PROPHECY GONE STALE
Four-and-a-half years have passed, but only now can I begin to talk about it:
Shortly after my departure from the congregation in Greenville, I was recruited to conduct the High Holy Day services for a once sizable, now foundering, synagogue in central Pennsylvania. That in itself is not unusual. Congregations that cannot afford the salary of a fulltime rabbi will often turn to a “freelancer” to lead the worship for major holidays, when attendance is as large and demanding as, say, Christmas Eve and Easter.
Having already conducted High Holy Day services for nearly three decades, I had few opening-night jitters or flop-sweats as my term as fill-in rabbi began. And my new congregation apparently concurred. The fit seemed only too good. They showered Linda and me with hospitality, invited us into their homes, accommodated us as family.
There was talk – much of it self-initiated, I confess – about bringing me up occasionally during the year for special events: retreats, study weekends, holiday celebrations. Maybe, some of us postulated, we could even establish an ongoing relationship of my spending two weeks a month in Pennsylvania to address the more routine pastoral, civic, and institutional needs of the congregation. Perhaps we might even be able to prod the congregation into a renaissance. But, nothing ever came of that, and the idea likely rubbed some of the more reticent members the wrong way.
The seeming love affair continued for three Holy Day seasons. On the fourth, things apparently started to chafe. The president called between Rosh Hashanah – the New Year – and Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement – to politely and softly admonish me that my sermons were getting “stale,” and that some congregants were demanding ones of greater relevance.
Clichés come to mind, but greatest among them is that my bubble burst. I was not taken so much by the chutzpa as by the astonishment that for the first time in 30+ years in ministry, my sermons were deemed not too controversial, but not sufficiently relevant – my anger not piqued so much as my ego flat-deflated.
I was still sure that the sermon I has prepared for the austere fast of Yom Kippur would score high on the relevance scale. It was, dramatically, or so I thought, taken from the majestic Isaiah 58, a prophecy raining condemnation on those who fast meaninglessly and gabble empty prayers while not attending to the homeless, the hungry, the oppressed.
Would this be my swansong? Apparently. In the aftermath, the congregation was polite, but remote. A few months went by, and a terse call from the president told me that my services would not be needed for the next High Holy Days. They had “hired someone nearer by to attend more closely to their needs,” but they would not have had me back as their Holy Day rabbi, “regardless.” End of conversation. End of relationship.
Why he had to be so cruel as to tell me that my services would not be required “regardless,” I will never know. Telling the truth unnecessarily can become brutality, especially to the fragile ego of someone whose profession should have taught him to be tougher.
Is that why it hurts still so many years later? Or is it the disillusionment and humiliation that we would assume only babes-in-ministry, not hardened professionals in it for the long-haul, should suffer? Is it the inescapable truth that when one conjures up the compelling words of a Prophet of Israel he will ruffle the conscience of the complacent, not necessarily enough to change them, but enough to get them pie-eyed angry at the messenger? Is it that when one asks for “relevance,” he should be careful for what he wishes? Or is it that “relevance” itself has become an empty cliché for things that engage us momentarily like a baby attracted to a shiny bauble, only to be bored a nanosecond later? Have I, wizened by the years and fears and disappointments, become strong enough to read and hear the message, but no longer tough enough to deliver it?
Now, I will spend the rest of my life listening to someone else’s sermons, wondering, longingly, if the thunder of the prophet was too much to hearken, or if the staleness of his messenger just rendered the message irrelevant.
November 11, 2010
August 25, 2010
NOTE FROM MY SON BEN ON JEWISH VEGETARIANISM . . .
Interestingly enough, Rav Kook promoted vegetarianism. He even wrote an essay titled "A Vision of Vegetarianism and Peace". I have read that he stated that we still have the chiuv to eat meat on Shabbos on the account of "ain simchas ele be'basar", but ate the minimum to fulfill his obligation. I have even read that he is of the opinion that all of our korbanos in the time of the Moshiach will be vegetation, rather than animals.
Here are 2 links that have differing explanations of his views: the first is from a guy named Richard Schwartz who is of the opinion that Rav Kook promoted vegetarianism actively for our time. Marty Lockshin vehemently denies this was Rav Kook's opinion. This is the link: http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Judaism/ravkook_veg.html.
The second article is from Rav Shlomo Aviner. He was probably the closest talmid of Rav Zvi Yehudah Kook. He maintains that Rav Kook only meant what he wrote about vegetarianism as a future, Messianic idea. As people living in an "imperfect world", vegetarianism isn't a necessary concept. The link to this is: http://www.ravaviner.com/2009/02/maran-ha-rav-kook-and-vegetarianism.html.
Interestingly enough, Rav Kook promoted vegetarianism. He even wrote an essay titled "A Vision of Vegetarianism and Peace". I have read that he stated that we still have the chiuv to eat meat on Shabbos on the account of "ain simchas ele be'basar", but ate the minimum to fulfill his obligation. I have even read that he is of the opinion that all of our korbanos in the time of the Moshiach will be vegetation, rather than animals.
Here are 2 links that have differing explanations of his views: the first is from a guy named Richard Schwartz who is of the opinion that Rav Kook promoted vegetarianism actively for our time. Marty Lockshin vehemently denies this was Rav Kook's opinion. This is the link: http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Judaism/ravkook_veg.html.
The second article is from Rav Shlomo Aviner. He was probably the closest talmid of Rav Zvi Yehudah Kook. He maintains that Rav Kook only meant what he wrote about vegetarianism as a future, Messianic idea. As people living in an "imperfect world", vegetarianism isn't a necessary concept. The link to this is: http://www.ravaviner.com/2009/02/maran-ha-rav-kook-and-vegetarianism.html.
August 20, 2010
CALLING ALL VEGANS TO SHABBOS DINNER AT MY TABLE
Every Shabbat, I sing with gusto about luxuriating in “duck and quail,” “fatted stuffed chicken,” “meat and fish and other delights.” For all the mitzvot that I take at their figurative value, this is one that I take literally, with impeccable gravitas.
Yes, yes, I know all about Jonathan Safran Foers and his vegan protestations. They will eventually, I predict, go the way of all pop-culture, along with the Rubik’s cube and pet rock. Yes, I foresee a day when moderation will hold sway in the culinary world, and gluttony will never be confused with an occasional well-marbled steak.
The path to moderation will likely never satisfy those humanitarian souls who deem the fleishig route a one-way ticket to hell. I have no desire to convince them to the contrary, except to say that I am certain that many a great spiritual master and humanitarian succumbed to eating a hamburger without being sentenced to perdition. The Rambam a vegan? Akiva? Samson Raphael Hirsch (although he wrote to the contrary, that hypocrite!)? I have it on good authority that even the saintly Lubavitcher Rebbe ate meat at his meager repasts. I would not go so far to call vegans “The Hezbollah of Food,” ala Anthony Bourdin, just perhaps slightly misguided in their protestations about us meat-eaters.
My purpose is to reassure that we carnivores have not gone off the track by slaughtering, butchering, koshering, and proudly serving a delectably juicy brisket at our Shabbat table – while keeping our humanity intact.
Look, I wouldn’t lie to you. I’d be hard pressed to find any noteworthy rabbinical authority who says that slaughtering animals for human consumption is some kind of ultimate virtue. If anything, it is a necessary vice until “the time” comes when humanity attains its moral perfection. That noble Divine experiment was thwarted ten generations after creation at the time of Noah, when license to eat meat was introduced to the human diet. I dare say that our state of moral perfection hasn’t gotten much better since.
In fact, the Torah refers to the common hamburger as basar ta’avah – “lustful meat” – as anyone who stands in front of a grill al fresco with a beer in hand knows only too well. As much as I hate to hide behind the skirts of Divine authority, God does instruct that eating meat is a licit pleasure, deriving from a lust that is “kosher,” unlike lusting after a married woman or someone else’s property. A few scholars even maintain that slaughtering and ingesting meat signifies human dominance over the animal world, thus elevating the animal to a higher spiritual level by putting it into the service of man. Don’t get angry at me; I’m just reporting the news. Regardless, so long as man finds lusty gratification in eating meat, God will bless its use to celebrate Shabbat, holy days, and a variety of simchas and celebrations.
Let’s consider, then, that kashrut is the last line of defense between eating meat in the way of a mensch or as a barbarian. The animal must be chosen from a clean variety. The slaughtering itself must be performed swiftly and painlessly by an expert shochet, wielding an impeccably honed knife. The blood must be meticulously removed, so as not to intimate that the animal’s life-flow will be used symbolically to victimize it. For like reasons, we do not cook/eat milk and meat together. Thus, even if slaughter itself has odious connotations, the animal’s preparation for consumption is performed with sensitivity to the gravity of the act.
When I embarked on writing this essay, I knew that I would be hard pressed to justify the absolute virtue of dining on a juicy, rare steak. In the abstract, the vegans are probably right. Well, let the abstract be damned! Let me turn the rest of these ramblings into a confession, no, perhaps a love-song: Count me among those who lust for meat. I have never pondered the inconsistencies between that and my commitment to traditional Judaism, any more than a nearsighted person ponders his myopia. I feel no reason to defend my carnivorous inclinations.
