TOP FIVE LIST: WHY JEWS SHOULD BE ENGAGED IN CIVIC ISSUES

If you have been reading my ramblings for any length of time, you would surmise that I am involved in many – some would say too many – community issues beyond indigenously Jewish causes like Israel, domestic and international anti-Semitism, the plight of poor and oppressed Jews.

Being a Jew who, by design or default, has been in the vanguard of social issues like homelessness, literacy, political advocacy, interfaith and interracial relations, has proved to be a mixed blessing. I receive largely undeserved accolades, to be sure, but also plenty of lumps meted out by local bigots and even some Jews who, in their own words, “would rather that the gentiles not know where we live.” And of course, there are some Jews who believe that Jews, particularly highly visible ones, should devote their energies exclusively to Jewish causes.

I disagree, and the time has come to tell you the top five reasons why:

1. The Jewish mandate to do chesed (lovingkindness, compassion, altruistic self-giving) extends to all of Creation. It does not know particularistic bounds. Let us not deny that Jews have a unique familial tie to each other. Let us nevertheless affirm that God intended that chesed be selflessly bestowed on Jew and gentile alike. To deny the Divine imperative for Jews to be universally compassionate is to deny basic Biblical instruction, particularly for Jews who maintain that the commandments are not “suggestions,” but God’s revealed will.

2. Jews should be particularly receptive to engaging in the oft-thankless tasks of (re)building a community. We do not predicate our efforts toward tikkun olam (repairing the [broken] world) on the expectation of gratitude. We certainly delight when someone out there says “thank you,” but often the homeless, hungry, and poor do not, at least until they learn better. And that has never deterred us. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, Micah, Joel, all boldly preached the mandate of social justice, and no one threw them testimonial dinners. Moreover, if we do not interpret Isaiah 53 as a prediction of Jesus’ redemptive death, as most Christians do, Isaiah’s words can only mean, in a much broader sense, that those who preach and do righteousness will almost invariably suffer for their decency, not be exalted for it.

3. Jews have a Divine mandate to be “a light unto the nations.” We eschew the idea of converting gentiles to Judaism. Yet, we are profoundly aware that “they” are watching us, that “they” have higher expectations of us. Why should this anger us as a double standard? Should we not consider it an honor, a challenge, and a responsibility? At absolute least, Jews are called to set a good example of personal decency and civic responsibility. On a higher level, the Jewish “mission” implies the optimistic assurance that the world is indeed fixable, that it will be set right by the mounting force of our honorable deeds, that we are not doomed to helplessness, that the world is redeemed through the righteous work of our hands, not by grace through faith alone.

4. Jews bring a special perspective to the arena of civic responsibility and social justice, for we have tasted bitterly of enslavement, oppression, exile, and genocide. We must use this awareness prudently, lest we be lured into counterproductive one-upmanship with other minorities over “who has had it worse.” Nonetheless, we have never taken the commandment to “remember that you were once slaves in Egypt” as license to be bitter, vindictive, or smugly self-righteous when we behold the suffering of others. To the contrary, we have consistently interpreted that commandment as a Jewish calling to special sensitivity to the plight of the downtrodden, to identify with the oppressed, not the oppressor, especially when we are enjoying relative freedom and affluence. And, that sensitivity is to be extended primarily to “the stranger,” not merely to fellow Jew.

5. Finally, and with some reluctance, let us admit that Jews are vulnerable to stereotyping, as being insular, self-protective, materialistic, indifferent to the larger community’s needs, self-indulged. Enlightened people already know that stereotyping is ipso facto wrong. Bigots will never be convinced otherwise. But, every community has its passively ambivalent cadre of gentiles who still might be swayed.

Ironically, this is how I got my “break” into writing a newspaper column. Back in 1987, I fired off a scathing response to a local newspaper piece on “Israeli atrocities in the occupied territories.” The editor, whom I knew as a fairly understanding, liberal guy, called me and said the following: “You are a good writer, and I will print this piece. But, explain to me why the local Jewish knee jerks whenever someone says something nasty about Israel, but the Jews seem to have nothing to say about other issues that equally affect the community. If you use your talents to write about those, too, I will publish your column regularly”. And so it was.

Many honorable gentiles will likewise genuinely lament a lack of Jewish involvement in the community mainstream and tell us that they sincerely miss our participation, because they know we have so much to add. And they hear, as we should, the hollowness when we try to absolve ourselves by pointing to one or two individual Jews who are engaged in civic causes. They know, as we should, that occasional individual involvement is no substitute for the involvement of the Jewish community in issues of charity, service, and social justice.


I hope that I have made my case, not so much to justify my own civic engagement as to encourage others to be likewise involved. I hardly consider myself a social activist, especially when I think of those bold men and women who gave their energies so self-sacrificially to their communities, often at great personal peril. Yet, who can deny that the calling is there? And who can deny that the need is urgent? And who can deny that all our Jewish endeavors must ultimately add up to the impetus to repair this world, so that it becomes a truly worthy place for God’s Kingdom to reign?

DINNER WITH THE REVEREND AL . . . LISTENING AND LEARNING

A few days ago, I had the odd, yet noteworthy, distinction of sharing a dais with the Reverend Al Sharpton. Why should I not confess that I felt a little ookey about it? Al Sharpton . . . routinely denounced by so many white folk and more than a few African Americans as a bellicose headline-grabber, source of the Tawana Brawley travesty, self-anointed spokesman of questionable scruples.

Moreover, the propriety of my presence was second-guessed by friends and strangers alike, some well intentioned, others wishing me ill. The easy way out could have been to say that I agreed to the honor before the Reverend was announced as the keynote speaker, which is technically true. Or, I could have feebly exonerated myself by saying that he would likely be on good behavior now that he is running for president.

That would have been the easy way out, as I say.

So, the evening came. The Reverend Sharpton delivered a message that certainly lifted the spirits and touched the conscience, advocating universal values of self-reliance, education, economic empowerment and the impact of the ballot. He did not shy away from chiding African Americans for complacency and victim mentality, and repeatedly underscored that issues of justice were not race-versus-race, but good-versus-evil.

Understandably, he preached his message like a preacher, and the assembly responded in kind, including yours truly. When all is said, however, Reverend Sharpton's calling is in the streets and the pulpit as a righteously indignant, morally autonomous social/political critic, whom we need more to challenge the status quo than to get sucked into its corrupting intrigues. To the extent that he presses the case of the disenfranchised and paves the way for African American candidates who are more circumspect and less avuncular, Reverend Sharpton is a worthy, even courageous, participant in the public debate.

I deserve no accolades for my attendance. After all, I was an honoree and deeply grateful for that distinction. A couple of thoughts, though, that ran through my head as Reverend Sharpton spoke and I considered the possible value of my presence. Perhaps they will be helpful to others who join in my ambivalence.

First, we spend entirely too much time in the choir, listening with rapt attention, if not crooning Hallelujah, only to agreeable words spoken by preachers with whom we already agree. Despite our hope that human enlightenment would lead us to greater receptiveness to diverse opinions, the situation has gone from bad to worse.

Thus, what might we gain by listening to disagreeable pronouncements from disagreeable people?

Well, we could certainly benefit from a test of our faith and foregone conclusions, given that faith that has withstood scrutiny is richer and more enduring than faith swaddled by isolation. We could likewise moderate our dogmatic assumptions by inviting ideas to cross-pollinate and enrich our assumptive world. My own concept of God became clearer by listening to a “humanistic” rabbi assert that no God existed beyond the random forces of nature. A fundamentalist preacher who spoke of grace’s central role to Christianity immeasurably enhanced my understanding of the role of grace in Judaism. My compassion toward God’s children radically expanded as I saw that spilled Palestinian blood was no less red that that of my Israeli kin. I still believe that we must depose Saddam, but I have learned to tread the line between necessity and bloodlust by listening to the reticence of the protestors, despite my instinctive loathing of their shortsightedness and naiveté.

The other reason to move beyond listening just to agreeable words: Would it not be nice if reconciliation always meant falling into each others embrace and singing Kumbaya? Forget about it. Sometimes the best to which we can aspire is coalescence on a limited number of items that “we” and “they” hold in common. That we can accomplish only through listening and dialogue on shared values.

Clearly, the civil rights movement achieved its full strength through coalition building, not by waiting futilely for full consensus.

Might we bring together folks at odds on the issue of abortion to work on promoting universal prenatal wellness, an item on which both should readily agree?

Not long ago, a Muslim cleric and I coalesced to draft a statement decrying violence and pledging dialogue between our communities. Sadly, the initiative did not move forward, but only because of intermeddling from forces outside (emphasis, outside) our own community. Who said it would always work?

No, I did not eagerly gobble up every word spoken by the Reverend Sharpton. Some of his words even made me angry. Nonetheless, my own convictions were challenged, enhanced and clarified. He awakened my conscience to perspectives that I had yet to contemplate. I identified a glimmer of values that might eventually be woven into a coalition, if not full-blown consensus.

We will not know if we do not try. And, trying means taking our quest to unsuspecting places to listen to preaching that is likely different from our own. Our answer need not be an instantaneous “Amen!’ For now, even “let me think about it” would be a bold step forward.

