service held at Congregation Dorshei Tzedek in West Newton, Massachusetts)

 

I wanted to share with you these words from Psalm 39, interpreted by Stephen Mitchell:

 

Unnamable, unthinkable God,

Lord of the dead and the living,

  teach us how transient we are

  and how fragile is everything we love.

For all of us flash into being,

              as insubstantial as breath.

            Our lives are a fleeting shadow;

              then we vanish into the night.

 

This is the hard truth that we are here this afternoon to grapple with:

the fragility of life,

the reality of the fleeting shadow,

the hard, difficult, profoundly sad fact that Lesley Chapman – whom we here knew as a colleague, teacher, friend – has indeed "vanished into the night."

 

We have come together today to honor Lesley, to celebrate her life, to honor the many gifts that she brought us in her too-brief time in this world.  There are no family members here today, so we are the mourners, we take upon ourselves the responsibility of honoring her memory, of shedding tears at the pain of her loss, of asking the question, "why?".  There are many people here who knew Lesley from different parts of her life, as well as the beautiful words on the memorial blog from even more friends, teachers, students – together, we will try to create a fitting memorial to her life and her spirit.

 

In the nearly two weeks since Lesley passed away, I have done what I can to learn about her life in the years previous to when I met her, in 1997.  Lesley was born in December, 1959 in South Carolina. Her father was in the military, so the family moved around during her childhood and teen years.  She graduated from Pomona High School in Arvada, Colorado, in 1978. From her high school friend Joanna Garcia-Colson, I learned that Lesley's love of theater was already firmly in place by high school, and she was also on the forensics and debate team (which, somehow, I wasn't surprised to learn!). 

 

I'm not entirely sure what Lesley did in the years immediately following high school, although I do believe it included a brief marriage to someone who had been a race car driver – and Lesley liked to use the fact that she too had driven race cars as a "surprising" tidbit about herself that she'd use to introduce herself to new students at our Hebrew School.  Lesley earned her bachelor's degree at San Francisco State University in 1990, graduating summa cum laude in theater, with an acting emphasis.

 

Lesley was a convert to Judaism, and along with theater, Judaism and Jewish texts were the other passions of her life. She earned a master's degree in Jewish education from Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles, and came to Boston to pursue a doctoral degree in Bible at Brandeis University.  Ultimately Lesley did not remain at Brandeis, but instead created a life in which she could attend to both of her loves—teaching Bible and other Jewish texts to children and adults, and working in the theater.  She became the Producing Artistic Director of the Theatre Cooperative in Somerville in the late 1990s, and taught here at Dorshei Tzedek for nine years, as well as at Temple Isaiah in Lexington, at other local synagogues, and in the summers at the Brandeis Collegiate Institute in southern California.

 

It was in this capacity as a teacher that I got to know Lesley – we both started working here at Dorshei Tzedek in the same year, in 1997.  She taught our very first religious school class, the group behind whom we were growing our school, who at that time were 4^th graders.  She was an inspired, passionate, and incredibly creative teacher. One of my favorite memories is walking in on her having a discussion with her 4^th graders about the use of anthrophomorphism (and yes, they were using that word!) in the Torah's descriptions of God.

 

Among the many things that Lesley brought her students, one was the gift of song.  As one of those early students, Aaron Littman, wrote to me recently: "I remember singing with Lesley; she was one of many people at Dorshei Tzedek who showed me how wonderful it can be to sing with other people…When Lesley used to stand in front of our class to lead us in song, I remember that she used to tap out the rhythm on her belly, really feeling the music."  Knowing now what I know of Lesley's struggle with depression, it's even more moving to me that she made sure her students knew and loved this song, with words from Psalm 100:  "Ivdu et Hashem b'simcha, bo-u lefanav birnanah"—"Serve God in joy, come before the One with song."  

 

As everyone here has testified today, Lesley was a woman of great talents and of intense passions. She had her way of doing things, and she stuck to her vision, to her methods, demanding of others only what she would have demanded of herself. 

Lesley was also someone who had great challenges and obstacles in her life.  By the time she was a young adult, she doesn't seem to have had any of the kind of family support and connection that most of us take for granted.  Because of her commitments to both the theater and to Jewish education, she was never able to achieve the basic economic stability that many of us are blessed to enjoy. And ultimately, the mental illness that she wrestled with for so long—perhaps her whole life?—proved stronger than all the rest of her gifts and capacities.

 

For the past two weeks, I know that many of us have been sitting with the question, "what if?"  What if I had reached out more often, more insistently?  What if I, if we, if someone, had been able to get Lesley more resources, more material support?  What if we had known just how much pain she must have been in?  What if, what if, what if?

 

It's natural to ask these kinds of questions, and the honest answer is that we don't know.  We don't know what, if anything, might have made a difference. While it's a natural question, I don't know if "what if" is ultimately that helpful a question.

 

In Jewish tradition, when we hear that someone has died, the response is, "Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha'olam, dayan ha'emet." In this blessing, we bless God as the "judge of truth," or as I understand it, the Ultimate Source of what is true in this moment.  And so we are confronted with this difficult, sad, painful truth—and there is no explaining it away.

 

But there is, perhaps, another question we can ask, in place of "what if," and that is, "What now?"  As those who are now the bearers of Lesley's teachings, of the example she set in her life, we are challenged to think about, what now?  How do we carry her teachings, her values, her vision, forward?

 

Each of us will have to answer this question for ourselves. If Lesley inspired or challenged you as an actor, a student, a director, a colleague—then in what small way might you carry that inspiration, that challenge, forward?  If Lesley made you smile, gave you the gift of song, shared a passion of hers with you—then how might you make someone else smile?  What gift, what passion, can you pass on to another person?

 

May we learn also from Lesley's death, and ask, "what now?"  How might we care for one another a little better?  How can we break through the social stigma and the shame around mental illness, and be sure to ask for the help we need?  How can we reach out to someone who is lonely, who has become isolated, who'd appreciate a phone call or a meal?  We certainly can't stem all the pain and suffering in the world, but where are the places in our lives where we can do a little more, open our hearts a crack wider, reach out a hand a little further?  When are the times that we can ask for help, can allow ourselves to receive the care and support of others? 

 

May Lesley's soul find peace and rest beneath the wings of the Shechinah, God's comforting Presence, and may we find joy and inspiration in our memories of her.

 

Rabbi Toba Spitzer