Mr. Foers’ moral imprecations aside, I cannot contemplate the joy of a Shabbat dinner being complete without a steaming bowl of shimmering chicken soup, crowned with a matzo ball. Better yet, crown it with kreplach – a swatch of noodle encasing a tiny treat of hockfleisch, “Jewish wonton,” if a feeble comparison is necessary.
Just as our hearts have been lifted heavenward by ethereal golden broth, we are drawn back to the primal mothering of earthy chopped liver – the most negligible organ of the chicken transformed to nobility when napped in egg, onion, and hearty schmaltz.
Heaven and earth collide as the main course of brisket is presented. I do not mean the so-called “first cut” brisket, completely devoid of fat, that upon cooking morphs into a pile of wet hemp. Feh. Goyische nachas. No, I mean the whole brisket, fatty deckel and all, sliced so that each bite contains some of the fat and the lean, the perfect culinary yin-yang. And let every bite be accompanied by a morsel of potato kugel, again enriched by copious amounts of schmaltz.
Dessert? Why Apfelschalet, of course!
So much for Shabbat dinner. Fast-forward now to lunch. We return home after schule. The savory aroma of cholent greets us as the door – beans, barley, potatoes, garlic, of course, there must be garlic. But without a hunk of well-marbled brisket or flanken to fatten and season the mélange, one no longer has cholent, but a silly pot of baked beans.
My “Rhapsody in Fleisch” could go on endlessly. Suffice to say that “lustful meat” plays a role in celebration, or even perking up an otherwise ordinary day, that no mess of red beans and brown rice could ever replace. Propriety tells me that I should admire my vegan brethren for the moral perfection that they have attained. But why should I lie? I feel sorry for people who cannot throw health and pietistic concerns to the wind every once in a while for the gratification that only a juicy steak or a hot dog slathered in mustard can provide. As for me, I’ll ask God to arbitrate the dispute. I figure that God is already so picky about the things I may not do that I may as well fulfill my lust when God nods His approval.
Mr. Foers, you may find that my taste for meat is depravity personified. I’m willing to take my chances. After all, what would be worse? Spending an eternity in purgatory or a lifetime subsisting on tofu and soy?
Every Shabbat, I sing with gusto about luxuriating in “duck and quail,” “fatted stuffed chicken,” “meat and fish and other delights.” For all the mitzvot that I take at their figurative value, this is one that I take literally, with impeccable gravitas.
Yes, yes, I know all about Jonathan Safran Foers and his vegan protestations. They will eventually, I predict, go the way of all pop-culture, along with the Rubik’s cube and pet rock. Yes, I foresee a day when moderation will hold sway in the culinary world, and gluttony will never be confused with an occasional well-marbled steak.
The path to moderation will likely never satisfy those humanitarian souls who deem the fleishig route a one-way ticket to hell. I have no desire to convince them to the contrary, except to say that I am certain that many a great spiritual master and humanitarian succumbed to eating a hamburger without being sentenced to perdition. The Rambam a vegan? Akiva? Samson Raphael Hirsch (although he wrote to the contrary, that hypocrite!)? I have it on good authority that even the saintly Lubavitcher Rebbe ate meat at his meager repasts. I would not go so far to call vegans “The Hezbollah of Food,” ala Anthony Bourdin, just perhaps slightly misguided in their protestations about us meat-eaters.
My purpose is to reassure that we carnivores have not gone off the track by slaughtering, butchering, koshering, and proudly serving a delectably juicy brisket at our Shabbat table – while keeping our humanity intact.
Look, I wouldn’t lie to you. I’d be hard pressed to find any noteworthy rabbinical authority who says that slaughtering animals for human consumption is some kind of ultimate virtue. If anything, it is a necessary vice until “the time” comes when humanity attains its moral perfection. That noble Divine experiment was thwarted ten generations after creation at the time of Noah, when license to eat meat was introduced to the human diet. I dare say that our state of moral perfection hasn’t gotten much better since.
In fact, the Torah refers to the common hamburger as basar ta’avah – “lustful meat” – as anyone who stands in front of a grill al fresco with a beer in hand knows only too well. As much as I hate to hide behind the skirts of Divine authority, God does instruct that eating meat is a licit pleasure, deriving from a lust that is “kosher,” unlike lusting after a married woman or someone else’s property. A few scholars even maintain that slaughtering and ingesting meat signifies human dominance over the animal world, thus elevating the animal to a higher spiritual level by putting it into the service of man. Don’t get angry at me; I’m just reporting the news. Regardless, so long as man finds lusty gratification in eating meat, God will bless its use to celebrate Shabbat, holy days, and a variety of simchas and celebrations.
Let’s consider, then, that kashrut is the last line of defense between eating meat in the way of a mensch or as a barbarian. The animal must be chosen from a clean variety. The slaughtering itself must be performed swiftly and painlessly by an expert shochet, wielding an impeccably honed knife. The blood must be meticulously removed, so as not to intimate that the animal’s life-flow will be used symbolically to victimize it. For like reasons, we do not cook/eat milk and meat together. Thus, even if slaughter itself has odious connotations, the animal’s preparation for consumption is performed with sensitivity to the gravity of the act.
When I embarked on writing this essay, I knew that I would be hard pressed to justify the absolute virtue of dining on a juicy, rare steak. In the abstract, the vegans are probably right. Well, let the abstract be damned! Let me turn the rest of these ramblings into a confession, no, perhaps a love-song: Count me among those who lust for meat. I have never pondered the inconsistencies between that and my commitment to traditional Judaism, any more than a nearsighted person ponders his myopia. I feel no reason to defend my carnivorous inclinations.
Mr. Foers’ moral imprecations aside, I cannot contemplate the joy of a Shabbat dinner being complete without a steaming bowl of shimmering chicken soup, crowned with a matzo ball. Better yet, crown it with kreplach – a swatch of noodle encasing a tiny treat of hockfleisch, “Jewish wonton,” if a feeble comparison is necessary.
Just as our hearts have been lifted heavenward by ethereal golden broth, we are drawn back to the primal mothering of earthy chopped liver – the most negligible organ of the chicken transformed to nobility when napped in egg, onion, and hearty schmaltz.
Heaven and earth collide as the main course of brisket is presented. I do not mean the so-called “first cut” brisket, completely devoid of fat, that upon cooking morphs into a pile of wet hemp. Feh. Goyische nachas. No, I mean the whole brisket, fatty deckel and all, sliced so that each bite contains some of the fat and the lean, the perfect culinary yin-yang. And let every bite be accompanied by a morsel of potato kugel, again enriched by copious amounts of schmaltz.
Dessert? Why Apfelschalet, of course!
So much for Shabbat dinner. Fast-forward now to lunch. We return home after schule. The savory aroma of cholent greets us as the door – beans, barley, potatoes, garlic, of course, there must be garlic. But without a hunk of well-marbled brisket or flanken to fatten and season the mélange, one no longer has cholent, but a silly pot of baked beans.
My “Rhapsody in Fleisch” could go on endlessly. Suffice to say that “lustful meat” plays a role in celebration, or even perking up an otherwise ordinary day, that no mess of red beans and brown rice could ever replace. Propriety tells me that I should admire my vegan brethren for the moral perfection that they have attained. But why should I lie? I feel sorry for people who cannot throw health and pietistic concerns to the wind every once in a while for the gratification that only a juicy steak or a hot dog slathered in mustard can provide. As for me, I’ll ask God to arbitrate the dispute. I figure that God is already so picky about the things I may not do that I may as well fulfill my lust when God nods His approval.
Mr. Foers, you may find that my taste for meat is depravity personified. I’m willing to take my chances. After all, what would be worse? Spending an eternity in purgatory or a lifetime subsisting on tofu and soy?
July 21, 2010
A HOUSE OF PEACE AT GROUND ZERO
Let us say for argument’s sake that there is not something outright malevolent in building a mega-mosque at Ground Zero. Yet, no one can escape the truth that it is an act of the most inconceivable chutzpa (gall) on the part of purportedly well-motivated Muslim movers-and-shakers.
Someone had to have whispered in someone’s ear, “Think of how much ill-will we would generate by dropping that edifice down at the foot of the symbol of abject hatred. How much worse would building the mosque sully the reputation of a people already alleged to be intent on ‘taking over the world’? How many people would ‘get it’ that our motives were only the highest? Isn’t resisting that kind of controversy and ill-repute worth our buying some less tragedy-steeped plot of land? Should we not have the wisdom, kindness, and pursuit of peace to move elsewhere?”
The day will likely never come for that mosque to represent anything other than rancor, ill-will, and the antithesis of the Muslim pledge to foster ways of peace. Perception is everything, and the perception will always be twenty-stories of chutzpa, if not outright malevolence.
Were that space next to Ground Zero to remain mosque-less and empty, no higher cause would have been served. If anything, Muslims would be vindicated, because no altruistic goal whatsoever would be realized by a conspicuous gap in Downtown architecture, or worse, filled in by a bodega.