CELEBRATING DR. KING’S LEGACY IS AN EVERYDAY CALLING

I make no apologies for my support of an official holiday honoring the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King. I have no trepidation in being in the vanguard non-coercive advocacy to make the holiday a reality in Greenville County.

I celebrate Dr. King not only out of empathy to the African American cause, but because Dr. King’s legacy is about universal ennoblement, the dignity of body, mind and spirit that is the God-granted gift of all Creation.

Now, how do we get from here to there?

A word about coercive strategies to make the holiday a reality: The only legitimate “coercive strategy” is to use the ballot box. So far, all we know for sure is that a handful of elected officials are standing in the way of a county holiday. We may have our intuitions about the constituencies that they represent, but none of that is hardnosed fact.

By the same token, we know that only a handful of substantive candidates with solid, well organized backing have risen to oppose them. Now, not later, is the time to start identifying and cultivating those candidates – enlightened people who are not easily intimidated, speak their minds and stand by their convictions. We must get behind them and move their candidacies forward.

I believe that such honorable alternative candidates are present in Greenville County. If they win, it will not merely be a victory for a Dr. King holiday but for a far broader progressive agenda for the county. If they lose, we must seriously ponder and effect deep-seated change in the spirit of the constituencies that are so stubbornly malevolent.

Yes, a holiday to honor Dr. King's legacy is of tremendous, transcendent symbolic importance. Our efforts toward that end must be ceaseless. Yet, I pray nonetheless that the campaign not become so obsessive that we do not redouble our energies to combat the substantive issues that continue to make life a horror for the underclass: poverty, unemployment, homelessness (or absence of affordable housing), illiteracy, drugs, unwed pregnancy, and the other forms of social malaise.

I fear that Dr. King's name is not sufficiently invoked by Caucasians and African Americans as a shining inspiration toward public and private conduct befitting the children of God. Thus, we should take the struggle one level higher, by consciously associating each step forward we take in building the "Beloved Community" with the inspiration of Dr. King, making his teachings a daily reminder of the guiding light that leads us to champion social justice.

We ought not merely do right, but do it as testament to Dr. King's legacy. We have attempted to do precisely that with Greenville Faith Communities United, as we keep revisiting Dr. King's image of the "Beloved Community" to establish our vision and our agenda. Perhaps we should strive to coordinate as many community-building initiatives as we can under the umbrella of a "Dr. King Coalition for Non-Violent Social Action." Such a coalition would in no way challenge the autonomy of these initiatives. But, coalescing might help us identify unnecessary duplication of efforts and at the same time determine needs that are yet to be addressed.

Most importantly, such a coalition would bring together right-minded community servants and activists to study and discuss the strategies for change that stem from Dr. King’s legacy. Then, we can identify ways that we can translate them into decisive realities for our own community. I would propose, at least for a starter, that we unite for a one-day countywide program of seminars and workshops to examine the various dimensions of non-violent social change. Can I hear someone say, “Amen!”?

That way, we might establish an "every-day-ness" about the motivating spirit of Dr. King, something that is consciously, consistently celebrated each day of the year. It may even bring us closer to having a holiday in his honor. But even if those foolish (mean-spirited?) men and women do not let that happen, at least Dr. King's legacy will become a more dynamic driving force and positive role model for those who would hearken to his message.

A CHILD IN HIS FORTY-SECOND YEAR

"Standing on the corner, minding her own business,
Sadie Cohen was waiting for a trolley car.”

Back in Atlanta, having left behind a congregation and a career in Charlotte. I impulsively hum the nonsense ditty my mother would sing me in earliest childhood. Halfway into my forty-second year, I stand waiting for the #136 bus down the block from my parents' house. I am wearing my best Brooks Brothers suit, the one I bought five years ago in honor of my second wedding and ensuing failed marriage. My pants well creased, my tie well tied, my shoes well shined, my umbrella well rolled, my portfolio well packed. I am the very picture of self-satisfied in-town renaissance gentry.

Not. I feel what I dare not let anyone else know I feel: I am a little kid all dressed up by his very proud Momma for his first day of school. I rehearse ingratiating phrases to impress my list of prospective employers like an apple for the teacher from the good little boy who so desperately just wants to be liked. I wait dutifully at the corner for the school bus, milk money knotted meticulously in the corner of my freshly pressed handkerchief. Momma, who promises she will be waiting that afternoon to hear all about her big boy’s new adventure, only vaguely allays my apprehensions.

I realize that something deeply unconscious has prompted me to resort to public transportation for the first time in sixteen years, as I leave my shiny gray Volvo behind in my parents' driveway. It is the last remaining symbol of the temporal prosperity I once knew. It and that damned Brooks Brothers suit.

Once upon a time, I was a wunderkind. A prodigy. The first and the best. I had a profession. And a career. And respect, too. And I had abundance. A big house. Nice furniture. Royal Doulton china. Grand Baroque sterling. And radiant faces of family and friends around the dinner table as we blessed the Sabbath in its coming and going, and greeted the New Year, and rejoiced in the Passover.

It has all evaporated. Now, I live with my parents. I have my old bedroom back, haunted by reminders of my childhood that my mother has fastidiously kept intact. I try to superimpose an aura of self-sufficient adulthood on my bedroom by setting my kids' pictures all around and by the fax through which I beg newspapers here and there to pay attention to something I have written.

But I know it is an illusion. I know that whatever remains of my heretofore noteworthy life is imploded into the four walls of a bedroom that is and isn't my own. I know it every time my dad and I bicker about which channel to watch or whether it's hot enough to turn on the air conditioning. I know it every time my mother presses a $20 bill in my palm as I leave to take my kids to dinner.

I have come home nominally to care for my parents. But I am only too aware in heart of my heart that they are the ones who have provided me a refuge -- a respite from a collapsing adulthood whose facade of success belied an interior riddled by insecurity and profound personal weakness.

This would all be an intolerable exercise of self-pity had I been the victim of abuse or hard knocks or tough breaks or any blamable circumstances beyond my control. My life is, rather, a study in the cumulative effects of poorly pondered choices, errors of judgment and prudence and broken trust, delusions of omniscience, the misbegotten priority of placing prominence and vainglory above values and ideals that truly endure. This, I think, is the only redemptive lesson for any of us to learn from a man/boy who discovers sobering humility by lying awake in his childhood bedroom pondering the consequences of a life heavy on sound and fury but woefully lacking in inner strength and the courage of one's convictions.

I watch my mother grieve each time she sees me referred to as a "former" rabbi. And I grieve more for her grief than for my own. But it's true. Ma. There is no going back.

Do you remember, Ma, how I cried when I went off to school that first day not wanting to leave you? Do you remember how I cried when I saw that you were still there to greet me that afternoon? Do you remember how you hugged me and told me that everything would be all right? So now I look after you and Dad. I make sure that the mortgage is paid and that the Medicare claims are filed. But you know and I know that little else of lasting value has really changed at all.

I turn around for one last wistful glimpse of home as I board the #136 bus. And I realize that the only blessing of deja vu is getting another chance to make everything come out all right.

LOOKING FOR LAUGHS IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES

If you do not mind sad movies and can stand a good cry, go see About Schmidt.

From a technical standpoint, the movie does not deserve more than a “B.” Nicholson, of course, is masterful. But, big chunks of the film are trite, predictable, even pedantic. So, forget technicalities.

About Schmidt is a profound tragedy about realizing near the end of ones days that life has been neither moral nor immoral, but simply empty. Schmidt has occupied the shank of his adulthood in the bland, monochromatic world of an insurance actuary. He retires to discover not only that his days are vacuous, but also that his wife of 43 years is annoying and fussy. His wife suddenly dies, and his life becomes even emptier. He tries solitude, not so much by choice as by default, but he is deafened by the silence. He hooks up with his daughter’s fiancé’s wacky family, but they are even more annoying than his wife was and even more vacuous than his aloneness. Even his daughter rejects his long delayed overtures.

Like I say, a tragedy of momentous proportion.

Schmidt’s only salvation is in the rambling, self-revelatory letters he sends to an impoverished African orphan child, whom Schmidt has adopted for $22 a month via one of those “help the children” infomercials. Eventually, the six-year-old sends him back a stick-figure drawing conveying the most basic feeling of friendship. Schmidt cries and finally, nearly too late, he discovers his humanity.

Were the story entirely without humor, the tragedy would be devastating, redeemed only in the final scene, so the movie has its funny moments. (Try Nicholson’s face at his daughter’s wedding rehearsal or Kathy Bates’ grotesque flash of nudity.) But, let there be no mistaking. This is a powerfully painful story.

Having abdicated my pulpit, I no longer push myself to seek out Biblical parallels or homiletic inspiration in books and movies, but this time I cannot help waxing sermonic: Is not the pain in watching Schmidt’s emptiness simply a function of looking in the mirror at our own emptiness? Slogging through our pallid jobs to earn modest pay and meager gratification? Finding only annoyance in our daily encounters, even in those nearest to us? Deafened by our solitude?

