Reflections on my Tallis

My tallis seems to have a mind of its own. Upon entering the sanctuary and finding a seat, I dutifully remove it from its matching bag, unfold, wrap around my torso, find the approximate midpoint on each side – always left side first – and fold over each of my shoulders. Two minutes later one half of the tallis has become askew and waits to be refolded. Two minutes later the other side falls completely off. At least one time during the service I’ll step on a tzitzit causing me to grab onto my chair to prevent myself from falling on my wife or whoever is unfortunate enough to be sitting nearby. As the Shema draws near, I initiate the tzitzit hunt, knowing that, invariably, one of them will furtively bury itself behind my back or become entrenched in some hidden space between the seats. Where could it possibly be? It was there when I put it on. As the opening words of the Shema are intoned I frantically trace the ends of the cloth to each corner. The knotted threads are united and wrapped around my fingers in the nick of time: “and they shall make themselves fringes, (kiss) on the corners of their garments”. At the end of the Shema the insubordinate corners return to their hidden locations and the cycle of folding and falling begins anew. Having lost my tallis clips a week after my Bar Mitzvah, and being unprepared to invest in another pair of silver plated clips adorned with a garish Jewish star, there seems to be no salvation from this skirmish that doesn’t involve either crazy glue or push pins. At the end of the service, having completed the battle, I dutifully refold the tallis and return it to its matching bag – only to have one or more tzitzit get caught in the zipper, precipitating a drawn out struggle to free it from clenched metal jaws.

It is for these reasons that I am now working with a small, elite technology team to create the first ever IPhone tallis app. While I have yet to fully vet the device with religious authorities, I am hopeful that it will meet all, if not a few of the halachic requirements. For everyday use, with the iphone in full operating mode, the tallis app will provide downloadable prayers (both in Hebrew and in transliteration) for donning the tallis, along with a web link to the full Sacharit service, torah portions and a bagel calorie counter. At a small extra cost, gps locators can be placed on each tzitzit for easy location as the Shema approaches. Carefully camouflaged earphones allow you to listen to your favorite music while appearing to be praying or listening to the rabbi. These additional features can be disabled in Shabbat mode, however, the radio can be left for all of Shabbat allowing you to discretely listen to “Car Talk” during the extended Bar Mitzvah portion of the morning service.

But, while I am working on the Tallis app, as well as other possible tallis innovations (the spandex tallis, the survival tallis for Yom Kipper, a Kevlar tallis for the IDF), I must admit that there is a simple pleasure in enclosing myself in my trusty white and blue one purchased in Jerusalem many years ago. There is something comforting about enclosing myself within its folds. Perhaps it is tactile; perhaps it is something more than skin deep –something ancient, visceral, and pre-conscious.

As the Shema approaches and my search for each fringe ensues, I find myself mouthing the words: “Bring us together in peace from the four corners of the earth”. I think of my tallis as representing the Jewish people. We are unruly and uncooperative. Each individual segment has a mind of its own and seems determined to go its own way. Segments of our people have been lost and then rediscovered. When will all of our corners be settled – each in its place- each understanding that we are all of the same cloth? How long will we court danger through baseless hatred for each other - “Tzinat Chinam” – the same baseless hatred that precipitated the destruction of the Second Temple? But we are wandering Arameans and we are an unruly and stiff necked people. Wrapped in the folds around me and clinging to the cloth, I ponder that each of us has a role to play in bringing together the disparate corners and the fringes of our people.

Perhaps, as we struggle to bring together each corner of our tallesim, so too does God strive to gather God’s people from the four corners of the earth. Together we wrap the tzitzit around our fingers and close our eyes. We pray that there will come a time when the Jewish people will come together in peace and, as one, proclaim the belief that unites us: Sh'ma Yisraeil, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.

Adopt a Highway

I was going to adopt a highway but didn't have the room.