What then? Just a thought, now:
What about a House of Peace, welcoming to all people? I envision it as a calm and serene place, a respite from the shoulder-jogging bustle of the Downtown streets and financial district chicanery and intrigue. No graffiti or rancor. Cool, quiet, fountains, areas that lend themselves to meditation, others to discussion and study, with serene plantings and a grotto. Not a museum, but perhaps niches where in solitude one can listen to the words of the world’s peacemakers. A string-quartet here. A flute recital here. And no Wi-Fi. Serenity. Restfulness. Restoration. Peace.
When you stop to think of it, a house of peace is the only meaningful use of property once so sullied by hate and every antithesis of peace.
“Get real!” you say. And, I would say that you are right. Think of the security, the coordination of programming, the fundraising cocktail parties and extravaganzas, the decisions of what does-and-doesn’t represent the vision of peace, the designs of the fountains and grottos, the letting of contracts for construction . . .
Getting real is precisely the point. It’s inconceivable that we would ever find a critical mass of people – particularly people of influence – to concretize a vision of peace, even if it’s merely a symbolic one, or even to agree to what “peace” would look like. Yet, what we do with that parcel of land at Ground Zero must bring the issue to a head. If not a mosque, what then? If not a symbol of chutzpa and provocation, then what in its place?
There are dreamers and “big-picture” people, and I confess to being both. I know an ideal when I see it, and I know that the only thing worse than having dreams is to have no dreams at all. The events at Ground Zero left many of us cynical and dreamless. We need some good dreams, not ones of revenge and vindication, but of places here and there, if not everywhere, that peace becomes reality for all who dare to dream it. We may never have a House of Peace in Lower Manhattan, but what a lovely dream, if only we held in our hearts and did not capitulate to cynicism. The world may laugh at our dreams, but in a dreamless world, how dare we not dream them?
Let us say for argument’s sake that there is not something outright malevolent in building a mega-mosque at Ground Zero. Yet, no one can escape the truth that it is an act of the most inconceivable chutzpa (gall) on the part of purportedly well-motivated Muslim movers-and-shakers.
Someone had to have whispered in someone’s ear, “Think of how much ill-will we would generate by dropping that edifice down at the foot of the symbol of abject hatred. How much worse would building the mosque sully the reputation of a people already alleged to be intent on ‘taking over the world’? How many people would ‘get it’ that our motives were only the highest? Isn’t resisting that kind of controversy and ill-repute worth our buying some less tragedy-steeped plot of land? Should we not have the wisdom, kindness, and pursuit of peace to move elsewhere?”
The day will likely never come for that mosque to represent anything other than rancor, ill-will, and the antithesis of the Muslim pledge to foster ways of peace. Perception is everything, and the perception will always be twenty-stories of chutzpa, if not outright malevolence.
Were that space next to Ground Zero to remain mosque-less and empty, no higher cause would have been served. If anything, Muslims would be vindicated, because no altruistic goal whatsoever would be realized by a conspicuous gap in Downtown architecture, or worse, filled in by a bodega.
What then? Just a thought, now:
What about a House of Peace, welcoming to all people? I envision it as a calm and serene place, a respite from the shoulder-jogging bustle of the Downtown streets and financial district chicanery and intrigue. No graffiti or rancor. Cool, quiet, fountains, areas that lend themselves to meditation, others to discussion and study, with serene plantings and a grotto. Not a museum, but perhaps niches where in solitude one can listen to the words of the world’s peacemakers. A string-quartet here. A flute recital here. And no Wi-Fi. Serenity. Restfulness. Restoration. Peace.
When you stop to think of it, a house of peace is the only meaningful use of property once so sullied by hate and every antithesis of peace.
“Get real!” you say. And, I would say that you are right. Think of the security, the coordination of programming, the fundraising cocktail parties and extravaganzas, the decisions of what does-and-doesn’t represent the vision of peace, the designs of the fountains and grottos, the letting of contracts for construction . . .
Getting real is precisely the point. It’s inconceivable that we would ever find a critical mass of people – particularly people of influence – to concretize a vision of peace, even if it’s merely a symbolic one, or even to agree to what “peace” would look like. Yet, what we do with that parcel of land at Ground Zero must bring the issue to a head. If not a mosque, what then? If not a symbol of chutzpa and provocation, then what in its place?
There are dreamers and “big-picture” people, and I confess to being both. I know an ideal when I see it, and I know that the only thing worse than having dreams is to have no dreams at all. The events at Ground Zero left many of us cynical and dreamless. We need some good dreams, not ones of revenge and vindication, but of places here and there, if not everywhere, that peace becomes reality for all who dare to dream it. We may never have a House of Peace in Lower Manhattan, but what a lovely dream, if only we held in our hearts and did not capitulate to cynicism. The world may laugh at our dreams, but in a dreamless world, how dare we not dream them?
July 04, 2010
THE LANDSMANSCHAFT PICNIC
My mother’s parents, Pa and Bubbe, arrived in Chicago fresh off the boat from Grodno, Poland, in 1921. As years went by, they took on American ways, prospered but retained ties to the Old Country and old friends through the Grodno landsmanschaft. The landsmanschaft was a friendship circle of the Jewish people who hailed from the same town in Eastern Europe, its members commonly known as landsleit.
Landsleit would periodically convene to socialize, play cards and gossip. They also looked out for each other and financed each other’s debts. They donated selflessly to ransom other landsleit out of the horrors in Europe and get them started in the New Land, which they cherished. (You’d get a chuckle out of their Yiddish version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, sung on patriotic occasions.)
To their immeasurably grief, too many relatives and landsleit were left behind to perish in the horrific concentration camps. A saintly old rabbi, despite knowing of my grandfather’s socialist leanings, wept when he discovered that I was his grandson, telling me in a hoarse whisper, “He is blessed. He saved many, many lives.”
The Grondo picnic was the apex of the landsmanschaft’s year. By the time I was old enough to be taken along, the landsleit had aged out. They still spoke Yiddish with each other, and memories of their youth and starting over in the Promised Land had evolved into full-blown wonder-tales.
Pa lorded over the picnic like a godfather. He had the charisma and grooming of Gotti. He was the quintessential glad-hander and big talker: An ingratiatingly arm around shoulder. Quick with a handclasp. A robust “Sholom aleichem!” – “Peace be with you!” A laugh enhanced at the edges by as asthmatic rasp. Heaping more food on your plate, want it or not. Calling over every child by his Yiddish name, then “Kum aher!” (Come here!), stuffing a dollar bill in each kid’s pocket.
Ah, the food . . . I was, I guess, the typical all-American kid – baseball, rock-and-roll, and picnics of hamburgers and hotdogs. Yet, the Old World cuisine of the Grodno picnic intoxicated me. Ironically, I thought that I had to eat it surreptitiously for fear that a classmate would spy me and report to jeering friends that I ate the same foods that their grandparents did.
Let them be damned! It was delectable, a symphony of robust tastes and textures. The American hamburger is at best a swatch of carpet and its hotdog a link of garden hose. The Grodno picnic was a holy-day al fresco in the Garden of Eden: vampire-banishing garlicky brisket and orange-yellow gravy (at home, our brisket was always bland as wet hemp because garlic upset my cranky grandmother’s stomach), roasted “Sabbath-style” chicken, oven-browned potatoes shimmering in grease like motor oil, Pa’s throat-puckering sour pickles and tomatoes, fermented in crocks in his basement, buckwheat kasha, dense potato kugel (pudding). To be honest, I do not remember the sweets, despite knowing that they were abundant, because I had already lapsed into a coma of well-fatted meat and potatoes long before dessert.
Of this I assure you: Recreation did not mean egg tosses or potato sack races. Instead, there were card games like Kaluki, brought over from the Old Country (although, ironically, its origin may be South African or Caribbean). And Pa, voice still honey-sweet despite his asthma, would lead the landsleit in Yiddish songs, happy, melancholy: Teyere Malkeh – Fill again my cup with wine! Hob’n Mir a Nigen’dl – Let us sing a song of childhood! A Sudenu – How shall we host a feast for Messiah? And the doleful Partizaner Lied, in memory of the Partisans who struggled valiantly against the Nazis – Never say there is only death ahead!
I still think a lot about the landsleit and their magical picnics, now all of them gone to their heavenly reward. I think of their arrival in Columbus’s Golden Land, the hope, the fear, the unknowingness, the self-doubt. Then, even as the decades wore on, once a year the landsleit would gather to replicate the deliciousness of their long-ago salad days, their customs and cuisine yet intact.
Why I too miss those days I have yet understand. Perhaps it is because the memories are not simply cherished, but consecrated. Ach, maybe next Sunday I’ll take the kids to the park and show them a real picnic with brisket and potato kugel. Shall I teach them how to play Kaluki, too?
My mother’s parents, Pa and Bubbe, arrived in Chicago fresh off the boat from Grodno, Poland, in 1921. As years went by, they took on American ways, prospered but retained ties to the Old Country and old friends through the Grodno landsmanschaft. The landsmanschaft was a friendship circle of the Jewish people who hailed from the same town in Eastern Europe, its members commonly known as landsleit.
Landsleit would periodically convene to socialize, play cards and gossip. They also looked out for each other and financed each other’s debts. They donated selflessly to ransom other landsleit out of the horrors in Europe and get them started in the New Land, which they cherished. (You’d get a chuckle out of their Yiddish version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, sung on patriotic occasions.)