If redemption is ever to be found, it will be discovered only in the simplest acts of kindness, the acts that restore others to humanity, who, in turn, help us discover our own. My fantasy about Schmidt is that he might even start attending church and realize that the wholeness he finally found through giving and receiving humanity is a gift that emanates directly from God.

About Schmidt is about you and me.

Or, is it?

My heart was repeatedly wrenched by the pain and pathos of this story unfolding on the screen. I was even brought to tears, unusual for me. But, at most of the movie’s most poignant, heart-wrenching moments, I swear to you that a majority of that matinee audience laughed, including the hyena sitting directly behind me.

Did I miss something? Are my visual and emotional filters so badly askew? Maybe sometimes, but in this case I think not.

I could doff it off as being surrounded by stupid people in a stupid place, or that they laughed the nervous, hypersensitive laughter that people occasionally laugh when they are faced by situations too difficult to bear. But I tell you, this was the yuk-yuk laughter of comedy . . . and it was comedy that I could not see.

I hate to think the worst: that this is the laughter that emanates from a profound absence of empathy, the inability to see in the pain of others the possibility of our own pain, the cruelty not of the aggressor but of the person who sees a human being’s tragedy and finds only humor in his pathetic situation.

Perhaps that is the most tragic emptiness of all. You tell me.

SHOW ME THE LOYAL OPPOSITION

Put national and even statewide politics aside momentarily. Let national and regional pundits dissect and analyze why big-scale politics are such a fetid cesspool.

After six years of rooting around Greenville, I cannot call local politics a “fetid cesspool.” Good news or bad news? I dunno. Sometimes I think that the only thing worse than a fetid political cesspool is a party to which no one bothered to come.

When was the last time that we had a really juicy, issue-driven, hotly competitive local campaign for public office in Greenville?

I am not talking about a “Let-me-show-you-that-I’m-more-conservative-than-he-is!” shouting match or a mutual slime-slinger. I am talking about an honest-to-goodness race for mayor, city council, county commission, or school board, in which two equally credible candidates propose essentially different visions of the commonweal – alternative visions that arise from basic philosophical differences as to how political processes should intermesh the private sector’s right to self-determination:

How, and how much, should public policy intervene to break the vicious cycle of poverty, substandard housing, homelessness, illiteracy, unemployment, and another impoverished generation?

How should we define “quality of living”? Green parkways and bicycle paths? Or addressing, not ignoring, the putrid squalor at the city’s epicenter? Which public officials have, and have not, taken United Ministry’s Steve MacDonald’s guided tour of the faces of poverty in Greenville? What would they do with the damning information once they “got it”?

Who proposes to get to the nub of the enormous racial disparities in our community? What of the deplorable public transportation system that provides no reasonable way for poor people to get to their jobs? Who is the last serious Caucasian politician that has taken a bold stand on the racial profiling that is the implicit modus operandi of local law enforcement and public education? Who is the last serious African American politician that has even attempted to capture the imagination and idealism of all our diverse citizenry? Is anyone embarrassed by the lack of socioeconomic and racial, not to mention sexual, diversity in the year-after-year “Top Twenty” or “Top Fifty” influential citizens touted by the local media?

I know. I know. Everyone points to Mayor Max Heller (who was, if you remember back that far, defeated for Congress not on the issues, but on overt anti-Semitism). I guess that even Max, in his ever-vital 80’s, would admit that his mayoralty is ancient history. For us, the issue is whether Max Heller’s visionary, inclusive leadership was a one-time fluke. Or was it an expression of a deeper conscience of the Greenville electorate that has simply been lulled to sleep for lack of anyone to excite it and get its adrenalin flowing?

Let’s not blame the undue influence of the Bob Jones folks over on Wade Hampton or the Religious Right. To the contrary, let their influence be felt. But let it be only half the equation. Where is the loyal opposition? Where are the folks who have so far resigned to the stigma that we are either in “the stupidest or the most backward place in the universe”? Where is the myriad of folks who routinely commend people like me every time we take a bold stand and then return to their pretensions of helplessness or lethargy? Who is willing to blow the lid off a community seeming to forever be stuck between internal fester and terminal complacency?

Where is the loyal opposition?

PRAYING BEFORE DOING, DOING BEFORE PRAYING . . . YOUR CALL

I have not led a particularly rough-and-tumble life. This epiphany came to me last Monday morning as the ER doc put five stitches into my badly sliced thumb, and I realized that, save for a little minor surgery, I had never before in 53 years required stitches for an injury.

The circumstances that necessitated the stitches bear repeating because of either my sheer forget-to-look-before-you-leap stupidity or the intimations of my potential for heroism. I am inclined toward the former, while my nearest and dearest lovingly insist on the latter.

We awoke last Monday morning to an extraordinarily huge clap of thunder in the midst of a rainstorm, followed by the wail of an alarm system. Looking out our front door, we could see flames leaping from the far side of the house across the street from an area that I thought was the bedrooms. I rushed out shoeless, clad only in gym shorts, and impulsively started pounding on a window shouting, “Get out! The house is on fire!” Well, I pounded so hard that I shoved my thumb through the window. Hence, the dripping blood and five stitches.

Thankfully, but unbeknownst to me, the family had already escaped, called 911, shaken but safe in the backyard. My thumb, thus, became the most serious human injury of the day, thank God. The house, by the way, was severely damaged, but salvageable.
Hero or stupid? Your call.

An interesting theological (?) sidebar to the story: We live in a heavily Christian neighborhood, a scant mile from the hyper-fundamentalist Bob Jones University. We Jewish Yankees tend to be skeptical, even cynical, about fundamentalist Christians as a group. Yet, I tell you, as neighbors, family-by-family, they are wonderfully gracious, kind, thoughtful people – despite what they may or may not say behind our backs about our absence of salvation.

As the neighbors rushed out of their homes and ascertained that the family was safe, they instinctively seemed to gather around them to offer words of comfort and prayer. God bless them for that.

I, on the other hand, saw that the daughter had escaped into the pouring rain barefoot, shivering, dressed only in a tee shirt and sleep-pants. By equal instinct, I ran to our house for my trench coat and a pair of Naot to keep her warm and dry.

Is it that Christians instinctively pray and then do, while Jews instinctively do and then pray? Saying that the Jewish instinct is morally superior would be a cheap and cynical shot. I have come to appreciate, instead, that the world is kept in its delicate, precarious balance by both virtues establishing a careful equilibrium:

The world needs a critical mass of people whose first instinct is to pray, and it equally needs a critical mass of people that instinctively takes actions and prays later. The world is healed from its unwholeness as much by the force of divine providence as it is by human determination. That family was restored from its trauma and grief as much by prayer as by a warm trench coat.

I have no doubt that those lovely Christian neighbors went on the do extensively for the family once they offered their prayers. But, it certainly put the onus squarely on my shoulders: If we Jews come from a tradition of “doing first,” does our conscience then afterward lead us instinctively to pray? For many (most?) of us, doubtful.

A mentor once told me that we Jews are inclined to define our spirituality in strictly sociological terms, if we give it any definition as all. Maybe it is time for a change.

EVEN BIGOTS SHOULD COMMEMORATE DR. KING’S LEGACY

First, a disclaimer: I loathe writing this column.

Why? Because I believe that having a holiday to commemorate the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King is a no-brainer. Because I believe that civic entities should signify the observance with an official holiday. I have always celebrated Dr. King’s life and have forever encouraged others to do so. I have hosted Dr. King’s widow in my home, and I have chaired interfaith services in his memory in three cities.

I celebrate Dr. King not only out of empathy to the African American cause, but because Dr. King’s legacy is about universal ennoblement, the dignity of body, mind and spirit that is the God-granted gift of all Creation. Thus, the following column is not intended to preach to the choir or perhaps even the fence-sitters.

No, this column goes out to the bigots, the folks who shamelessly say that Dr. King was just a philandering communist, that “the n****rs” do not deserve “their own” holiday, that Dr. King’s legacy was self-aggrandizing deceit, the ones who bluster all this transparent baloney about how “another” holiday would break the community’s economic back.

This is what I want to say to the bigots, however much I chafe at making the argument: If you think African Americans are ignorant, shiftless, uppity, intimidating, scrounging for a free lunch, hateful of white folk, immoral . . . then you could do a lot worse than Dr. King as the sine qua non African American role model. In fact, you should be delighted that Dr. King’s legacy and not someone else’s is, at least in principle, still the primary guiding light of African American self-determination. You should do everything in your power to rivet into place Dr. King as the yardstick by which African American parents should measure their children’s achievements and by which the quality of men and women who contend for leadership of the African American community should be judged. You should be eager to declare Dr. King’s immortality through a holiday.

After all, otherwise you might one day wind up with demands for holidays honoring far less illustrious role models, like Jesse Jackson, Louis Farrakhan, convicted murderer Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin (H. Rap Brown), Snoop Dogg or P. Diddy. And, for God’s sake do not forget that Tupac Shakur and Notorious BIGG are already dead and just aching for martyrdom to consecrate their memories.