High Holy Day Missive

It’s been a year of transitions, but perhaps they all are. Alya received her PhD in Developmental Biology and is now engaged in post-doctoral research. In her introductory remarks at her doctoral defense she noted the attendance of her parents and commented that we were “the only people in the room who didn’t know what she was talking about”. This was not entirely true as both Jo and I clearly understood all of the pronouns. This past year, Naomi was engaged in wonderful work as part of Americorps linking McDaniel College students to community service and social justice opportunities. She is now helping the same young men and women explore vocations in the Career Development Office. To her father’s great delight, she has taken up collecting used LP’s. She sends me text messages from record stores and I respond with assessments: “Allman Brothers” – great; Neil Diamond – pheh. Jacob spent the year in Israel on the Habonim Dror Workshop program splitting his time between kibbutz and working with disadvantaged youth in Tiberias. This fall he began his college career at Georgia College (Our state’s liberal arts college - perhaps, the only liberal institution in Georgia). To quote Paul Simon “These are the days of miracle and wonder”. Jo opened up a small office in Roswell, GA and continues to work with children and young adults. I work on and will soon complete a quarter century with Hillel. Like all of us, Goldie the dog is getting long in the tooth and she no longer accompanies me on my treks in the woods. I miss her company and have taken to chasing squirrels without her.

Each year, as we prepare for the Jewish New Year, it has become my custom to send out a pithy Rosh Hashanah message filled with erudite witticism and whimsy. Generally speaking, these electronic greetings are no more than thinly veiled opportunities to brag about my children and share recent photos. As above, I have not disappointed to deliver this ulterior motive.

But in the context of a less than fully gratifying political, economic, diplomatic and environmental period it has been somewhat difficult to find the vein of humor and cheer for this High Holy Day greeting. Admittedly, I do find myself thinking holy thoughts these days. These sacred musings are generally followed by an exclamation point, to whit: “Holy cow, my retirement fund lost how much!” or “Holy crap, did Michelle Bachmann really say that!”

Interestingly, although we go through these days wishing each other well on the “High Holy Days”, that term appears nowhere in the Hebrew lexicon. It is not a biblical, Talmudic or rabbinic phrase. The term in Hebrew for the days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is “Yomim Noraim”. We commonly translate this phrase as the “Days of Awe” but it can also be interpreted as the “Days of Terror” or “Terrible Days”. While “Days of Terror” may be a more accurate term for the High Holy Days, it makes for a less than satisfactory greeting card; except, of course, if you are a Cossack: “Dear Raphael Family, Happy Days of Terror from Igor the Malicious. We’ll be there on Tuesday between 9:00 am and noon to plunder.”

Beyond my annual brooding for the disappointing Mets during this season, it is hard to read or listen to the news and not feel that these are days of terror. We face global economic meltdown, political paralysis, ongoing international strife and global warming that is rapidly turning our planet into an Easy Bake Oven. Perhaps these are terrible days.

Are we uplifted yet? More pot roast anyone?

As Jews, when we use the term “holy” it is as a translation of the Hebrew “Kadosh”. Kadosh can be interpreted as holy and sacred, but I am drawn to “sanctified”. Holy and kadosh are adjectives – descriptors, are while “to sanctify” is a verb –a word of action. If these days are to be sanctified, it is up to us.

As many of you know, after six years of descending deeper and deeper into Alzheimer’s disease, my mother passed away, closing a difficult and painful period. While we mourn our loss, her death opened windows to memories of earlier times filled with joy and blessing. With her passing we were liberated to remember her as she had been; strikingly beautiful, charmingly funny but most of all deeply loving. During terrible days, I think about my mother. Through her warmth and graciousness she sanctified every moment and every one she touched. I think about those last days with her in a hospital room in Jerusalem. Jacob traveled from the north of Israel to sit with me, and those waning moments with my mother were made holy. I think about the tender care my mother received in the hands of my sister Ruth and her family in Jerusalem. The last years of my mother’s life were sanctified by her devoted family.

Perhaps, this is the lesson of the season for all of us: These days can be filled with terror. Calling a day “holy” doesn’t necessarily make it so. But all of us can use these Days of Awe to be in awe of our families, friends, communities, country and our planet and to sanctify our time together.

My best wishes to you and your family for a happy, healthy, sweet and sanctified year.