To their immeasurably grief, too many relatives and landsleit were left behind to perish in the horrific concentration camps. A saintly old rabbi, despite knowing of my grandfather’s socialist leanings, wept when he discovered that I was his grandson, telling me in a hoarse whisper, “He is blessed. He saved many, many lives.”
The Grondo picnic was the apex of the landsmanschaft’s year. By the time I was old enough to be taken along, the landsleit had aged out. They still spoke Yiddish with each other, and memories of their youth and starting over in the Promised Land had evolved into full-blown wonder-tales.
Pa lorded over the picnic like a godfather. He had the charisma and grooming of Gotti. He was the quintessential glad-hander and big talker: An ingratiatingly arm around shoulder. Quick with a handclasp. A robust “Sholom aleichem!” – “Peace be with you!” A laugh enhanced at the edges by as asthmatic rasp. Heaping more food on your plate, want it or not. Calling over every child by his Yiddish name, then “Kum aher!” (Come here!), stuffing a dollar bill in each kid’s pocket.
Ah, the food . . . I was, I guess, the typical all-American kid – baseball, rock-and-roll, and picnics of hamburgers and hotdogs. Yet, the Old World cuisine of the Grodno picnic intoxicated me. Ironically, I thought that I had to eat it surreptitiously for fear that a classmate would spy me and report to jeering friends that I ate the same foods that their grandparents did.
Let them be damned! It was delectable, a symphony of robust tastes and textures. The American hamburger is at best a swatch of carpet and its hotdog a link of garden hose. The Grodno picnic was a holy-day al fresco in the Garden of Eden: vampire-banishing garlicky brisket and orange-yellow gravy (at home, our brisket was always bland as wet hemp because garlic upset my cranky grandmother’s stomach), roasted “Sabbath-style” chicken, oven-browned potatoes shimmering in grease like motor oil, Pa’s throat-puckering sour pickles and tomatoes, fermented in crocks in his basement, buckwheat kasha, dense potato kugel (pudding). To be honest, I do not remember the sweets, despite knowing that they were abundant, because I had already lapsed into a coma of well-fatted meat and potatoes long before dessert.
Of this I assure you: Recreation did not mean egg tosses or potato sack races. Instead, there were card games like Kaluki, brought over from the Old Country (although, ironically, its origin may be South African or Caribbean). And Pa, voice still honey-sweet despite his asthma, would lead the landsleit in Yiddish songs, happy, melancholy: Teyere Malkeh – Fill again my cup with wine! Hob’n Mir a Nigen’dl – Let us sing a song of childhood! A Sudenu – How shall we host a feast for Messiah? And the doleful Partizaner Lied, in memory of the Partisans who struggled valiantly against the Nazis – Never say there is only death ahead!
I still think a lot about the landsleit and their magical picnics, now all of them gone to their heavenly reward. I think of their arrival in Columbus’s Golden Land, the hope, the fear, the unknowingness, the self-doubt. Then, even as the decades wore on, once a year the landsleit would gather to replicate the deliciousness of their long-ago salad days, their customs and cuisine yet intact.
Why I too miss those days I have yet understand. Perhaps it is because the memories are not simply cherished, but consecrated. Ach, maybe next Sunday I’ll take the kids to the park and show them a real picnic with brisket and potato kugel. Shall I teach them how to play Kaluki, too?
June 08, 2010
HELEN THOMAS AND THE QUESTION OF ANTI-SEMITISM
Helen Thomas, just shut up.
The doyenne of the Washington press corps has long been known for her tart tongue. She opens her mouth for better or for worse, and people listen, perhaps not sufficiently to shape public policy, but enough to gain a glint of polarizing attention from the hoi polloi.
A week ago, she broadsided about Israel’s Jews, “Tell them to get the hell out of Palestine . . . Tell them to go home to Poland and Germany . . .” Ironically, during the 1930s, the streets of Poland and Germany were covered with graffiti, “Jews, go back to Palestine!”
God knows, here is not the place to reassert the millennia-old claim to Israel as the Jewish homeland, even for those of us who advocate a two-state solution. And God knows, one need only Google “Holocaust” to determine the historic “hospitality” of our Polish and German hosts.
Ultimately, we cannot hold Helen responsible for what she thinks. However, what she says demands accountability. That’s because it gives new legitimacy for every vituperative anti-Semite, from the right and the left, to come creeping out of the woodwork. Her words might not be a rallying cry, but they certainly embolden those who are already pre-disposed to think ill of Jews, Israel, even Judaism.
As an upper-middle-class Jewish kid growing up in the shadows of the Holocaust, I had occasional minor encounters with Helen Thomas style anti-Semitism. A crotchety guidance counselor (back then they were called “adjustment teachers”) announced to our recalcitrant seventh grade class, “You Jewish children are all too high-strung.” Then, the principal would each year preface the holiday pageant with, “Isn’t it a pity that so many of you children don’t have a Christmas holiday?” Armstrong Elementary School was 90% Jewish.
Parents didn’t protest, because, well, that generation of Jewish parents just didn’t protest.
By ninth grade, the stakes turned higher. Now in a high school that was only five percent Jewish, I became whipping boy of a mechanical-drawing teacher, despite my timidity. He accused me of cheating, and of having my father, an expert draftsman, do my homework. (No, he didn’t.) Naïve or just a sap, I had no idea that the teacher was motivated by anti-Semitism. And if my parents thought so, they weren’t saying anything to me.
Spring of 1963, my private hell ensued. Passover came, and I stayed out of school to attend religious services. Such absence, properly verified by parents, rabbi, and guidance counselor, was officially excused. All but to Mr. Hellman. He summarily expelled me from class for not bearing an excused absence and flunked me.
This time my father did, atypically, react. He protested to Hellman, to no avail. The rabbi was called, again to no avail. Four days later, the guidance counselor intervened, and Hellman begrudgingly reinstated me. Naturally, the balance of the year was beyond purgatory – accusations, poor grades, losing homework assignments that I had handed in, capped by a D- grade. And no honor roll that year for an otherwise exemplary student.
But, you know what I remember most? Hellman mumbling at me upon my readmission, “You people are always pulling strings.” Then, as I took my seat, he announced loud enough for the entire class to hear, “Why don’t you go to one of the special schools they have for your people?”
The message was clear: “You don’t belong here. ‘We’ belong here. You belong in a yeshiva, or maybe your home in Poland and Germany. Just not here.”
By and large, the kids laughed. The rest of the year, they jeered about my “special school.” “A joke,” said Nietzsche, “is an epigram on the death of a feeling.”
Hellman may not have fomented anti-Semitism that day for a class of ninth graders. And, I guess that for me it built character. But, he did legitimate anti-Semitism, the same way that Helen Thomas did on the White House lawn. And, legitimacy opens many foreboding doors.
An epilogue: Hellman was promoted to assistant principal. I kid you not. At least Helen shut up, resigned, went home, and probably blamed the Jewish lobby.
Helen Thomas, just shut up.
The doyenne of the Washington press corps has long been known for her tart tongue. She opens her mouth for better or for worse, and people listen, perhaps not sufficiently to shape public policy, but enough to gain a glint of polarizing attention from the hoi polloi.
A week ago, she broadsided about Israel’s Jews, “Tell them to get the hell out of Palestine . . . Tell them to go home to Poland and Germany . . .” Ironically, during the 1930s, the streets of Poland and Germany were covered with graffiti, “Jews, go back to Palestine!”
God knows, here is not the place to reassert the millennia-old claim to Israel as the Jewish homeland, even for those of us who advocate a two-state solution. And God knows, one need only Google “Holocaust” to determine the historic “hospitality” of our Polish and German hosts.
Ultimately, we cannot hold Helen responsible for what she thinks. However, what she says demands accountability. That’s because it gives new legitimacy for every vituperative anti-Semite, from the right and the left, to come creeping out of the woodwork. Her words might not be a rallying cry, but they certainly embolden those who are already pre-disposed to think ill of Jews, Israel, even Judaism.
As an upper-middle-class Jewish kid growing up in the shadows of the Holocaust, I had occasional minor encounters with Helen Thomas style anti-Semitism. A crotchety guidance counselor (back then they were called “adjustment teachers”) announced to our recalcitrant seventh grade class, “You Jewish children are all too high-strung.” Then, the principal would each year preface the holiday pageant with, “Isn’t it a pity that so many of you children don’t have a Christmas holiday?” Armstrong Elementary School was 90% Jewish.
Parents didn’t protest, because, well, that generation of Jewish parents just didn’t protest.
By ninth grade, the stakes turned higher. Now in a high school that was only five percent Jewish, I became whipping boy of a mechanical-drawing teacher, despite my timidity. He accused me of cheating, and of having my father, an expert draftsman, do my homework. (No, he didn’t.) Naïve or just a sap, I had no idea that the teacher was motivated by anti-Semitism. And if my parents thought so, they weren’t saying anything to me.
