Several weeks ago, as I planned my overly ambitious summer reading list, I came across my son’s copy of Flannery O’Connor’s famous first novel, Wise Blood. Contemplating whether or not to read the book, and always looking for an excuse to talk to my adult child, I called him to inquire about what he thought of it. “You know, dad,” he began, “It is an intensely religious novel, all about a man who is trying to rid himself of faith in Jesus and God, yet who fails to do so. As a rabbi and religious person, you’ll like it.”
I cringe when I suspect that I am being stereotyped as automatically loving certain genres of art or literature just because they emphasize religious themes. Though I suffer from the dread clergy disease, "sermonitis", which makes me look for sermon topics in every show I watch and book I read, I do not necessarily like or enjoy religion themed art and books because I am religious. On the other hand, I have reasonably sophisticated secular sensibilities. They allow me to consume the better examples of what our general artistic and literary cultures have to offer, even if I am not always clear about what I am consuming. Nonetheless, my son correctly assumed that good fiction about the grittier dimensions of the spiritual quest might appeal to me. Having recently read the book under a master teacher in a college English seminar, he had a lot to say about it that he promised to share with me at a later time.
I read O’Connor’s deceptively simple masterpiece, and in fact, I enjoyed it very much, despite my not understanding it too well. When I called my son to share with him my take on her writing, I began to ask him questions about what he thought she was trying to do in the novel. Without missing a beat or throwing his old man an exasperated sigh, he patiently and briefly laid out for me how and why O’Connor created her characters, and what she was trying to say about faith in God. He then suggested other books for me to read this summer and bid me goodbye. Wow, I thought, my twenty three year old just unpacked the meaning of a really complicated book for me that I almost completely missed.
That conversation was one of a growing number of interactions with my children in which the tables are being turned and they, my closest students, are becoming my teachers. This does not mean that my and my wife’s roles as mentors in their lives are at all diminishing. In fact, I have become fond of telling people that, as my kids enter adulthood, I am actually parenting more intensely in some respects than ever before. However, I take no small amount of pride in experiencing first-hand the knowledge and understanding they are accumulating as young adults, which they then impart to me as part of a robust, thoughtful adult relationship.
This is as it should be. From the very beginning of their lives, we and our children are teaching and learning from each other. The balance of this dual mentoring process shifts and reshapes itself constantly, from birth until death. I keep discovering that when parents and children remain open to being each other’s teachers and students, the potential for fresh, soul rejuvenating personal growth is limitless.
In Wise Blood, O’Connor creates a character who is convinced he has inherited what he calls wise blood, a kind of prophetic spiritual sensitivity from his ancestors. As my children’s student, and not just their teacher, I witness the many ways in which the inheritance of wise blood works in both generational directions. This dual inheritance brings renewed meaning to the ancient Jewish wisdom teaching that we learn from our teachers, we learn more from our colleagues, and we learn the most from our students.
Dan Ornstein is rabbi at Congregation Ohav Shalom and a writer living in Albany, NY.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.