withdifferenteyes

This article was first featured on Holy Pop Culture Batman, a Substack publication.

You have Regino, Juanita, Jesus, and Esther to thank for the fact that you’re reading this right now. They didn’t write this essay, but they shaped it. We’ve been trained to live as though we are the main character, as though our life begins and ends with our own story. HBO Max’s new series Reformed reveals how false this individualistic narrative is; every life is part of a greater story, generations matter, and legacy is sacred. Rays of sunlight softened as they passed through the color-tinted glass, casting gentle hues on a man grieving the loss of his mother. A rabbi walks towards him, scissors in hand. When she reaches the mourning man, she lifts the scissors and cuts his shirt. The man holds his garment, and begins to cry.

This scene takes place at the funeral for the man’s mother, a Holocaust survivor who led a quiet life until she passed away. She hardly spoke to her son, much less to anyone else. Throughout the episode, the rabbi helps the man reconcile with the idea that although his mother’s generation was torn apart by the Holocaust, she tried to love the next generation, her son, as best she could.

Reformed highlights a female rabbi, Lea, as she navigates the complexities of being a woman in a religious role that had been predominantly filled by men. In each episode, a member of the Jewish community seeks her guidance on a personal or cultural issue, many of which resonate with questions we all face, religious or not.

Jews call this ritual of tearing their clothes the kriyah, or “cutting ceremony.” The torn cloth, which cannot be made whole again, is a bittersweet reminder that life will never be the same without the loved one. But there is a deeper significance. We grieve when someone passes because we have lost them. But, they are not gone; their souls and legacies live on.

As Aron Moss, a rabbi of the Nefesh community in Australia explains: Death is when we strip off one uniform and take on another. The garment may be torn, but the essence of the person within it is still intact. — Rabbi Aron Moss Up until this point in my life, I have been a student: a middle schooler, highschooler, a college student. But now, it’s time to choose. What do I want to do? This episode of Reformed made me ask myself, who do I want to be? This question stayed with me as I attended Regino and Jaunita’s 50th anniversary celebration. They are my grandparents.

At the ceremony, my dad gave a speech that honored his parents for their generous and selfless lifestyle. He honored my grandfather for not only being an architect by profession, but an architect of relationships, of purpose. Just like spaces are purposefully designed in a house, my grandparents were intentional in the relational spaces they created. “Love is not measured in years,” he said, “it is measured in the lives that we touch and the relationships we build.” As I sat before my grandparents, with my aunts and uncles across from me, and my cousins beside me, I realized two things. First, we are always building something with our lives; we are influencing people whether we realize it or not. But we are not a new construction; our lives are another story built on the foundation laid by those who came before us.

Esther, my maternal grandma, told me stories of how she worked in the fields and helped take care of her six siblings, and I often hear how my maternal grandpa, without knowing a word of English, moved his life and business to the States so his children could have different opportunities. These are the stories I will pass down, but these are also the legacies of selflessness and love that I will live out.

During the funeral scene, Rabbi Lea explained the concept behind the Hebrew word, dor. This word means both “generation” and “to weave”. She says that on many gravestones is written, “may their soul be sewn into those of the living.” We honor the generations that came before us by remembering them, and that remembrance enriches our lives. The way we choose to imitate our ancestors creates a more intricate and meaningful tapestry, or legacy, to pass on. When we remember their stories, we preserve the wisdom gained from a full life.

Not only do we honor our ancestors by keeping their legacy alive, we recognize their inheritance by living according to their stories. As my father spoke, I realized that all my cousins and I are the byproduct of my grandparents’ lives — not only physically, but spiritually. My passion is to bring attention to underrepresented communities. My parents taught me about God’s nature, and that perspective drives my mission. God is love, and God’s will is love. The more freely I offer love– by protecting the vulnerable– the wider God’s reign of love reaches. The choices my grandparents made to cultivate this vision in their household reverberates today in the way it still echoes in my life decades later. May their souls be sewn into those of the living. Scripture reinforces this idea that our capacity to choose what we carry and what we leave behind influences our identity. Psalm 78 is a wisdom psalm, a plea to remember the past, apply those stories wisely to the present so that we can move forward in close relationship with God.

Psalm 78:3-4,7 says: I will open my mouth with a parable; I will utter hidden things, things from old– things we have heard and known, things our ancestors have told us. We will not hide them from their descendants; we will tell the next generation the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord, his power, and the wonders he has done. Then they would put their trust in God and would not forget his deeds but would keep his commands. The psalmist’s words imply that the time to share our stories and to weave our ancestors’ stories into ours and future generations is now.

For some, to sew means offering unconditional love to your children, passing on your parents’ love, or protecting them from the pain that you experienced. To others, sewing looks different.

I am an unmarried 21 year old with no kids, but that by no means determines that I have no role in echoing the voices of those who came before. I always say that I have my father’s mind and my mother’s heart. I have my grandparent’s teaching spirit, sensitivity, and steadiness. For me, to reflect their lives means to be curious, listen, and be an advocate for those harmed by the system. It means to make people feel at home. It means to support others as they pursue their vision. It means to live as though I know God offers perfect peace in the midst of chaos. It means recognizing that by honoring the legacy of those who have come before me, I am already adding my own life to the great tapestry God is weaving.