Spring of 1963, my private hell ensued. Passover came, and I stayed out of school to attend religious services. Such absence, properly verified by parents, rabbi, and guidance counselor, was officially excused. All but to Mr. Hellman. He summarily expelled me from class for not bearing an excused absence and flunked me.
This time my father did, atypically, react. He protested to Hellman, to no avail. The rabbi was called, again to no avail. Four days later, the guidance counselor intervened, and Hellman begrudgingly reinstated me. Naturally, the balance of the year was beyond purgatory – accusations, poor grades, losing homework assignments that I had handed in, capped by a D- grade. And no honor roll that year for an otherwise exemplary student.
But, you know what I remember most? Hellman mumbling at me upon my readmission, “You people are always pulling strings.” Then, as I took my seat, he announced loud enough for the entire class to hear, “Why don’t you go to one of the special schools they have for your people?”
The message was clear: “You don’t belong here. ‘We’ belong here. You belong in a yeshiva, or maybe your home in Poland and Germany. Just not here.”
By and large, the kids laughed. The rest of the year, they jeered about my “special school.” “A joke,” said Nietzsche, “is an epigram on the death of a feeling.”
Hellman may not have fomented anti-Semitism that day for a class of ninth graders. And, I guess that for me it built character. But, he did legitimate anti-Semitism, the same way that Helen Thomas did on the White House lawn. And, legitimacy opens many foreboding doors.
An epilogue: Hellman was promoted to assistant principal. I kid you not. At least Helen shut up, resigned, went home, and probably blamed the Jewish lobby.
May 09, 2010
HOW A TORAH SHOUT-OUT MIGHT HAVE PROTECTED WALL STREET FROM ITSELF
In my meanderings through the synagogue world, I am always amused by the only instance in which shouting out during the Sabbath service has become a ritual, if not a well-cultivated art form. For the uninitiated, the focal point of the service is the ceremonial reading from a portion of the Torah inscribed in Hebrew on a parchment scroll. Chanting from the scroll is no small feat even for a Hebrew literate; the words appear with neither vowels nor musical notes. The reading requires the uncanny ability to memorize the vocalization and notation of about 120 verses of the weekly text. Think of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” . . . sans vowels and notes.
But a few wisenheimers in the pews always seem to know better. If, for example, the hapless reader should mistake the letter “resh (R)” for a “dalet (D)” – Hebrew lookalikes – the know-it-alls instantly shout out the correction. Lest the mistake go unnoticed, their tone is smug, belligerent and put-upon, perhaps even a little arrogant.
They say that every Jewish custom has a righteous origin, even if it has come to be abused by ensuing generations. “How, then, rabbi, can there merit to the Torah shout-out?”
“Even this,” the rabbis answered: Its origin was in the fear that even the simplest mistake might be incorporated into the text by erroneous usage and change its meaning, unless it was corrected instantly. Belligerence and arrogance obviously came later.
Legitimate or not? For the pious, for whom the Holy Writ is the inerrant word of God, every letter is sacred and must be prized beyond diamonds. Playing fast-and-loose with the words might result in sacrilege, desecration, or worst, in altering some sacred principle of The Law.
I confess that that indecorous little custom has always left me a tad ambivalent. Ambivalent, yes, until a week ago when that a serf Wall Street might have hit the "b" key, as in "billion," instead of the more temperate "m," just one key away. Ask your second grader the difference. The market began its freefall, the Dow plummeted a thousand points, and sell-orders went wild. From a single glitch, the fatalists had their day - or at least their 20 minutes – on Wall Street.
Yes, the error was righted in a matter of minutes. But just think: What if a couple of cranky old traders had instantly shouted out, “It’s ‘M’, you idiot, like in ’million’!” like they do in those arcane little synagogues? You know what would have happened: The miscreant would have hit the backspace and righted the $14,985,000,000-error quicker than I could change "Madam" to "Adam" in my Torah reading.
How many other disasters could be averted if we dispatched a few crabby nitpickers to undo minor mistakes that could lead to tremendous disaster?
• “No, it says 'abort' the warhead, not 'deploy' it!"
• “No, it's righty-tighty, lefty-loosy, when you turn the dials on the oil well’s control panel!"
• “Ben, hit ‘L’ and get out of the elevator; don’t follow Mrs. Robinson up to her hotel room!”
Sure, there's a grey line where conscience, free will, and personal accountability must kick in, or we’d be far the worse for it. But, dare we dream that all our mistakes could be waylaid by a crabby voice thundering, “’M’ not ‘B’!!
So you see, I have come to appreciate the transcendent meaning of those funky shout-outs. Yes, they come from bellicose old men, but those curmudgeons are the very ones who really still believe that the Holy Writ is the inerrant word of God. Wall Street may play with its billions, but the curmudgeons are the guardians of eternity. Let there be no mistaking: They preserve and protect it. Most of us simply dabble at buying-and-selling it.
N.B. If you'd like to be part of a Torah Shout-Out, call me, and some Sabbath I'll take you on a field trip. Of two things you may be sure: At some point, the reader will make a teeny mistake. And, quicker than I can mispronounce “Zelophehad,” some belligerent voice will shout out its correction. It might not build or destroy your faith forever, but it would still make a helluva term paper for your Comparative Religions class.
In my meanderings through the synagogue world, I am always amused by the only instance in which shouting out during the Sabbath service has become a ritual, if not a well-cultivated art form. For the uninitiated, the focal point of the service is the ceremonial reading from a portion of the Torah inscribed in Hebrew on a parchment scroll. Chanting from the scroll is no small feat even for a Hebrew literate; the words appear with neither vowels nor musical notes. The reading requires the uncanny ability to memorize the vocalization and notation of about 120 verses of the weekly text. Think of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” . . . sans vowels and notes.
But a few wisenheimers in the pews always seem to know better. If, for example, the hapless reader should mistake the letter “resh (R)” for a “dalet (D)” – Hebrew lookalikes – the know-it-alls instantly shout out the correction. Lest the mistake go unnoticed, their tone is smug, belligerent and put-upon, perhaps even a little arrogant.
They say that every Jewish custom has a righteous origin, even if it has come to be abused by ensuing generations. “How, then, rabbi, can there merit to the Torah shout-out?”
“Even this,” the rabbis answered: Its origin was in the fear that even the simplest mistake might be incorporated into the text by erroneous usage and change its meaning, unless it was corrected instantly. Belligerence and arrogance obviously came later.
Legitimate or not? For the pious, for whom the Holy Writ is the inerrant word of God, every letter is sacred and must be prized beyond diamonds. Playing fast-and-loose with the words might result in sacrilege, desecration, or worst, in altering some sacred principle of The Law.
I confess that that indecorous little custom has always left me a tad ambivalent. Ambivalent, yes, until a week ago when that a serf Wall Street might have hit the "b" key, as in "billion," instead of the more temperate "m," just one key away. Ask your second grader the difference. The market began its freefall, the Dow plummeted a thousand points, and sell-orders went wild. From a single glitch, the fatalists had their day - or at least their 20 minutes – on Wall Street.
Yes, the error was righted in a matter of minutes. But just think: What if a couple of cranky old traders had instantly shouted out, “It’s ‘M’, you idiot, like in ’million’!” like they do in those arcane little synagogues? You know what would have happened: The miscreant would have hit the backspace and righted the $14,985,000,000-error quicker than I could change "Madam" to "Adam" in my Torah reading.
How many other disasters could be averted if we dispatched a few crabby nitpickers to undo minor mistakes that could lead to tremendous disaster?
• “No, it says 'abort' the warhead, not 'deploy' it!"
• “No, it's righty-tighty, lefty-loosy, when you turn the dials on the oil well’s control panel!"
• “Ben, hit ‘L’ and get out of the elevator; don’t follow Mrs. Robinson up to her hotel room!”
Sure, there's a grey line where conscience, free will, and personal accountability must kick in, or we’d be far the worse for it. But, dare we dream that all our mistakes could be waylaid by a crabby voice thundering, “’M’ not ‘B’!!
So you see, I have come to appreciate the transcendent meaning of those funky shout-outs. Yes, they come from bellicose old men, but those curmudgeons are the very ones who really still believe that the Holy Writ is the inerrant word of God. Wall Street may play with its billions, but the curmudgeons are the guardians of eternity. Let there be no mistaking: They preserve and protect it. Most of us simply dabble at buying-and-selling it.
N.B. If you'd like to be part of a Torah Shout-Out, call me, and some Sabbath I'll take you on a field trip. Of two things you may be sure: At some point, the reader will make a teeny mistake. And, quicker than I can mispronounce “Zelophehad,” some belligerent voice will shout out its correction. It might not build or destroy your faith forever, but it would still make a helluva term paper for your Comparative Religions class.
April 30, 2010
MAISHE CHAYIM, WE DARE NOT MAKE FUN
I was bullied.
Pudgy. Clumsy. Momma's boy. I was an easy target for the taunts of bullies who knew that I was more likely to run home crying than to stay and fight. Tough guys have a knack for meting out brutality on kids like me who are the most vulnerable.