Honoring the High Holidays

This year I turned down the offer to be honored by reading Torah during the High Holidays. Perhaps I was aware that I would be too busy watching NCIS reruns to prepare my portion. But I suspect my motivations lie elsewhere. I am inclined to think that they date back to Yom Kippur 35 years when I watch in horror as a fist fight broke out in a small Sephardic shule in Zichron Yaakov. As a volunteer on Kibbutz Maayan Tzvi, I had walked up the steep road into town to daven on this holiest day of the year only to have my sense of spiritual calm shattered by this unholy pugilistic display. Through my limited understanding of Hebrew I was able to discern that, in the tradition of this shule, honors on the High Holidays were auctioned off to the highest bidder and one particularly well to do congregant consistently outbid all others for the choice approbations. Thus, the Day of Atonement fist-a-cuffs.

Since that day, I have wondered about our communities’ tradition of doling out honors on our holiest of days. On these days of atonement, when we intone that God sits above in the heavens judging one soul and another, I wonder what gives us the right, the authority to judge that select congregants are more worthy to stand before God. Who are we to say that, for instance, the vice chair of the social committee is more holy or more deserving than a single mother who spends long days and sleepless nights caring for a child with special needs, a daughter who travels hundreds of miles each month to comfort her aged mother or a congregant who volunteers at a shelter for battered women. I am inclined to think that, on these days of awe, the most deserving of praise is the new comer who, alone and filled with trepidation, enters our spiritual home and stands amongst strangers, to worship before God.

I know enough to understand that all organizations, even spiritual ones, require hierarchies and that these organizations are built and sustained by the hard work and ongoing efforts of a select few. These caring individuals, who dedicate time and resources to our synagogues and temples, deserve thanks and recognition. But on these days when we come face to face with the Divine, who among us will claim to be more worthy than another? In my thinking, that’s God’s turf.

Thus, I would like to propose two new traditions for consideration:

1. Those who, because of their commitment to our community, are given honors, should be offered the opportunity to hand these honors to strangers, to newcomers. Upon arriving at the bimah, the rabbi or gabbi might say something to the effect: “The honor of the second aliyah has been given to Gil Schwartz, Vice President of our Board of Directors. Gil has shared his honor with Mr. and Mrs. Irving Levine who are visiting our congregation for the first time. We are so pleased to welcome Mr. and Mrs. Levine.” Thus, Vice President Schwartz is recognized for his service and Mr. and Mrs. Levine feel welcomed to our congregation.

2. For one aliyah on one day, perhaps the last aliyah of the Yom Kippur morning services, the entire congregation should be called up to the Torah to be honored. Rather than 1,000 people or so all crowding on the bimah, the entire congregation would rise and recite the blessings together. The message: On this, the holiest day of the year, all the members of our congregation and our community are to be honored. Some have made significant contributions to our shule; others have engaged in quiet, private acts of tzdakah and gimilut hasadim. Still others deserve the “zichut”, the merit, reaching out to God and reaching out to the Jewish people on these holiest days of the year.

Who knows, as God on high weights the deeds of the Jewish people, it may be a stranger’s single act of joining our congregation for one day that tips the scales. Alternatively, it might be our act to welcome the strangers among us that does the trick.

Excerpts from the Commencement Address I Never Gave

As Millennials you came to campus as sophisticated young men and women filled with entrepreneurial spirit and adorned with multiple facets of your personality. In earlier days, we would have labeled these unique characteristics schizophrenia, placed you on large dosages of Haldol and recommended several months of inpatient treatment. As you graduate, these great gifts will help you perfect my grande double chai latte macchiato with the exact proportion of 2% milk and enable America to produce a new generation of perfectly grilled cheeseburgers and expertly prepared fries.

A new joint study by the Department of Labor and the Environmental Protection Agency has revealed that there are now fewer jobs for graduates than there are Northern Spotted Owls. Thus, as you move back into your parents’ houses, remind them that Hillel was an important part of your $250,000 college education and that their gift of double chai enables one student to attend one Shabbat dinner or covers .01% of the monthly heating and air conditioning bill in the new 450,000 square foot Sol and Esther Greenberg Center for Jewish Life in the Leonard and Bunny Feinstein Hillel Building, on the Irving and Sara Kaplowitz Campus. We still have exciting naming opportunities for elevators, the indoor water park, the second floor men’s room and the sump pump.

In a moment you will be called up to receive your diploma along with the notice that first payment of your student loan is due in 20 minutes. As you leave these hallowed halls, the legacy of your parents, mentors and teachers awaits you: Despoiled oceans, polluted air, runaway nuclear reactors, trillions of dollars in national debt that your great grandchildren will be paying off till their 78^th birthday and global warming that is rapidly turning the earth into an Easy Bake Oven

As you think back on your 4 -9 years as an undergraduate remember that none other than Albert Einstein said that “The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.” That same brilliant thinker also said that: “Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former.”