Make, as I have, an extensive study of Dr. King’s utilization of Biblical passages in his pronouncements. I have never even once seen a single passage twisted for venal, violent or self-enriching purposes. Can we say the same of Jesse Jackson?

Then, force yourself to read Dr. King’s I Have a Dream soliloquy. Do you see an appeal for African American dominance over white America? Do you see an exhortation to take anyone else’s piece of the American pie, or to “take” anything at all? Do you see anything about African American’s deserving a free lunch or shunning the societal mainstream to establish a belligerent separatist nation? Do you see anything but a call for equal opportunity and interracial harmony? Can we say the same of Louis Farrakhan or the sordid legacy of H. Rap Brown? And, then also admit that Dr. King’s legacy is the very antithesis of the sloth, ignorance, crack, cop-killing, and “bitches and ‘ho’s” preached by the prophets of hop-hop and rap.

Anyone who purports to dictate to another person whom his/her role model should be is presumptuous. Yet, we have the right to editorialize and not capitulate to the nihilism of “Hey, whoever turns you on.” White Americans have every reason to be exhorted that George Washington, for all his human frailties, deserves our adulation over vipers like David Duke. And, African Americans have every reason to be exhorted that Dr. King, for all his frailties, deserves to be celebrated as a role model over Jesse Jackson and Snoop Dogg.

Personally, I see Dr. King’s legacy is an ideal to which all honorable people should aspire. . But, to the bigots, I would leave the following admonition: A holiday to commemorate the legacy of Dr. King is the most desirable of all alternatives, if not for yourselves, then for African Americans, whom you foolishly see as inferior, even subhuman. At least Dr. King tried to steer the ship of state out of disaster, rather than into it. If Dr. King is not exalted as a role model, which far less worthy model might be ordained to take his place? As far as I am concerned, we would be hard pressed to do better. If you are a bigot, at least admit that we could do a lot worse.

There. Now I have said it, and ugh, I feel the need to take a scalding shower.

THESE ARE A FEW OF MY LEAST FAVORITE THINGS

After weeks on end of ponderous, dreary, self-flagellating columns, I guess that you could use a break, and I certainly could. So, let me wax philosophical about my favorite subject: food!

My forever expanding-and-contracting waistline attests to my plain, simple, unbridled love of food. How I wish I could attribute it to a congenital glandular foul-up or even some unresolved seated. The truth is that I am crazy about food, period. Cajun. Chinese. Japanese. Vietnamese. Viennese. Mediterranean. Teutonic. Slavonic. Soul. Korean. And do not forget about Thai.

Moreover, why should I deny that good, heavy, Eastern European Jewish cuisine, redolent of mother-love, is closest to my heart? If you wish to invite me for dinner and make a faithful friend for life, just bring out the chopped liver, the golden soup, the shimmering brisket and well-marbled flanken, and the corps of K-rations: kishke, kugel, knishes, kasha, knobbelwurst and knaidlach. A shot of generic schnapps, a sip or two of syrupy Mogen David, tea from a glass, Tagamet, a cushy chair with matching ottoman, and a moratorium on all meaningful conversation until the coma has had time to abate.

Yes, Virginia, in case you were wondering, there are, amid the passion and the glory, a few Jewish foods so nasty that even I will not touch them. Should you really care about me, you will absolutely eschew the following:

PITSCHA – If ever there were onomatopoeia, pitscha richly deserves its name. Garlic Jell-O. The gelatinous remains of boiled calf's foot, enhanced with shreds of meat and copious fresh garlic. Brown. Granular. Quivery. Creepy. I have spent seven years in analysis because my doting Aunt Leah tried to force-feed me pitscha at the tender age of two. Serve me pitscha and you may as well be administering a spoonful of Ipecac. Pitscha is also known in our family as "fuss-noga," a German-Russian conglomerate-name that translates “foot-foot.” Good luck.

FISSELACH – AKA coq-au-pitscha. Fisselach are the viscous remnants of chicken feet that have been boiled to a fare-thee-well to fortify the chicken soup. My earliest childhood recollections involve the sight of my mother and Aunt Minnie, may they rest in peace, hunched over the kitchen sink sucking the last morsels out of a batch of fisselach. Even then, you will note, they were beneath the status of table food. Now that we buy kosher chickens pre-processed and frozen, the Jewish homemaker no longer has ready access to fisselach. My mother lamented their departure the way that old cronies decry the demise of the nickel cigar.

RETACH-MIT-SCHMALTZ – Who but the children of Israel would think of making an appetizer of grated black radish bound with rendered chicken fat? Sometimes a bit of sweet carrot is grated in, as if to atone for the noxious vapors of the radish. Spread that on a Ritz, huh? Retach-mit-schmaltz is a thoroughly sinister dish: taste, aroma, texture, concept, heartburn, ick. Once upon a time, I was served retach-mit-schmaltz at the Sabbath table of a Chassidic Rebbe. My faith shaken, I contemplated entering a monastery for an entire month thereafter.

LUNG-UND-LEBBER – My Uncle Joe, may he rest in peace, was the world's most lovable rascal. Time and again he would stray from the family fold. And time and again, my bubbeh would reel him in with a steaming bowl of lung-und-lebber. It is, I regret to inform you, just what it sounds like – a stew of beef lung and liver. Uncle Joe would bathe in the tureen, but even as a toddler, I instinctively refused even to enter the dining room. Five decades have passed, but my disposition has not changed. At my bubbeh’s urging, Joe would also devour plates full of another disreputable organ called “miltz.” Pancreas? Tripe? Thymus glands? It was spongy and disgusting, so let a pathologist make a positive identification. I can only imagine that in heaven above my bubbeh is still dishing up lung-und-lebber and miltz to her beloved Yossele. As for me, I would rather stoke the fires of Hades.

So there. I have now bared my soul and palate entirely to you – what turns me on and what turns me off. You did not ask, but just in case a dinner party were in the offing, you ought at least know the difference between the good, the bad, and the ugly. And lest I be indicted for this being an exercise in Jewish self-hate, let me remind you that I also grit my teeth at the thought of escargot, calamari, tomato aspic, and sweetbreads. I have never been forced to a showdown between pitscha and livermush or scrapple, but somehow I think I would still give my Aunt Leah the benefit of the doubt.

So, scuttle the reservations at the Four Seasons. Whisper sweet words of brisket and potato kugel in my ear, and I will show you an ecstasy that approaches nirvana. A foretaste, as the Good Book says, of the World-to-Come. Trust me.

OF COOL’S AND CUTE’S AND THE REST OF US

Puberty first sneered its cynical smirk at me early in seventh grade. That always-tortuous awakening came even more cruelly to me than to most. "Nerd" had not yet become the operative word in a coming-of-age world whose boundaries were defined by "cool" and "un-cool." I for one was hopelessly beleaguered by the yoke of un-coolness, but had not yet given in to it. I desperately fumbled and stumbled in my attempts to be numbered among the cool, oblivious that it had already been deemed unattainable to me by the social conventions of adolescence in middle-class Jewish Chicago, circa 1961.

In truth, I was every mother's dream. But I knew deep inside that I was, in fact, little more than a victim of my own ambivalence: My desperate yearning to be cool, and my even more compelling desire to please parents who expected their son to be obedient, neatly groomed, respectful of elders, academically superior, in a word, the very antithesis of cool.

The path to cool could not be paved with science fair victories, prize-winning essays on Americanism, sharing a bedroom with one's grandmother, a wardrobe determined by a mother's definition of good taste, a father's insistence that a crewcut was the only sensible utilization of a barber's services. No, this was match for Jerry Weiss's well-greased pompadour, or Eddie Jacobson's slack-jawed indifference to things academic, or Barry Levine's singularly cool talent for producing the most ill-timed, disruptive burps.

The ultimate payoff of coolness was entree to a circle of girls who were "cute." Elaine Newman and Marlene Huttner wanted me, but they were not cute. Lois Lanzbaum's mother Sadie would have signed the pre-nuptial contract for me on the spot, but Lois was not cute (although today I hear she is a Rebbetzin!). "Cute" were the girls whose club jackets designated them as "Coledas." They teased their hair, popped their gum, giggled, talked back to their mothers, and had already discovered that coquettish-ness could co-opt a boy's nascent sexual urges without violating the line that discerned between girls who were cute and girls who were “fast.”

Cool boys got cute girls. That did not, however, deter my fantasies, nor did it sober me to the truth that adolescence is most cruel when one who should know his place tries to intrude where he does not belong.

The synagogue youth group was having a dance, the first to which boys would invite girls. Let sobriety and wise parental advice be damned. Nothing would suffice for me but to ask a cute girl to be my date. Gullibly egged on by cool boys eager for a good laugh at Marc-the-lummox trying to penetrate their carefully drawn circle, I got up the bravado to call the lissome Shelly Appel. She wasn't, er, uh, sure. She would, er, uh, have to let me know. A millennium passed. Shelly did not call.

"I wouldn't waste my time on such a girl," my mother counseled.