I read about Phoebe Prince bullied into suicide, and I read it with an empathy that surmounts even my anger at the bullies. Perhaps . . . I think, it might have been me. Perhaps had I been a teenager, and not a ten-year-old, and there had been Facebook, and I’d been even a bit more vulnerable, and . . . and . . . and . . . Perhaps had it not been for the serendipity of birth – my time, my place, my mother – fate would have been so cruel to me as it was to Phoebe.
You see, one day in fourth grade, the moment arrived for me to test the hypothesis that it being the persecutor was sweeter than being the persecuted: There came Peter, plodding kid who limped. I accosted him in the schoolyard.
"You’re a bowlegged pig with lumbago!” I crooned. How I chose that particular jeer, I will never know.
I stood for an eternal second outside myself, stunned by the discovery of my untapped reservoir of cruelty. I watched Peter crumple. I will never forget the panic that twisted his face. He loped across the yard like a bewildered puppy to his mother's embrace. I chased behind, not knowing how to dispel the enormity of his hurt. I cowered as I surrendered to a mother's wrath.
But his mother simply shook her head and whispered a few words at me in a voice I now recognize as war-weary, "If you only knew how many tears we have cried . . . “
Mortified, I ran the eight blocks home, knowing as only a child that I could gain atonement only by confessing to my mother. She listened impassively as, between sobs, I choked out the story of the pain I had inflicted and my ensuing contrition.
"Maishe Chayim," she said, reverting to the Yiddish with which disappointment and counsel were dispensed, "M'tor nisht oplachen. We dare not make fun."
However many wrongs I commit with my errant life, I will forever be haunted by the image of panic-stricken Peter, his mother's whispered lament and my mother's wisdom. I pledge that I will haunt my kids with them, too. We dare not mock the differences and adversities of others. We dare not rejoice even when our adversaries stumble.
Why?
Because we were not put on earth to hurt. Because if I laugh in the moment of your distress, I have bequeathed to you the right to delight in my misfortunes. Because a society that luxuriates in hardship is on the road to being a society that is systemically heartless. Because a downfall, even when it is deserved, is not an occasion for intimations that we are above reproach.
Thus, we must teach our children even in their earliest years not to make fun of the child who limps or stutters or who can't catch or throw as well as the rest. We must teach them what vicious weapons words can be, how there has never been any act of treachery that did not begin with the abuse of speech.
Our children learn best when we show them that we live by the lessons we teach them: We must not toss off racial epithets. We must not grab a cheap chuckle from the sight of morons wearing tee shirts that extol hate-talk. “Just joking,” will we tell our kids? I think not, for Dr. Nietzsche’s wisdom will prevail: “A joke is the epigram on the death of a feeling.”
And, we must assiduously resist the impulse to gloat self-righteously over of public personages who have been scandalized, even when it is coming to them. For, if their excesses are to leave any ennobling lesson, it will never be found through our own hypocrisy. "M'tor nisht oplachen.” Evil is to be condemned. But, we dare not revel, for then we will have learned nothing.
So, that day I tried out the theory that it might be tastier to deliver the blow than to receive it. Peter, I will never forget the terror that crossed your face. I will never forget your mother's look of anguish, nor my mother's admonition that sealed the memory forever: "Maishe Chayim, we dare not make fun." Please know, Peter, that even if you do not remember, I will never forget and will forever beg your forgiveness.
As for you, Phoebe, now God be with you and rest in peace.
I was bullied.
Pudgy. Clumsy. Momma's boy. I was an easy target for the taunts of bullies who knew that I was more likely to run home crying than to stay and fight. Tough guys have a knack for meting out brutality on kids like me who are the most vulnerable.
I read about Phoebe Prince bullied into suicide, and I read it with an empathy that surmounts even my anger at the bullies. Perhaps . . . I think, it might have been me. Perhaps had I been a teenager, and not a ten-year-old, and there had been Facebook, and I’d been even a bit more vulnerable, and . . . and . . . and . . . Perhaps had it not been for the serendipity of birth – my time, my place, my mother – fate would have been so cruel to me as it was to Phoebe.
You see, one day in fourth grade, the moment arrived for me to test the hypothesis that it being the persecutor was sweeter than being the persecuted: There came Peter, plodding kid who limped. I accosted him in the schoolyard.
"You’re a bowlegged pig with lumbago!” I crooned. How I chose that particular jeer, I will never know.
I stood for an eternal second outside myself, stunned by the discovery of my untapped reservoir of cruelty. I watched Peter crumple. I will never forget the panic that twisted his face. He loped across the yard like a bewildered puppy to his mother's embrace. I chased behind, not knowing how to dispel the enormity of his hurt. I cowered as I surrendered to a mother's wrath.
But his mother simply shook her head and whispered a few words at me in a voice I now recognize as war-weary, "If you only knew how many tears we have cried . . . “
Mortified, I ran the eight blocks home, knowing as only a child that I could gain atonement only by confessing to my mother. She listened impassively as, between sobs, I choked out the story of the pain I had inflicted and my ensuing contrition.
"Maishe Chayim," she said, reverting to the Yiddish with which disappointment and counsel were dispensed, "M'tor nisht oplachen. We dare not make fun."
However many wrongs I commit with my errant life, I will forever be haunted by the image of panic-stricken Peter, his mother's whispered lament and my mother's wisdom. I pledge that I will haunt my kids with them, too. We dare not mock the differences and adversities of others. We dare not rejoice even when our adversaries stumble.
Why?
Because we were not put on earth to hurt. Because if I laugh in the moment of your distress, I have bequeathed to you the right to delight in my misfortunes. Because a society that luxuriates in hardship is on the road to being a society that is systemically heartless. Because a downfall, even when it is deserved, is not an occasion for intimations that we are above reproach.
Thus, we must teach our children even in their earliest years not to make fun of the child who limps or stutters or who can't catch or throw as well as the rest. We must teach them what vicious weapons words can be, how there has never been any act of treachery that did not begin with the abuse of speech.
Our children learn best when we show them that we live by the lessons we teach them: We must not toss off racial epithets. We must not grab a cheap chuckle from the sight of morons wearing tee shirts that extol hate-talk. “Just joking,” will we tell our kids? I think not, for Dr. Nietzsche’s wisdom will prevail: “A joke is the epigram on the death of a feeling.”
And, we must assiduously resist the impulse to gloat self-righteously over of public personages who have been scandalized, even when it is coming to them. For, if their excesses are to leave any ennobling lesson, it will never be found through our own hypocrisy. "M'tor nisht oplachen.” Evil is to be condemned. But, we dare not revel, for then we will have learned nothing.
So, that day I tried out the theory that it might be tastier to deliver the blow than to receive it. Peter, I will never forget the terror that crossed your face. I will never forget your mother's look of anguish, nor my mother's admonition that sealed the memory forever: "Maishe Chayim, we dare not make fun." Please know, Peter, that even if you do not remember, I will never forget and will forever beg your forgiveness.
As for you, Phoebe, now God be with you and rest in peace.
April 13, 2010
A LETTER TO A SON WHO IS JUST LIKE ME
Dear Ben,
Over the last days of Passover, I had plenty of time to think. It made me want to tell you where I am with my life, the peaks and valleys -- and tell it especially to you, since you are truly my child in your passions and gusto. You and I share a joie de vivre and lust that never tolerates anything halfway. You are not only religious, but Chasidic. When I was in the rabbinate, it wasn't "a job," but 24-7, often, I confess, to the neglect of you kids and mom. We like our steaks big, thick, and rare, our l'chayyims from the best single malt, our beer the most esoteric. Passion, lust, joie de vivre, man.
Thus, you have likely assumed that there is a reason that I spend most of my time rattling around an empty house. Sure, I learn some Talmud each day, do a little organization work, read, write. But, I guess I learned an ethos from Poppa and Opa that without a job, a man will never be complete. "They" say this is called "retirement," but in fact, it is really "an empty house."
The reason I am "retired" is because "they" say that I am disabled. Health, particularly the remnants of the stroke and the atrial fibrillation, have screwed up my equilibrium, prevented real exertion, and require that I rest at least an hour or so every afternoon. No, I do NOT have one foot in the grave. Everything I have is manageable, and I plan with God’s help to live a long life, at least to dance at the baby’s wedding! 99.9% of the time, my attitude is great. But I am missing just enough health to not enable me to work. I also don't do too well with being bossed around.
But, here is the cautionary part of the tale that relates to our profound similarities. My problems likely started out about 20% genetic. Unavoidable. But, 80% came simply from not taking care of myself, going back to my twenties. I can show you a handful of 13 pills I take every morning and night that keep me alive from irreversible damage caused by arterial blockages, arrhythmia (hence, pacemaker), diabetes, high blood pressure, stroke. (BTW, had it not been for an undeserved Divine intervention, I should have been dead from pancreatitis, had to have my heart zapped twice, and would have been deprived of ever seeing any of the grandkiddies.)
A lot of it has had to do with my weight fluctuating so radically -- definitely a function of the lust for food and drink that the two of us share. I have again gone to obese. Now, after a couple of recent health scares, I am back on a roll (bad metaphor), losing 30 pounds with another 20 to go, no goofy diets this time, just counting calories.
I am feeling so much better, clothes fit, can even walk up the hill to synagogue again. I am already so much healthier, even though I will still always have these chronic problems hanging over me, the ones that forced me to "retire" at the ridiculous age of 60.
