The Making of a Sandak

I had been a Sandak before, at a Sephardic circumcision ceremony, where the attendees line up before the Sandak to receive his blessing. At that ceremony there was really not a lot of pressure because being Ashkenazi, not much was expected of me. Without the pressure, I performed fairly well, and people left with my blessings in good spirits. I was handing out blessings like a madman. It was like I was “Cohen for a Day.” Each received their fill and more.

That was years ago, when I was young and foolish.

Now we’ve been at war for a year. A couple of weeks before the birth of our latest grandchild, the other grandfather, Avshalom Kor, told me that he had urged the parents to make me the Sandak. I told him thanks for the gesture, in proper Hebrew, and promptly forgot about it. Last Shabbat, the Shabbat before the brit, my son approached me and said that he wanted me to be the Sandak. I dead-panned him and said: “What, Avshalom is busy?” He broke up at that inside joke. Every time he calls me on the phone I answer: “What, Mom didn’t answer?” Anyway, since I was thinking that my job consisted of holding those chicken legs wide and turning my head away, I threw at him a rhetorical question: “It’s not like we’re going to have a conga line for blessings, is it?” I was thinking that it was only a Sephardic thing. He looked at me dead serious and said: “of course.”

I froze. Because my previous time had been with an easy going Sephardic crowd. My son, a graduate of the Mercaz HaRav hesder program, ran with a different crowd, i.e., Rabbis and the like. I looked at him bug-eyed and told him: “I’m going to need a procedure for blessings. He, being a programmer, understood immediately, and told me he would prepare something for me.

That was the plan. However, the day before the brit we got word that the baby had jaundice and that the brit would be delayed. No big deal. We settled in for the wait. The next day my wife and I, thinking we had the day clear, made a shiva call near Beit Shemesh. We left the house of mourning at 3 pm and got in the car to go home. The minute we closed the door our son called and said that they might go ahead with the brit after all and were waiting to hear from the mohel. We decided to wait where we were until we received the final go-ahead. We waited for about 5 minutes, looked at each other, and I hit the gas. When our son called us saying that they had the green light for the brit, we told him that we were 10 minutes away.

My son was making an effort to have the brit on the eighth day after birth. He now had exactly one hour to find a place to hold the ceremony, organize the ceremony, and also to organize a seudat mitzva (obligatory meal for the ceremony). By the time we reached his home the general plan was set up. We helped with the small things. It was only when I arrived at the venue did I realize that I was ill-dressed. The ceremony was to be held at the “water tower” synagogue in Givat Shaul. The Rabbanit Shafran took one look at me and sent someone to look for a white shirt for me. I was thinking: “These Rabbi and Yeshiva types take it too far. I’m the grandfather and I’m not dressed in rags. Let’s get the show on the road.” The white shirt arrived and I buttoned it on in a little side room, and re-entered the main synagogue space in time to see the final preparations, and only then did I remember that I had a role to play.

Lord God in Heaven. Because of the short notice there were not many guests, but the ones that were there were top-of-the-line. In my confusion I plopped down in Elijah’s chair (talk about chutzpa!). The mohel got me seated properly. I followed his instructions mechanically, holding my grandson’s legs wide to accept the cut that would make him a Jew in full. As my grandson rose to the occasion so, I knew, must I. Behind me was the Aron HaKodesh, containing the synagogue’s Torah scrolls. That Aron, I knew, was built from pieces recovered from the Aron HaKodesh of Ganei Tal in Gush Katif. In a flash I felt as if all of the zechuyot (righteous deeds) of Gush Katif were at my call for the important role I was about to play. I prayed: “Our Father in Heaven. We did our best to succeed in Gush Katif. I, personally could have done better. Please let not my failings hold back the blessings that need to be proffered here to these worthy recipients.” I had barely finished my prayer when my son announced the child’s name: Avraham David Neor.

They named him after his great-grandfather, David Leitner, “Dugo,” z”l, from Nir Galim, the Holocaust survivor who led many groups of students on educational tours to Auschwitz. I now had powerful legacies backing me. My son, born and raised in Gush Katif, having spent six months of the nine months of his wife’s pregnancy blasting terrorists in the hills and dales not three kilometers from his boyhood home, gave me a look that said: “Aba, you’ve got this.”

I prepared myself for blessing someone to find a proper mate, or for good health for a sickly relative. These requests did come, but for a moment I had forgotten that we were at war. The elderly women (meaning my age more or less) approached first and then it began. They requested blessings for their sons, and sons-in-law, and grandsons and nephews and more, all in the fight in Lebanon or in Gaza or in Samaria. So many! Then the younger girls approached and asked for blessings for brothers and fathers and uncles. This short line called up blessings for a very long list of soldiers, in active duty and in hospitals.

My brothers and sisters, I did not falter in my mission. The blessings that left my mouth were powerful blessings, not on my account, but on account of the two powerful legacies holding me up. I felt that the blessings flew out of that synagogue and engulfed all of our soldiers and all of the captives.

Our Father in Heaven, may it be so.