Rabbi Chaim Landau Was a Model of Compassion and Love

August 8, 2024 Guest Contributor

The author and his mother, Shirley Silver (Provided photo)

By Marc Silver

I was idly scrolling through Facebook recently when I got a shock: I saw a post from a friend that Rabbi Chaim Landau had died. Tears came to my eyes as I remembered an extraordinary encounter we had.

It was the first Sunday of 2020. I reached out to Rabbi Landau with a request that I figured was an impossible dream. Here’s what happened.

My mother, Shirley Silver, then 98 and in a frail state, was in her Baltimore home, with aides around the clock. I live in a Washington, D.C., suburb and drove over to spend some time with her.

When I got there, her aide excitedly told me that my mom had made a request: “I want to daven with Rabbi Landau.”

My mother, a piano teacher for 50-plus years, knew Rabbi Landau and his family well. Two of his children were her (very talented) students. The rabbi took some lessons from her as well.

The request floored me. My mom was not a religious woman. And I had never heard her use the word “daven” in my life. Our family had grown up as members of a Reform synagogue. Rabbi Landau was an Orthodox rabbi and served as spiritual leader of Ner Tamid Greenspring Valley Synagogue.

I was also surprised that she was so lucid. I had visited on Saturday, and she was barely able to speak. Her face was a mask of anguish.

But that Sunday morning, with astonishing clarity, she summoned Rabbi Landau’s name from her memory bank. And she knew what she needed from him. Perhaps she could sense that death was near. She expressed a wish that came from the depths of her soul, and she trusted us to make it happen.

I proceeded to try and make the wish come true. I Googled the rabbi’s phone number, found it — and got his voicemail.

I made my intimate and spiritually urgent request: Can you come by to pray with my mom?

I was not optimistic. I figured, oh well, he’s probably out of town. I did the best I could.

But within half an hour, my phone rang. It was the rabbi’s wife. Her husband was out but would soon be back, she said. And he’d definitely come over.

On a cold January afternoon, Rabbi Landau arrived wearing just a pullover sweater. I teased him about being maybe a tad underdressed for the weather.

My mom was seated in a black lounge chair in her tiny den, propped up by a pillow, an orange blanket over her knees.

It was hard to get her to focus on her visitor. She’d drop in and out of sleep. Sometimes she had a blank look.

Rabbi Landau took her hand, her elegant hand with its long pianist’s fingers, and said he would say the Sh’ma Yisrael — the quintessential Hebrew prayer that expresses belief in God.

I joined in, softly. The rabbi said another prayer, asking God to bring healing. He added the words “… and peace” because I think we all knew that healing, alas, was not possible.

My mother — in deep contrast to her anguished expression the day before — had a look of happiness and contentment. Two simple prayers had brought comfort to a woman who rarely prayed.

When the prayers were finished, we all said, “Amen.”

Looking back, I realize that Rabbi Landau gave a life lesson on what it means to be a rabbi. Sure, you need scholarship, you need the ability to write and deliver sermons, you need diplomatic skills to manage the politics of a congregation, you need a taste for chopped liver and/or gefilte fish.

But Rabbi Landau showed us the essence of being a rabbi; giving of yourself with an open heart, a heart full of love and kindness, whenever you are called. Knowing intuitively what someone needs, and giving the comfort they crave.

Rabbi Landau could easily have excused himself after the prayers. But he stayed to chat. He told my mom he still plays the piano himself — and promised to come back and play a song or two for her in the weeks ahead.

When he left, my mom had the most beautiful smile on her face. A big, beautiful smile.

It was the last time I saw her alive. My mother, of blessed memory, died the next day. Thank you, Rabbi Landau, for that precious memory.

Marc Silver, who began his career in journalism at the Baltimore Jewish Times, is an editor at NPR and author of “Breast Cancer Husband” (Rodale Books).