Undaunted, I shifted my intentions to the prematurely voluptuous Eva Marmorstein. It was as if the precise script for rejecting the advances of an un-cool boy were part of the Coledas' secret rite on initiation. She too er-ed and uh-ed and never called back.

"What makes her so popular, anyway?" my mother attempted to soothe.

Time drew short. Among the cute, only the diminutive Robin Novick remained, I approached her in the schoolyard.

"Will you come with me to the dance tonight?"

“Er . . . Uh . . . “

"I tell you what: I'm going to Hebrew School this afternoon, but if you call my mom, she'll pick you up and we'll go to the dance right afterward."

I can still remember the outfit I wore to Hebrew School, knowing – with a textbook case of denial – that Robin would emerge from our new Rambler to dance with me happily ever after: My only cool sweater, a white v-neck, gray pants, white crew socks and dirty bucks.

The only part of the fantasy to come true was the Rambler. There had been no call, no picking up, no dropping off, no Robin, no dance.

I returned to my place not angry, but humiliated. The humiliation lingered like most pubescent dreams until it dissipated into deeper, more circumspect wisdom that I would never admit sounded conspicuously like the advice my mother would prudently dispense: The virtues of inner charm, the deceit of superficial beauty, the fleetingness of popularity, the preciousness of a good companion, the human qualities that truly endure.

So now, I find myself embracing the same virtues that loving parents encouraged upon me. They are the values that I, wiser for the years and the tears, have preached to my own children, who seem to me mercifully above the vaunted merits of cool and cute. I have, though, carefully avoided telling them that a little yet unsettled part of me would still trade all platitudes about inner beauty for it to be 1961 again and for me, even for a moment, to be cool.

Shelly, Eva, Robin, if by some unearthly chance you get to read this, I still have a pair of dirty bucks, and I'm still hanging by the phone waiting for you to tell me that you'll come to the dance. Linda would doubtlessly understand. If you call, I don't know whether I’d laugh or cry.

I AM A RECOVERING MANIC-DEPRESSIVE

This is not a story of the distant past. It is of the here-and-now. I retell it without shame, but with trepidation, knowing that such intimacy might cause some of my nearest and dearest to chafe. Nonetheless, this is part of the needed catharsis, and if it helps someone else who shares this horrific syndrome, so much the better.

I know that it has become tres chic to label anyone with minor mood swings “manic-depressive,” just like how trendy it was a couple of years ago to call yourself “codependent,” or to say that you came from a “dysfunctional family.” Yet, even minor mood swings can be disconcerting, especially when they start evolving beyond tolerable elation or depression over normal life situations. Nor should they be ignored, because bipolarity can be a progressive disease. Every one of us has a different point at which the sense of out-of-control-ness becomes overwhelming.

In my situation, the progression took decades, but then sped up over months to the point of near-fatality. For years, it had manifested itself in increasing protracted and morbid depression. I interpreted any periods of elation as welcome respites of normalcy. Talk-therapy seemed not to help. The profound understanding and patience of family and friends seemed not to help. Turning to God and faith seemed not to help. Paxil and Effexor helped for a while, but then lost their efficacy even as I reached maximum dosage.

When does bipolarity go out of control? For me, it was when mood swings became so radical, so detached from reality that my behavior turned injurious to me and those around me. Then the peaks and valleys looped higher and lower and alternated so quickly that my actions became unpredictable and turned without a moment’s notice.

Did I see it on myself? Certainly not at first. But oh, it was there. Outbursts against a loving wife became increasingly frequent, intense and full of vile language the likes of which I had never before spoken. Then I would cry uncontrollably. Every day was riddled with morbid thoughts and suicidal ideation that even the birth of my first grandchild could only temporarily assuage. After all, I would think, would she not be better off never knowing someone so miserable and worthless?

All this was punctuated by distinct interludes of grandiosity and destructively obsessive behavior. In my case, my outlet was eBay. I created the fantasy of building a collection of cufflinks. (My doctor said that that was the first time he had heard of that particular obsession.) Over a number of months, I mindlessly spent hundreds of dollars amassing a collection of sixty sets of cufflinks and, of course, numerous French-cuffed shirts to display them. Crazy, huh? I told you so.

This was also when my relationship with the congregation looped out of control: elation, depression, anger, untenable expectations, increasingly vituperative outbursts in meetings, writings and even from the pulpit. I still believe that insurmountable issues and differing visions would have driven the congregation and me apart. Yet, in recovery, how can one help but ponder the “what if’s”?

Finally, Linda’s ultimatum pushed me to a doctor who specialized in the pharmacology of mental illness. I owe him my life. He was convinced, with good reason, of the neuro-chemical basis of illnesses like bipolarity. No, he insisted, anti-depressants alone would not solve the problem. The medication he prescribed, ironically a heavy-duty anti-seizure drug, seems to be working remarkably well. The vile outbursts have ceased, as has the suicidal ideation. I have deleted eBay from my “favorite places” and lost ten pounds. The medication does not make me feel dopey or detached, but it certainly enables me to manage life’s typical highs, lows and even significant disappointments without self-destructive tailspins.

Am I still scared? You bet I am still scared. How much I would like to believe that manic-depression is just mind over matter. I fear that one day the meds will lose their efficacy. At 53, I fear that my father’s descent into Alzheimer’s at 70 bodes ill for me. I fear even more that his father’s obvious bipolarity as he descended into senility also might loom on my horizon.

Certainly, I am grateful for what I have and what an astute psychiatrist helped me to uncover. I still have a lot of grandparently delight yet to savor. I still have many Sabbaths and holidays yet to celebrate. I still have many festive dinners yet to cook and serve, surrounded by loving family and friends who have stood by me through the worst of times. I still have many acts of kindness yet waiting for me to perform. Seventeen years may just not be enough. I will take that as a challenge, not a reason for despair.

Now, anybody want to buy a pair of cufflinks?

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI . . . FOUR MONTHS EARLY

Let me tell you the story of a poor woman who proves that everyone has something to give and that you need not wait until Christmas to give it:

From childhood, Kathy Hilley has not enjoyed life’s advantages. Abuse and other circumstance well beyond her control, not the canard of “poorly made choices,” left her destitute and homeless.

What kindles a spark in someone like Kathy to overcome formidable obstacles and extract herself from poverty and despair? That is hard to say. A confluence of motivators that catch us unaware? A countervailing whisper from the depths of one’s conscience? A nascent sense that life must mean more than subsistence and dependency on someone else’s benevolence? Ours in not to analyze, but simply to celebrate, that for Kathy, the spark caught and became a flame.

As she sought, she found new sources of compassion that would support and encourage her gradual transition to a dignified and productive life. The Upstate Homeless Coalition of South Carolina has provided the counsel, transitional housing and instruction in life-skills that are building Kathy’s self-reliance.

Fortunately, her health problems were few, but her teeth and jaws had badly deteriorated. An incredible giving dentist has performed pro bono thousands of dollars of work on her mouth. Now she requires even more complicated dental work, likely costing beyond what this generous dentist can offer her gratis. A few folks have already stepped forth to help absorb the expense, but the prospect has left Kathy dejected.

Moreover, Kathy has never been anything but grateful, fully aware that even in her transition to independence she is the beneficiary of the kindness of caring people. She frequently laments that she has little substance from which to show her gratitude. What can she give?

One day recently, beset by the jumbled emotions of depression and inadequacy, she brought a “crazy” idea to her caseworker that she knew by instinct would restore her spirit – not drugs, nor binge drinking, nor any kind of self-destructive behavior, nor even licit self-indulgence.

You see, Kathy had luxuriously long hair. It was that lustrous, thick kind of hair that one could easily sell to a designer who would turn it into wigs and falls for haute couture. However, using her hair for personal gain was not the crazy idea. Kathy had heard of organizations that converted hair like hers into wigs for children, victims of cancer, who had lost their own hair due to chemotherapy. That is where she wanted her hair to go. That, she said, was the least that she could give back for all the kindness that has been shown to her.

So, the caseworker’s daughter, a cosmetologist, donated her time and skill to crop Kathy’s hair fashionably short. And, the caseworker sent it away to Locks of Love, where soon it will be made into wigs that will give kids who have suffered more than their share of pain and fear a little more reason to feel happy and whole.

When I heard this story, I cried, and I do not cry easily. We encouraged Kathy to let us tell this story and to make it real by using her given name. We convinced her not out of any desire for gratitude or glory. We live in a cynical world, we told her, where people blubbering about their victim-status strew our daily path. And, we simply wanted to use her story to underscore that it is still possible for a decent soul here and there to “get it,” to figure out that kindness must lead to greater kindness and that the most sublime gift is to give of one’s self.

Kathy Hilley is a real person. This is a real story. It is a stunning reminder that the gift of the Magi need not wait until the malls are decked with bows of holly. It is a stunning, yet unpretentious, reminder that the world may still be a place worthy of redemption. Thank you for renewing our hope.

CRITICISM OF JEWISH INFLUENCE IN MCKINNEY’S DEFEAT IS BASELESS

Criticism of Jews among a certain element of the African American literati for influencing the defeat of Georgia Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney crosses the clichéd line between free speech and yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater. The danger is limited only by knowing that the same element of writers and ideologues is forever building its arguments backward from the given that an American Jewish conspiracy has targeted blacks as its primary victims.