None of this was intended to alarm or to be a bummer. I just thought you should have a clear perspective on where I am with things. AND because you are so much like me, I don't want you to have to face what I do in my relative youth.
To the contrary, I am a happy guy. I have a wonderful wife. I have a sense of peace with your mother. I have the best kids in the world. My stepkids honor me. And I have more delight than any ten grandparents deserve from my grandchildren. I have respect in my community and am known for being a catalyst for good things. I've made my peace with the synagogue and can even attend and get a little inspiration.
Yes, the health will always be a concern. Mine and yours. I think back on my life, and look forward even more hopefully to yours. I never want you to have to say, "For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: 'It might have been' ... " (Whittier)
Always be the good boy you are. I love you.
Dad
Dear Ben,
Over the last days of Passover, I had plenty of time to think. It made me want to tell you where I am with my life, the peaks and valleys -- and tell it especially to you, since you are truly my child in your passions and gusto. You and I share a joie de vivre and lust that never tolerates anything halfway. You are not only religious, but Chasidic. When I was in the rabbinate, it wasn't "a job," but 24-7, often, I confess, to the neglect of you kids and mom. We like our steaks big, thick, and rare, our l'chayyims from the best single malt, our beer the most esoteric. Passion, lust, joie de vivre, man.
Thus, you have likely assumed that there is a reason that I spend most of my time rattling around an empty house. Sure, I learn some Talmud each day, do a little organization work, read, write. But, I guess I learned an ethos from Poppa and Opa that without a job, a man will never be complete. "They" say this is called "retirement," but in fact, it is really "an empty house."
The reason I am "retired" is because "they" say that I am disabled. Health, particularly the remnants of the stroke and the atrial fibrillation, have screwed up my equilibrium, prevented real exertion, and require that I rest at least an hour or so every afternoon. No, I do NOT have one foot in the grave. Everything I have is manageable, and I plan with God’s help to live a long life, at least to dance at the baby’s wedding! 99.9% of the time, my attitude is great. But I am missing just enough health to not enable me to work. I also don't do too well with being bossed around.
But, here is the cautionary part of the tale that relates to our profound similarities. My problems likely started out about 20% genetic. Unavoidable. But, 80% came simply from not taking care of myself, going back to my twenties. I can show you a handful of 13 pills I take every morning and night that keep me alive from irreversible damage caused by arterial blockages, arrhythmia (hence, pacemaker), diabetes, high blood pressure, stroke. (BTW, had it not been for an undeserved Divine intervention, I should have been dead from pancreatitis, had to have my heart zapped twice, and would have been deprived of ever seeing any of the grandkiddies.)
A lot of it has had to do with my weight fluctuating so radically -- definitely a function of the lust for food and drink that the two of us share. I have again gone to obese. Now, after a couple of recent health scares, I am back on a roll (bad metaphor), losing 30 pounds with another 20 to go, no goofy diets this time, just counting calories.
I am feeling so much better, clothes fit, can even walk up the hill to synagogue again. I am already so much healthier, even though I will still always have these chronic problems hanging over me, the ones that forced me to "retire" at the ridiculous age of 60.
None of this was intended to alarm or to be a bummer. I just thought you should have a clear perspective on where I am with things. AND because you are so much like me, I don't want you to have to face what I do in my relative youth.
To the contrary, I am a happy guy. I have a wonderful wife. I have a sense of peace with your mother. I have the best kids in the world. My stepkids honor me. And I have more delight than any ten grandparents deserve from my grandchildren. I have respect in my community and am known for being a catalyst for good things. I've made my peace with the synagogue and can even attend and get a little inspiration.
Yes, the health will always be a concern. Mine and yours. I think back on my life, and look forward even more hopefully to yours. I never want you to have to say, "For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: 'It might have been' ... " (Whittier)
Always be the good boy you are. I love you.
Dad
March 23, 2010
A SEMINARY STRUGGLES FOR ITS SOUL -- FORTY YEARS LATER
Issues of doctrinal loyalty and removal of trustees struggling for the soul of Erskine evoke déjà vu that tugs at me to relate of a similar struggle forty years ago at my alma mater.
Once upon a time, my alma-mater yeshiva (seminary) was a kinder, gentler place, occupying the role of relative liberalism among the yeshivas descended from the academies of pre-Holocaust Europe. As is typically the case of “relative” liberalism, it was routinely criticized from both right and left – doctrinal impurity from one, wishy-washiness from the other. History will show, though, that for decades, it fended off the barbs its detractors, and stayed its own course.
That was true until the late sixties, when the yeshiva tilted to the path of rigid orthodoxy. The sociology would take days to explain, but the rightward direction came to be personified by the recruitment of a Rosh Yeshiva (“Head of the Yeshiva”) whose doctrinaire orthodoxy was surmounted only by his penchant for intimidation.
And therein lay the rub. Heads of classical yeshivas ruled by divine right. But the vast majority of them also led benevolently. Among the last vestiges of moderation in our yeshiva was that rule was shared between the Rosh Yeshiva and a lay board of trustees. So long as the Rosh Yeshiva was a benevolent scholar, harmony prevailed. The new Rosh Yeshiva, though, took his divine right as a mandate, and a rule of tyranny began, to the increased chafing of the trustees.
How does one define tyranny in the arcane world of Orthodox Judaism? Most of it is purely sociological, however much cloaked in theological terms. First, there must be the perception of “enemies within,” the scourge of those who are personally and doctrinally allied with the Rosh Yeshiva. Then there are the goons, loyalists ready to antagonize the enemies, either with the encouragement, or the benignly approving eye, of the Rosh Yeshiva.
As you likely surmise, I was one of the enemy, a handful of us who were relatively liberal, openly aligned with the “old left.” So . . . one day on return to the dorm, I found that my poster from the Lyric Opera had been shredded and “liberal” books had been trashed from the shelf. Other such indignities became a regular occurrence.
I was not singled out. The other principle of tyranny is to divide the immediate world into an all-virtuous “us” and an all-vilified “them.” In the world of the Rosh Yeshiva, the “them” were all other “denominations” that were not orthodox-adherent – Conservative and Reform Judaism and their derivatives. His pronouncements were unequivocal. He forbade yeshiva students from serving as teachers in schools sponsored by the non-orthodox. Then, he prohibited the students from teaching in schools of synagogues whose only infraction against orthodoxy was that men and women sat together during worship. Finally, he imposed that one could not be ordained unless he agreed to serve only in congregations in which men and women worshiped seated separately and concretized it in a signed contract.
Those of us who were within a couple of years of ordination were caught, if we were to have refused his final demand. But, the trustees assured us that it would not happen. Then, in a slug-‘em-out that could be fomented only by testosterone-pumped men, the trustees demanded that the Rosh Yeshiva yield. He refused. They fired him. He declared divine right. They hired a new Rosh Yeshiva. The Rosh Yeshiva declared the new Rosh Yeshiva illegitimate. Then he named his own trustees. The old trustees locked him and the new trustees out. He conducted classes in protest outside the yeshiva, with TV cameras running, the stations alerted by the goons. And so it went.
Please hear me well: This is not about Erskine or any other seminary. It is about what happens anywhere that benevolence gives way to tyranny, and testosterone substitutes for justice, mercy, and humility, when a beloved legacy, be it the Bible or the Constitution, falls into the hands of mean-spirited, malevolent interpreters.
All told, the reign of terror in the last years of my life at yeshiva was small potatoes. Forty years later, matters of far greater gravitas are still being fought out with hate-speak and bombs and the cruelty of wild-eyed talking heads. When will they – and we – ever learn?
Issues of doctrinal loyalty and removal of trustees struggling for the soul of Erskine evoke déjà vu that tugs at me to relate of a similar struggle forty years ago at my alma mater.
Once upon a time, my alma-mater yeshiva (seminary) was a kinder, gentler place, occupying the role of relative liberalism among the yeshivas descended from the academies of pre-Holocaust Europe. As is typically the case of “relative” liberalism, it was routinely criticized from both right and left – doctrinal impurity from one, wishy-washiness from the other. History will show, though, that for decades, it fended off the barbs its detractors, and stayed its own course.
That was true until the late sixties, when the yeshiva tilted to the path of rigid orthodoxy. The sociology would take days to explain, but the rightward direction came to be personified by the recruitment of a Rosh Yeshiva (“Head of the Yeshiva”) whose doctrinaire orthodoxy was surmounted only by his penchant for intimidation.
And therein lay the rub. Heads of classical yeshivas ruled by divine right. But the vast majority of them also led benevolently. Among the last vestiges of moderation in our yeshiva was that rule was shared between the Rosh Yeshiva and a lay board of trustees. So long as the Rosh Yeshiva was a benevolent scholar, harmony prevailed. The new Rosh Yeshiva, though, took his divine right as a mandate, and a rule of tyranny began, to the increased chafing of the trustees.
How does one define tyranny in the arcane world of Orthodox Judaism? Most of it is purely sociological, however much cloaked in theological terms. First, there must be the perception of “enemies within,” the scourge of those who are personally and doctrinally allied with the Rosh Yeshiva. Then there are the goons, loyalists ready to antagonize the enemies, either with the encouragement, or the benignly approving eye, of the Rosh Yeshiva.