Our generation, those who have preceded you, have elevated Einstein’s words to new heights. We challenge you to match our level of self-indulgent narcissism; our callous disregard for the environment; our wanton destruction of our planet; and our seemingly infinite cruelty to those who are not us or exactly like us.

We have placed our great confidence in you; we have entrusted you with this great nation and this great earth, or whatever is left of it. “May the force be with you.” “Live long and prosper. “Gay g’zint”. We’ll be on an extended Alaskan cruise watching the glaciers melt and using up whatever is left of Social Security.

Redemption - New York Style

It is that time of year. We cover our faces with masks to mock our tormentors while hiding ourselves so as not to reveal our true hopes and fears. Perhaps a hitherto unknown hero will be revealed to strike down our oppressors and lead us on paths home – where it seems we haven’t been for so long.

We long for the possibility of salvation and redemption knowing that even it comes, the path will be long and hard, filled with dangers, lurking with those who would seek to strike us down.

We have been enslaved, feeling helpless and unredeemed for so long. But as the new sprouts emerge from the earth and warm breezed begin to blow, we begin to hope anew for redemption. And even though salvation rarely comes we can always hope of a brighter future.

This is the lot of a Met fan.

For us, it is fitting that the baseball season begins in the spring as we finish off those last humantashen and begin the proud Jewish communal tradition of Kosher for Passover extortion where great and wise sages bilk us for all we are worth for small jars of apple sauce and ersatz ketchup. We think of the week before Passover known in the Jewish communities of Lithuania as “the days of eating dangerously” when we cleanse our cupboards and ice boxes and nourish ourselves with peanut butter and sardine sandwiches on hot dog buns washed down with the sad remainders of grape juice from Passovers long ago.

At this time of need and hunger; when we are destined to be disappointed by Passover cookies and remain unfulfilled even after consuming sixteen pounds of maztah brei, the Mets return, once again, to remind us that, in fact, life is unfulfilling and we should stop kvetching and get over it.

The Wise Son asks: “Will the Mets complete lack of pitching ultimately lead to this year’s downfall”?

The Wicked Son Asks: “Why not root for the Yankees?”

The Simple Son Asks: “Can’t we turn off the Mets and watch something fun on television – like Schindler’s List?”

As for the Son Who Does Not Know How to Ask: You should tell him to keep quiet and drink his beer.

And this Maror – this Bitter Herb – why do we eat it? Because we are from New York and we don’t know any better. Why else would we root for the Mets?

We were slaves in Egypt for 400 years. We wandered in the desert for 40 years. All of this is but a flicker of an eye – a glinting moment – relative to the unrelenting torment of being a Met fan.

But once again we will sing songs of redemption and pray for a better world. We open our doors to the possibility that a savior will come; perhaps someone with a 95 mile an hour fast ball and a terrific change up. Perhaps a batter who won’t turn to salt as the umpire calls the third strike. He will uplift our eyes to the heavens with a towering home run and we will rise as one. But alas, Met fans – close the door and drink some more wine. There’s no one out there but the cat.

This year we are slaves in the cellar. Given bloated contracts of underperforming players and the Mets’ owners’ misplaced devotion to Madoff as a modern day monetary Moses, next year will probably not be much better. Had Gadya .. just one kid…a kid who can hit or pitch.

Eulogy for My Mother

There was a way that you could tell who knew my mother well and who had just met her. We called it the sneeze test.

Newcomers would “God Bless You” after the first sneeze. Acquaintances would wait through the first half dozen. Family members stood fast through the first six or seven clusters cho..cho..cho..cho..cho..

And sometimes even we were fooled. God Bless you…Cho..cho.. cho…too soon.

It seems both profoundly fitting and odd to be standing here at the Jewish Center of Bayside Oaks where Susan, Ruth, Eve and I all celebrated our bat and bar mitzvahs. Where Leon and I sang together in the High Holiday Choir –he an alto, me a soprano. My father sat on this Bimah as the president of the Men’s Club; my mother as the president of the Sisterhood. On High Holidays the rabbi shisshed the congregation to order as the men stood outside smoking Lucky Strikes and Camels.