Talk about the glorious yesterday of black-Jewish relations is meaningless in a world in which only today seems to count. So, let us speak about today:

· American Jews need make no apologies for their support of Israel. Most of us have relatives there for whom Israel was refuge from Nazi genocide, Soviet tyranny, Ethiopian persecution, and even the US’s sometimes capricious immigration policies. This in no way compromises most American Jews’ commitment to Palestinian self-determination and right to an honorable future. Nonetheless, it is equally cognizant that the only instance in which an Israeli map appears in an Arab schoolbook is when a bloody dagger pierces its heartland.

· Israel’s worldview coincides virtually on-point to America’s own vision of global peace and prosperity. No one in his/her right mind could say this about the Arab world, where even purported “allies” bespeak only differing shades of hostility. Israel is as sure a protector of the US’s interests as the US is a protector of Israel, socioeconomic asymmetry notwithstanding. We tire of the cliché that “Israel is America’s only real ally in the Middle East.” So, try on this truism: “Israel is America’s only real ally in the world.”

· Israel is a remarkably colorblind and inclusive society. Not without its problems, but still incredibly on track. Americans should be envious of the way that Israel has integrated racial diversity into the mainstream – Ethiopians, the swarthiest Indians and Yemenites, even thousand of African Americans in places like Dimona. Moreover, how quickly we forget/deny/ignore that no country was more forthcoming than Israel in its welcome to Cambodian refugees in the aftermath of Pol Pot’s killing fields.

· American Jews exercise high levels of moral autonomy when getting out the vote. Even the lock that the Democratic Party once had on the fabled “Jewish vote” is yesterday’s news. Jews are as idealistic and/or doctrinaire about the candidates as most Americans are. They are likewise just as vulnerable to advertising glitz and negative campaigning. Israel is certainly a major concern, but for most of us, it is one concern among many.

Against that backdrop, noteworthy instances abound of American Jews preferring gentile to Jewish candidates. Think of how many thousands of Jews voted for Bush-Cheney over Gore-Lieberman. Nor do Jews stint in their support of black candidates. Many Jews of Atlanta chose the controversial Andrew Young over the Jewish Sidney Marcus – including Young’s Jewish campaign manager. Dr. King’s young associate John Lewis garnered thousands of Jewish votes for Congress over his white competitors.

· To look at Cynthia McKinney’s record from the first day of her first campaign is to establish that McKinney has had neither desire nor commitment to represent anything but her jaundiced interpretation of the needs of African Americans. Black, white, green or blue, she has not been a faithful steward of America’s interests, un-hyphenated and unmodified by her own narrow personal agenda. Thus, the black literati are correct in only one respect: American Jews did work tirelessly toward the defeat of Cynthia McKinney. So did everyone else with any sense of American integrity. Anything less would have been suicide. Her current game of kissy with the most murderous elements of terrorism’s power-elite was merely the latest round in a political life replete with misbegotten alliances.


The bitter old joke goes that Jews prefer to read Nazi propaganda over Jewish periodicals: The latter is forever bemoaning Jewish powerlessness, while the former would have us believe that the international Jew controls everything. Nope, no one is controlling the Jewish vote, not Israel, not the rabbis, not the political action committees. The reality that we may passionately oppose a particular candidate, be it Klansman David Duke or Cynthia McKinney, has not been a vote for race or religion. In the end, it has largely been a vote for the vision of America as a land of opportunity and for the world to be at peace, or at least rid of the dominance of tyrants.

RETHINKING THE FRUMKEIT VS. MENSCHLICHKEIT ISSUE

Have you ever bought “stuff” on eBay? I confess that I am addicted. Linda knows and has threatened to cut me off, despite my promise of occasional trinkets for her . . . purchased at incredibly low prices!

Even as an addict, though, I do practice some common sense to hedge against rip-off. I buy only from reputable dealers verified from independent sources, do not promiscuously give out my credit card number, and set myself strict (and I hope realistic) upper limits for bidding. So far, only one quasi-rip-off: An otherwise lovely Turnbull & Asser tie that was five-and-a-quarter inches wide . . . and this after I had given away my last double-knit suit!

Now, confess: Have you ever purchased anything Judaic from eBay? OK, OK, so I have. In fact, I recently purchased a new pair of tefillin from a seemingly reputable dealer for a ba’al teshuvah member of my congregation. I say “seemingly reputable,” because he proffered upfront that the tefillin were strictly kosher, and so on. After the purchase was locked in, however, he offered a number of heretofore-unlisted and rather costly “upgrades” (hiddurim). And, while he repeatedly reassured that he was exerting “no pressure,” he also averred that to some scholarly opinions the tefillin that I had purchased were kosher only bide’eved (in the second, but not the first, instance).

Great.

Now, what I do with this information is my business. Shortly after the specter of rip-off came into view, though, I thought of how careful I ought be in retelling this story to people who are eager to point out every instance of hypocrisy when people claiming the mantle of religion act in a disreputable manner.

No use arguing or justifying. We must accept as axiomatic that the misdeeds of a purportedly religious person will inevitably be seen as a stain on religiosity. This is the very essence of “chillul ha-Shem.” And rightfully so. The defiance of ethically driven divine imperatives is certainly as grievous as an infraction of any ritual law, if not more so. In a word, a truly religious person should know better. Unethical people cannot exonerate themselves by doing some empty ritualized abracadabra. It gives a bad name to religion. So let us agree that Frumkeit must inspire Menschlichkeit, or it is not Frumkeit at all.

But, let us also not be so swift to let off the hook those folks who deftly – and oft emptily – claim no need of religious folderol to attain the highest level of moral expectation. Yes, there may be a few folks here-and-there who are entirely bereft of religious conviction that nonetheless live exemplary menschlich lives. My own experience has taught me, however, that for every one of them there are a hundred people who are smugly self-righteous in their abhorrence for self-righteousness, but would not know a virtuous act if it bit them on the nose.

Yes, outwardly religious person might cheat his worker, or begrudge a request for charity, or gossip about another member of the schule. But, it is equally true that people who eat traif with relish and willfully desecrate the Sabbath and holy days, yet claim moral superiority, are just as venal, selfish, and ethically vacuous. The critic of the religious hypocrite may be no worse than the object of his criticism, but he is rarely better.

We should never settle for “at least,” but “at least” the frum person is forced into a daily confrontation with a pushke (charity box). “At least” he routinely gains exposure to sermons, discourses, and rabbinic lessons. “At least” he shuts off the TV and liberates himself from enslavement to the car, telephone, and PC, on Shabbat. “At least” he eats more at home or with friends because he has no access to Burger King and the Colonel. “At least” may not make the mensch, but it certainly creates the distinct potential for Menschlichkeit. It is a potential that the critics cannot claim.

So, let us vigorously prosecute and not give a moments rest to religious hypocrisy. But, let us be equally critical of the critics who likely have no more claim to moral superiority than the outwardly religious folks that they deride. Let us thus at least ensure that the alternative to empty-religion-without-basic-human-decency is not empty-un-religion-without-basic-human-decency. And let us ultimately resolve that God’s instruction attains its intended integrity only when Frumkeit and Menschlichkeit enter into a divinely ordained symbiosis.

Thank you, eBay, for inspiring this moment of contemplation.

THE PRIVILEGE OF MAKING THINGS HAPPEN

OK, we live in a lousy world. I awaken to that reality with every morning’s headlines. Yet, it is only 10 AM, and I am already euphoric.

What did it this morning? Well, I just finished a breakfast meeting with 25 interested and interesting folks who are brainstorming (actually, “blue-sky-ing,” is the voguish term) a new children’s museum for Greenville. Wow . . . ideas flowed. Reminiscences were savored. Reports on what a bunch of kids generated at yesterday’s blue-sky session were shared. Flipcharts were filled with every imaginable possibility and dutifully taped to the wall . . . And, you got the profound sense that your were actually being heard and forever bonded to something momentous that was about to happen in this half-backward, half-progressive town that splits the distance between Atlanta and Charlotte.

The details for now are inconsequential. It is the privilege that I savor – the privilege to be a party to making things happen.

The cynic would say, “Sure, you finally found yourself a pond small enough for you to be a big fish.” Maybe so. But, it took an unanticipated, certainly unplanned, size-wise step-down to Greenville five years ago to finally give me the sense that I am a genuine partner in making things happen. A Habitat for Humanity house. Or a residence for people with AIDS. Or a coalition for interfaith understanding. Or a Jewish teacher’s resource center. Or a children’s Holocaust library collection. Or a forum for promoting an interdisciplinary discussion of bioethical issues. And now, surely this phenomenal museum for rich kids and poor kids to learn and experience together .

The sense of being on the frontline of making things happen goes beyond simply “rewarding.” It is almost intoxicating, a euphoria that a little guy like me could likely have never replicated in Chicago, New York, or Atlanta.