As you likely surmise, I was one of the enemy, a handful of us who were relatively liberal, openly aligned with the “old left.” So . . . one day on return to the dorm, I found that my poster from the Lyric Opera had been shredded and “liberal” books had been trashed from the shelf. Other such indignities became a regular occurrence.
I was not singled out. The other principle of tyranny is to divide the immediate world into an all-virtuous “us” and an all-vilified “them.” In the world of the Rosh Yeshiva, the “them” were all other “denominations” that were not orthodox-adherent – Conservative and Reform Judaism and their derivatives. His pronouncements were unequivocal. He forbade yeshiva students from serving as teachers in schools sponsored by the non-orthodox. Then, he prohibited the students from teaching in schools of synagogues whose only infraction against orthodoxy was that men and women sat together during worship. Finally, he imposed that one could not be ordained unless he agreed to serve only in congregations in which men and women worshiped seated separately and concretized it in a signed contract.
Those of us who were within a couple of years of ordination were caught, if we were to have refused his final demand. But, the trustees assured us that it would not happen. Then, in a slug-‘em-out that could be fomented only by testosterone-pumped men, the trustees demanded that the Rosh Yeshiva yield. He refused. They fired him. He declared divine right. They hired a new Rosh Yeshiva. The Rosh Yeshiva declared the new Rosh Yeshiva illegitimate. Then he named his own trustees. The old trustees locked him and the new trustees out. He conducted classes in protest outside the yeshiva, with TV cameras running, the stations alerted by the goons. And so it went.
Please hear me well: This is not about Erskine or any other seminary. It is about what happens anywhere that benevolence gives way to tyranny, and testosterone substitutes for justice, mercy, and humility, when a beloved legacy, be it the Bible or the Constitution, falls into the hands of mean-spirited, malevolent interpreters.
All told, the reign of terror in the last years of my life at yeshiva was small potatoes. Forty years later, matters of far greater gravitas are still being fought out with hate-speak and bombs and the cruelty of wild-eyed talking heads. When will they – and we – ever learn?
January 26, 2010
IT IS NOT IN OUR POWER . . .
May I give you a brief Hebrew lesson? Repeat after me: “Ain bi-yadenu – It is not in our power . . .” Pat Robertson must have missed the day in seminary when the phrase was taught as prelude to a maxim spoken by one Rabbi Yannai. Had Pat been there, he would have known that Rabbi Yannai encapsulated hundreds of years of suffering and thousand of years of theology in two sagacious words: “Ain bi-yadenu,” Yannai said, “it is not in our power to explain the well-being of the wicked or even the sorrows of the righteous.”
What are we able to say about the victims in Haiti? Round and round the theological track we blunder, only to return to “ain bi-yadenu.” Is God impotent over natural disasters? Ain bi-yadenu. Is there no God; only the chaos of nature? Tell me that, as you smell a rose on a magnificent spring day or witness the tenderness of newborn life. No, ain bi-yadenu.
Then come along Pat Robertson and his cadre of tin-whistle yesmen, and claim, yes, bi-yadenu, we do have the power to understand. It’s all part of God’s plan to slay the innocent and devastate their land.
No use excoriating Pat Robertson. Every generation brings more than its share of smug demagogues up the pop-chart. They will always find a way to cloak their misanthropy in virtue. As they proffer more and more Biblical passages to defend their position, it should prod further the resolve of decent people to articulate the higher truth – that we commoners actually do know more about God and theology than Pat Robertson: Ain bi-yadenu.
The real vexation is about their benign supporters, the silently acquiescent – the ones who quietly believe that Haitians are getting what they deserve and the earth is being cleansed because Pat or El Rushbo, or their local preacher told them so. Are they evil? Are they dupes? Are they just stupid? Have they no sense of moral autonomy – the innate knowledge that something is wrong or sinful, regardless of whatever an attractive demagogue tells you to the contrary?
A friend whose father was incarcerated in Buchenwald and whose grandparents perished at the Nazis’ hands, gave the following opinion:
People basically want their own comfort and well-being. As my Father would say: The German people were nice, and they were sad that they couldn't buy from him anymore. But that didn't stop them. They were quiet and just followed their leaders. Perhaps deep down they were saying, “Let's get rid of the Jews.” They really didn't care. But to the Jews, the neighbors expressed sadness.
Yes, of course, the analogy to the Holocaust and Nazis is a gross overstatement, except in one respect: Those acquiescent people in the pews or in front of the radio are silent accomplices to terrible wickedness. We should not let them off so easily. As one of my rabbis underscored the point, remember that only four percent or so of the Israelites actively engaged in the Golden Calf, while the sin of the remaining 96% was that “they sat by on the sidelines,” maybe too intimidated to complain or maybe just not caring to upset their own comfort.
The good news is that the vast majority the hoi polloi like you and me do hold the Robertsons and Limbaughs in disdain, see the plight of the Haitians as a horrific injustice, call it an “Act of God” without grave theological distress, and donate time and money selflessly to right such a tremendous wrong, whatever its source. We have marginalized the voices of hate into “nutcases” and their amen-corner into malcontented gabble on right-wing talk shows.
Most of us, knowingly or not, have already come to understand and accept the reality of “ain bi-yadenu.” A bitter pill. Don’t we wish God would explain it once and for all? I’m not so sure. You see what happens when ill-spirited people think they know more than God is showing. Stuff them back in their squawk-boxes and drown out their evil pronouncements with words and deeds of benevolence and love. And tell the silently acquiescent in the pews that for however little we know about why the righteous suffer, we know full-well how to stop the suffering.
May I give you a brief Hebrew lesson? Repeat after me: “Ain bi-yadenu – It is not in our power . . .” Pat Robertson must have missed the day in seminary when the phrase was taught as prelude to a maxim spoken by one Rabbi Yannai. Had Pat been there, he would have known that Rabbi Yannai encapsulated hundreds of years of suffering and thousand of years of theology in two sagacious words: “Ain bi-yadenu,” Yannai said, “it is not in our power to explain the well-being of the wicked or even the sorrows of the righteous.”
What are we able to say about the victims in Haiti? Round and round the theological track we blunder, only to return to “ain bi-yadenu.” Is God impotent over natural disasters? Ain bi-yadenu. Is there no God; only the chaos of nature? Tell me that, as you smell a rose on a magnificent spring day or witness the tenderness of newborn life. No, ain bi-yadenu.
Then come along Pat Robertson and his cadre of tin-whistle yesmen, and claim, yes, bi-yadenu, we do have the power to understand. It’s all part of God’s plan to slay the innocent and devastate their land.
No use excoriating Pat Robertson. Every generation brings more than its share of smug demagogues up the pop-chart. They will always find a way to cloak their misanthropy in virtue. As they proffer more and more Biblical passages to defend their position, it should prod further the resolve of decent people to articulate the higher truth – that we commoners actually do know more about God and theology than Pat Robertson: Ain bi-yadenu.
The real vexation is about their benign supporters, the silently acquiescent – the ones who quietly believe that Haitians are getting what they deserve and the earth is being cleansed because Pat or El Rushbo, or their local preacher told them so. Are they evil? Are they dupes? Are they just stupid? Have they no sense of moral autonomy – the innate knowledge that something is wrong or sinful, regardless of whatever an attractive demagogue tells you to the contrary?
A friend whose father was incarcerated in Buchenwald and whose grandparents perished at the Nazis’ hands, gave the following opinion:
People basically want their own comfort and well-being. As my Father would say: The German people were nice, and they were sad that they couldn't buy from him anymore. But that didn't stop them. They were quiet and just followed their leaders. Perhaps deep down they were saying, “Let's get rid of the Jews.” They really didn't care. But to the Jews, the neighbors expressed sadness.
Yes, of course, the analogy to the Holocaust and Nazis is a gross overstatement, except in one respect: Those acquiescent people in the pews or in front of the radio are silent accomplices to terrible wickedness. We should not let them off so easily. As one of my rabbis underscored the point, remember that only four percent or so of the Israelites actively engaged in the Golden Calf, while the sin of the remaining 96% was that “they sat by on the sidelines,” maybe too intimidated to complain or maybe just not caring to upset their own comfort.
The good news is that the vast majority the hoi polloi like you and me do hold the Robertsons and Limbaughs in disdain, see the plight of the Haitians as a horrific injustice, call it an “Act of God” without grave theological distress, and donate time and money selflessly to right such a tremendous wrong, whatever its source. We have marginalized the voices of hate into “nutcases” and their amen-corner into malcontented gabble on right-wing talk shows.
Most of us, knowingly or not, have already come to understand and accept the reality of “ain bi-yadenu.” A bitter pill. Don’t we wish God would explain it once and for all? I’m not so sure. You see what happens when ill-spirited people think they know more than God is showing. Stuff them back in their squawk-boxes and drown out their evil pronouncements with words and deeds of benevolence and love. And tell the silently acquiescent in the pews that for however little we know about why the righteous suffer, we know full-well how to stop the suffering.
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