It was over a half century ago, in another time, in another life, when we live and grew two blocks away on Garland Drive. Where we played spud, and touch football in the streets and Nigel our Great Dane terrorized the neighborhood. An easy walk took us to Springfield Boulevard for a slice and a coke for a quarter and a five minute ride took us to Bell Boulevard for a Creamy Egg Cream or a hot fudge sundae from Carvel. On hot summer nights we would all climb in the back of the windowless J Raphael and Son van and careen across the floor as my father drove us to Corona Ice King. We smelled of cinnamon and allspice for days.

It was a time of Wednesday night Bowling League and Monday night Gin Rummy. And with my mother it was always a time of wonderful music. The four of us dancing and spinning wildly as my mother played Mozart’s Turkish March on the piano in the living room. My mother and father singing “My Funny Valentine” – she with her beautiful clear voice and him less so. My mother playing lead singing roles in Jewish Center of Bayside Oaks musicals. Close to 50 years later, I bet Susan, Ruth, Eve and I can still remember the words:

“Someone's painting the leaves all wrong this year - wish you were here

Why did the birds change their song this year - wish you were here

They're not shining the stars as bright

They've stolen the joy from the night

Wish you were here, wish you were here, wish you were here

Who could have imagined that suddenly, and seemingly so swiftly, my father’s death would shatter this magical and idyllic life? How could this happen? How could we go on?

But my mother was a survivor and she possessed remarkable strengths as she faced and overcame this and other painful challenges. She was an Ayshish Chayal – a remarkable woman of valor.

And so she rebuilt her life; she went to work and became a preschool teacher par excellence. The International Playgroup; the Shelter Rock Jewish Center; The Samuel Field’s Y. She dispensed medicines and washed children’s hair as a Camp Mother at Camp Kfar Masada.

And wherever she went the children followed her and cried with delight: “Billie, Billie, Billie.”

And after she put her children through college she completed her own education receiving a Bachelors of Arts Degree in Early Child Education from Adelphi University.

How could God not see the great goodness in this woman’s heart? Her children grew and they built families of their own. And they blessed her with grandchildren and great grandchildren. They called her Nana and they filled her with joy. They were her jewels and they adorned her with riches.

It is said that in His infinite vision God brings together Chasans and Kallahs, brides and bridegrooms; men and women who are “bshert” meant for each other. And perhaps because of the beauty of her inner soul God blessed my mother twice; first with my father and then when my mother and Leon discovered each other. They built a new life together filled with love, family and Judaism. Leon was my mother’s husband but all of our family has been blessed by this gracious and good man.

My mother’s memory began to fade shortly after a visit to Israel. She fought so hard to hold on to her memories. Perhaps five years ago, as we sat at a restaurant on Northern Boulevard we became partners in memory:

“I was dating another man, who loved me and kept on trying to give me something”.

“I met my, father, I mean my husband at a place”. “He was so very handsome and we fell in love immediately.”

“We wanted to get married right away but we had to wait until my sister got married first. When we got married, it was at the same place as my sister”

And even later days, her love and her humanity continued to shine through:

“I like you here. I love you so much. How are you?”

“I love you dear. When will you come to this place again?”

As her illness progressed, people would ask me how my mother was doing. I answered as she would: “It is what it is.” There was peace in her heart; she had lived a good and meaningful life; she had treated people with dignity and respect; she cared for others and knew that others cared for her. She had raised a family and that family had raised new families and their children did the same. It is what it is. It’s okay.

She spent the end of her days in warm sun of Jerusalem – her stories and her memories being absorbed into the shared memories of our people. Yesterday, she joined our ancestors and is now buried in a sacred land, in the shadows of sacred places. Her life was a blessing to all who knew her.

What is the measure of this woman?

The children who flocked to her.

The friends who revered her.

Family – sisters and brothers in laws, aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins and more who adored her.

Children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who bless and honor her.

What is the memory of this woman?

A warm and welcoming smile.

Lovely inviting brown eyes

Soft but strong hands.

The syncopated sound of a staccato sneeze. Bless you… wait.

And a song.

“Where did the night go

So soon, so soon.

So young but a moment ago.

So young but a moment ago.