What is more, we here are experiencing a hunger for Jews, and the rabbi in particular, to help make things happen, in this quintessentially goyishe town that gains both fame and notoriety from its Bob Jones epicenter of radical Protestant fundamentalism. [And no, it is not that cynical “well, duh, that’s because the Jews have all the money!” Ironically, the Jewish community of Greenville, while hardly impoverished, is not incredibly rich by the standard of other similar Southern Jewish communities.] Rare are the instances that I am not asked to sit on a particular civic board or participate in some kind of community-beneficial undertaking. I cannot say that I have never felt like the token Jew – but, again, the instances are rare.

Once upon a time, Greenville actually had a Jewish two-term mayor, a German-accented Holocaust survivor, Max Heller, who is singularly credited with the economic development and Main Street renaissance of the city. True, he was roundly defeated in a bid for Congress in an openly anti-Semitic campaign. Nevertheless, to this day, he is the single most recognizable, and dare I say most respected, citizen of Greenville. Max, now in his 80’s, has a still-sharp wit and a still-tart tongue. As I was being interviewed for the rabbinical position, he made no bones about needing a rabbi that he would not be ashamed to put before the community.

I respect him for that, and I pray that I have never – wittingly or unwittingly – betrayed his confidence. When all is said and done, being put before the community is not a tedium or inconvenience. It is a noble calling. And, it is especially gratifying when it happens in a place where you actually sense that you can make things happen – a kid who will be a little smarter, an adult who will be a little more religiously and racially tolerant, an HIV patient who will be a little more hopeful, a family who will live with a little more dignity.

As I say, when God so blesses you, the feeling goes waaaaay beyond “rewarding.” It is intoxicating, euphoric. It makes you want to get up in the morning, despite whatever the day’s headlines read.

TOWARD A “THRESHOLD” DEFINITION OF “GOD”


I almost drove off the road when I heard that a federal appellate court in San Francisco had declared the public utterance “under God,” as in the Pledge of Allegiance, unconstitutional.

Having lived a fairly idyllic life in San Francisco for a number of years, I find it harder than most Americans to choke out the words “typical San Francisco lunacy.” But, of course, it is. And, if not lunacy, then it is the kind of misguided grandstanding that should find itself quickly reversed by a more level-headed Supreme Court that recognizes the point beyond which even the noble principle of church-state separation has been reduced to absurdity.

So now the issue must percolate upward through the legal system. We will watch with rapt attention, while our righteous indignation boils over on talk-radio, and the talking-heads posture for their sound bites, and the ACLU descends into an even more grotesque caricature of its once-noble self.

And every pompous bible-thumper from here to Hampton Park will have a field day decrying this and every other societal excess as evidence of America’s hell-bound Godlessness. So, I guess that my modest proposal will be just so much more dust in the wind, unheeded by fundamentalist yay-hoo and obstinate atheist, alike. But, I will propose it anyhow:

Who says that “under God” must have precisely the same nametag for every American citizen? I recently participated in a local interfaith forum at which the Christian told the Muslim that Jehovah would not allow Muslims into heaven, and the Muslim told the Christian that Allah would not allow Christians into heaven, and the only thing on which the two could agree was that I would certainly not go to heaven. Meanwhile, I asserted to deaf ears that Yahweh, the omniscient, eternal God to whom Jews turn in worship, judges people by the content of their character, not the dogma to which they subscribe.

Why can we not at least concur on a “threshold” definition of “God”? “God,” as I see It/Him/Her, should be understood as the sum total of all the forces of creativity and moral good in the universe. Certainly, this is a definition to which every honorable person – monotheist, polytheist, pantheist, deist, even atheist – can subscribe. We each give that “God” different names. And, atheists may choose to use no name whatsoever, but they certainly still affirm the virtues of creativity and moral rectitude.

No, the definition will not suffice for those of us who celebrate an intimate, personal God, the Subject of revelation, redemption, grace, judgment, and salvation. Those are beliefs that particularize the various faith-journeys that lead us to our special covenantal relationship with the Divine.

That is precisely why the definition is a “threshold.” It is the most basic consensus point for all who pledge their allegiance to our incredibly blessed country: We are indeed the grateful beneficiary of the universe’s most bountiful forces of creativity and moral good. In at least that sense, we are truly one nation “under God.” Our various religious heritages and philosophical orientations may lead us in a multiplicity of directions, but unless as Americans we cross that most minimal threshold of affirmation together, all else is for naught.

GIVE THE NEEDY “A LITTLE” BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT

I doubt that there is any church, synagogue, masjid, or ashram, large or small, in Greater Greenville that does not have a steady flow of genuinely or allegedly needy people knocking at its doors. They can be persistent, intrepid, even annoying. And, they do pose a dilemma for even the most gracious, charitable House of God.

In large measure, the dilemma stems from our wariness of the “allegedly needy.” This cadre includes able-bodied folks who refuse to make any effort toward helping themselves. But, even they are overshadowed by likely a majority of the needy at our congregations’ doors who concoct any kind of phantasmagoric hard-luck story simply to feed their addiction to drugs, alcohol and/or tobacco.

Beleaguered to the point of cynicism, our congregations have devised a variety of coping strategies. From all reports, the vast majority of congregations in Greater Greenville have no mechanism whatsoever for direct charitable subventions. They opt instead to contribute directly to United Ministries, Catholic Charities, Miracle Hills, et al, all of them worthy social service entities well equipped for assessing serving the needy.

Some of us, including my own congregation, have taken a different route: We give any putatively needy person at our door a once-a-week $10 for-food-only Bi-Lo voucher or let him/her fill a bag from our food basket. We consider this a baseline sort of benefit of the doubt that a House of God should extend to the needy, even though it still leaves us vulnerable to some possibility of rip-off. We also give subventions from my pitifully puny charity fund for rent or utilities, but only when the recipient presents a written referral, followed up by a confirming phone call, from a bona fide social service agency, and then only with the check made out directly to the agency, landlord, or utility company.

But, there is still a rub: The referral calls to us from social service agencies have become incessant, as many as 8-10 a week. This is because only a scant handful of local congregations have any process whatsoever for directly helping the needy, even under the strictly proscribed guidelines that we have established. Caseworkers know that unless they call Beth Israel or five or six other congregations, they are out of luck. Occasionally, we even receive referrals from other congregations, dare I say larger and more affluent than our own, who tell the needy, “We have no way of helping you, but Beth Israel does.”

And, how much are we able to help? Please do not invoke the xenophobic myth that “all Jews are rich.” Nor do we have any outside sources of funding. My “Rabbi’s Fund” is sustained exclusively by freewill contributions of benevolent congregants and is stretched thin by other needs – scholarships, special projects, and assistance to down-and-out members of our own congregation – and usually has the astounding balance of $137.

If I wanted accolades for the generosity of Beth Israel, I would not have written this column. This is not about accolades, but about a word of encouragement, even chiding, for the vast majority of congregations in Greater Greenville: One day soon, please God, we will stop lamenting the abuse of our charitableness at the hands of druggies and scam artists, and stop blubbering about how we must invest all our energies in addressing “the roots of poverty,” and stop emptily debating the merits of faith-based initiatives versus creating a welfare state. On that day, as today, there will still, always, be a core of genuinely needy people who will have no heat, no roof over their heads, no food to feed their babies.

The social service agencies will do whatever they can, and then they will turn to our Houses of God for help. We can turn them away, saying that we have no mechanisms for direct charitable outreach, or tell them “we gave at the office,” or let our cynicism dictate our charitable policies. I say that we are already awash in enough cynicism “out there.” A House of God may be the only outpost left where a little idealism must still prevail, at least enough idealism to give the needy “a little” benefit of the doubt.

WHAT MAKES A CONGREGATION AND ITS RABBI “GOOD”?

Ever since the encounter between God and the Serpent in the Garden of Eden, the world has been ravaged by clashes between conflicting definitions of “good.”

Torquemada, Hitler, Tojo, et al, were all genuinely convinced that they were promoting the “good.” Having visited imprisoned inmates for three decades, I have yet to find one who has deemed himself “guilty.” Just ask them: They were duped, they were framed, they intended nothing but “good.”

One would hope that people of faith could at least covenant with each other on a more absolute definition of “good.” Alas, this too was apparently not meant to be.

Beyond murder, adultery, treason, and grand larceny, there loom the everyday, low-voltage, but nonetheless maddening, tiffs over divergent notions of “good”: Was the movie, the restaurant, the party . . . “good”?

What about the rabbi? What about the congregation? Good? Well, I guess so. Well, not really. What makes you say that? I dunno; I can’t really put my finger on it. But . . . he just rubs me the wrong way. But . . . I just guess I like him. But . . . I just don’t feel at home there.

Articulate speaker? Community activist? Compassionate pastor? Credentialed scholar? Solemn, dignified services? Laid-back, participatory services? Bowling league? Daf Yomi shiur? Heavy fleishig Kiddush? Light milchig Kiddush? Asking for an across-the-board definition of what makes a “good” rabbi or congregation “good,” as tempting as it seems, may simply be expecting too much. And, certainly, a rabbi or congregation that aspires to be all things to all people is simply choosing a one-way ticket to madness, burnout, and/or oblivion.

Can the individual congregation, then, come to some internal understanding as to the meaning of “good”? Laypeople, and dare I say rabbis, rarely seem to engage in intentional, thoughtful brainstorming and consensus-building on the definition of quality.

Instead, they typically hope for the best, thank God each day that the natives are not too restless, put out the fires as they flare up, rely on the amorphous sense of creating “a good feeling,” and wait for the reviews to come in at contract-renewal time or when a congregant or two get particularly miffed. Or, perhaps even worse, they descend into a thesaurus of mushy comfort-words to describe the congregation (“family-oriented,” “warm,” “welcoming,” “heimish”) that only brings us full-circle back to “What do you mean by ‘warm’?”

I know that all this seems to be irresistibly leading to an argument for establishing quantifiable quality indicators for congregations and their rabbis – as you do for light bulbs and microchips. And, the counter-argument understandably responds that one cannot possibly quantify sublime, ethereal virtues like welcome, compassion, and pastoral skills.

So, no, I am not arguing against the importance of the individual and collective intuition that says, “I know ‘good’ when I see it.” I am, however, suggesting that each congregation can thoughtfully agree on a few – albeit not comprehensive or definitive – benchmarks (call them “symptoms,” if you wish) for how it will recognize “good” in itself and its rabbi once it has been achieved.

The precise benchmarks will vary from congregation to congregation, but I can imagine just a few examples. What do you mean by . . .

“Welcoming”? (1) designated greeters who welcome visitors/newcomers to services, introduce them to the rabbi and laypeople, make sure that they are not abandoned during Kiddush, and ascertain appropriate follow-up after Shabbat, (2) home visits (with wine, challah, etc.) to newcomers by rabbi and senior congregation official(s) within a week of their arrival, (3) contact of new members by chairs of key committees within a week of joining the congregation, soliciting the newcomers’ involvement.

“Compassionate”? (1) a funded mechanism for prompt charitable response to people in crisis in the congregation and community, (2) a hot-line for at-risk members of the congregation who require shopping, transportation, and other assistance, (3) a bikkur cholim group to regularly visit and provide support for sick and homebound members of the community.

“Pastoral Care”? (1) the rabbi is in contact with each hospitalized member daily and visits every other day, (2) the rabbi visits each homebound member at least once each month, (3) the congregation provides encouragement, time, and funding for the rabbi to keep his counseling skills sharp through continuing education.

As I say, just a few examples. No, they will never substitute for the sense of all’s-wellness that we feel when the congregation harmonizes so sweetly at “Tzur Yisrael,” or when the rabbi hits just the right point in his sermon. Nonetheless, they will enable us to come to some mutual understanding on a few of the signs of quality and give us a healthy alternative to, and perhaps a momentary respite from, contending and contentious blurry definitions of “good.”

The real challenge is in forcing ourselves to come up with a set of verifiable standards of expectation. That exercise, in and of itself, can be tremendously enlightening and provocative for congregation and rabbi alike. How will we know compassion, enthusiasm, a “good” religious school, heimishkeit, rabbinic excellence, when we see them? Take it from one who knows: Facing up to that question may be our only opportunity to clutch at the elusive straw of sanity.

WHAT MAKES A “RELIGION OF HATE”?

What makes a religion a “religion of hate”?

Does barbarism simply inhere at the taproot of some religions? Usually not. Each religion’s holy writ leaves enough ambiguity and ambivalence – enough “good stuff” and “bad stuff” – to make an equal case for humane and inhumane conclusions. Jews, Christians, Muslims and the rest, must see within their sacred texts the potential for a mishmash of honorable and dishonorable alternatives.

What then? We must look at the preponderance of tradition that has been brought to interpreting and teaching each of the sacred texts. Acknowledge it or not, the world’s religions have largely been shaped by an “oral” tradition – that is, the predispositions that each generation’s masters have brought to presenting the holy word to their inspiration-hungry disciples. Thus, the real persona of a religion is determined not so much by chapter-and-verse of a foundational text as it is by what Hillel and Akiba, Aquinas and Assisi, conveyed to us about the text.

If we deem a set of holy doctrines compassionate and peace-loving, it is inevitably because they have been consistently interpreted in a compassionate and peace-loving manner by the venerated prophets of that faith. On the other hand, if a religion has a consistent legacy of promoting bloodlust and genocidal frenzy, we must assume that its generations of spokespeople have pulled its sacred writ in that direction.

What role do disciples play in shaping the nature of a religion? No matter how much demagogues may shape the tone of the masses, disciples still wield the all-powerful prerogative of “buy in.” Ideally, this means that the listening audience is capable of exercising the moral autonomy to reject out of hand teachings that pervert honorable ideals.

Usually, though, that is asking too much. We can, however, hope that a people well conditioned to hearing its legacy consistently interpreted in a compassionate and peace-loving way will instinctively be repulsed by a renegade voice that dares to fly in the face of that generations-old tradition. Sadly, the converse is also true: If the faithful of a particular religion brands as an infidel a spokesman who dares call for compassion, we may be quite sure that a tradition centuries in the making has conditioned that response.

What, then, would qualify Islam, or any venerated legacy, as a “religion of hate”? The answer is not to be found in the text of the Koran or the words of its earliest prophets. It is not even to be found so much in what Islam “was” two or five or ten centuries ago. The only criterion for determining whether Islam is a “religion of peace” hijacked by infidels or truly a thoroughgoing “religion of hate,” is the here and now: What are mullahs and imams around the world preaching to their faithful? And, what are they not? What do the world’s Muslims accept as legitimate from the interpreters of their faith? And, would they welcome or shout down a voice that spoke to them of understanding and compassion, if they were ever to hear it?

So, enough already of the liberal, upper middle class, white Protestant clergy and academics struggling to convince us that Islam is really a “religion of peace.” I for one will not believe it until I hear it loud and clear from Muslim clerics themselves, and preferably, when they preach not to us, but to their own less-than-forthcoming masses.

EMAIL SPREADS WELCOME GOSPEL

So, I came home before Shabbos from a week in the hospital with a second bout of pancreatitis.

Unrepentant in my Type A behavior, I wait for a moment to steal downstairs, yes, to check the email accumulated during days of sensory deprivation. Holy smoke, 257 epistles have stuffed my mailbox in my absence.

About 150 were pure spam – mortgage promos, assurances of renewed natural sexual vitality, cheap long distance rates, Jewish jokes resurrected from Borscht Belt oblivion and gratuitously sent my way, “FYI, to punch up your sermons.”

You know, if we slam the institution of email for its intrusions of spam and porn, then we must also be willing to sing its praises when it shows itself as a vehicle of goodwill. For nice people, email has afforded an opportunity to be even nicer. Of course, a phone call would be more personal. A card, even better. And the art of gracious hand-penned correspondence is all but dead. But, email has become a wonderful medium for spontaneously offering sentiments of kindness, concern, thankfulness, friendship that might have otherwise, lamentably, not been seized by the moment.

Case in point: Among my 75-or-so remaining emails, over 50 were from a variety of well-wishers sending their prayers and concern over my recent illness. Every word touched me as profoundly sincere and never raised the specter that any one of those sweet, thoughtful people was “too busy to do anything more meaningful.” The very freewheeling nature of email made the greetings more, not less, intimate.

So, the first lesson to be learned is that, Milosevic aside, there are still lots and lots of decent, honorable people out there who are eager to share a word of kindness when someone is in distress. This in itself may not save the world, but it is one heckuva good reason to stay optimistic. And, if technology and cyberspace present more opportunities to spread the niceness, we have reason to celebrate its extraordinary powers.

A second, more personal lesson: My Jewish coreligionists were certainly forthcoming with their kind wishes. But, the vast majority of the email prayers came from my non-Jewish acquaintances – Baptist, Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Episcopalian, Presbyterian, MCC, Hindu, Baha’i, Buddhist, liberal, fundamentalist, straight, gay, white, black, yellow, brown . . . let’s see; did I leave anyone out?

This wondrous outpouring of goodwill, I am certain, was not a function of celebrity or high community profile. I suffer no such delusions. I am just a curious guy who is on a walkabout to taste the different, invariably delicious, flavors of religious experience in the community, to savor the individuals and organizations that propose to do some good in our midst, and to listen to the potentials for further goodness percolating up from the cracks in the sidewalk. It’s something that anyone and everyone should try.

And you know the ultimate benefit? On your walkabout you will invariably meet a truckload or two of decent, honorable people of differing colors, creeds, theologies, and world-views, with whom you may rejoice, argue, disagree, compromise, and ponder a vision of the common good.

Such was the spectrum of folks who took a moment to wish me well when I needed it most. They are the cherished acquisitions of my walkabout, whose prayers to Yahweh, Jesus, Allah, Vishnu, et al, obviously ascended heavenward, but found no earthbound home more grateful than my own heart.

My encouragement to all of you: Go on your own walkabout. You, too, will acquire boundless good. Many tugs pull a community apart, but a community cannot help but be beloved if it still finds the instinct to rally to people who would otherwise have to bear their pain alone.