Let's Celebrate, Florida

I’m in Orlando and I’m sitting in an candidate interview – and it is getting late. The candidate mentioned that she lived near Celebration, Florida – a community created by Disney. My mind starts to wander – I wonder if there is a Celebration Funeral Home. There is just no way that wouldn’t be weird. “Welcome to the Celebration Funeral Home – sorry for your loss – let’s Celebrate". How about the Celebration Emergency Medical Services – “Congratulations, you’ve had a heart attack”. Does the Celebration Fire Department bring marshmallows? Personally, after all these years of being a social worker, I want to work for Celebration Demolition. Let's just put that cake out in the rain.

Back to the interview

The Torah According to Home Depot

I am delighted to present this D’var Torah in honor of my uncle, Rabbi Myron Fenster who is visiting us from New York.

I thought it would be valuable to explore what we can learn about religion, faith and belief from our city of Atlanta. Thus, I would like to compare Judaism to that great Atlanta institution – Home Depot.

Like Judaism, you can find just about anything you need at Home Depot: Need a new Weber gas grill, it’s there; looking to find the exact shade of fuchsia so that your walls will match the carpet, it’s there. Time to insulate the attic; lay down new sod; replace the sputtering Hotpoint refrigerator – it’s all there.

But all of us have had the experience of going into the Home Depot, searching for some obscure part, perhaps a 1-1/2 inch galvanized floor flange, and wandering down aisle after aisle staring hopelessly at seemingly unending shelves of plumbing fixtures. We are rescued by an orange vested expert who leads us to the right aisle and shelf and, perhaps, points out that a 1 ¾ inch galvanized floor flange might work better.

Thus it is with Judaism. There is so much richness in our tradition; so much wisdom, meaning and beauty. But where do we start to look; what text; what chapter, what verse; what commentary? How do these ancient passages offer meaning for our lives? How fortunate we are when a wonderful and wise Jewish leader helps us find our way and reveals the beauty and wonder of our tradition. From my early days, my uncle, Rabbi Myron Fenster, has been such a guide for me. Since our family has moved to Atlanta, we have been blessed to have Rabbis Mario and Analia as our guides as well.

Close to three thousand years before Home Depot adopted the slogan: “You can do it and we can help” our Torah empowered us through similar words:

Deuteronomy, Chapter 30

11. For this commandment which I command you this day, it is not too hard for you, neither is it far off.

12. It is not in heaven, that thou should say: 'Who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it unto us, and make us to hear it, that we may do it?'

13. Neither is it beyond the sea, that thou should say: 'Who shall go over the sea for us, and bring it unto us, and make us to hear it, that we may do it?'

14. But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that you may do it.

With the help and guidance of great teachers and great rabbis, the wisdom, joys, values and essence of our remarkable Jewish tradition are there for us. It is not in the heavens – we can do it.

There is an additional linkage between Home Depot and Judaism. Like the Home Depot, all that we find within Judaism will enable us to find comfort and joy in our lives and in our homes. The teachings of Judaism are “not in the heavens” but they are here, on earth for use in our everyday lives. There is no “Lighting” aisle in Judaism, but there is no shortage of enlightenment.

Next week’s D’var Torah will explore why Judaism more refreshing than Coke.

Shanah Tovah Tikatevu?

I am distressed that I will never discover the correct spelling of the word “Tikatevu”. Oddly, Microsoft Word offers no suggestions. Fortunately, a cut and paste web search on Google reveals 29,300 hits. Having not checked them all, I cannot be sure that a percentage of them do not refer to an ancient Mayan sacrificial ritual or a Scottish game of dog tossing.

It is revealing that 29,300 individual web users have posted a site with the word “Tikatevu”, and it confirms the arrival of web-based Judaism. I understand that there are now avatar-based Shabbat dinners and Seders (“Sedarim for the purists among you – 78,900 hits on Google). While this may be a viable alternative to the Jewish tradition of having extended family converge on your home for 3-days to consume 300 pounds of matzah and 476 eggs, I would not attempt a bris in this fashion. A Google search on the phrase “How to perform a bris” offers 206,000 selections. This is troubling.

I digress. During this period of profound reflection and soul searching I punctuate my personal search for meaning by typing “Shanah Tovah Tikatevu” at the end of every email. This is an act of profound devotion, only matched by wearing my Saucony ProGrid Omni 8 running shoes on Yom Kippur. Since I do not run, this will be the most time I spend wearing them all year. I think they will look fabulous with my charcoal suit and red tie.

I do miss the annual ritual of sending and receiving high holiday cards and the accompanying family tradition of hanging them from the bamboo roof of my Sukkah (“Shach” – 102,000 hits on Google) to have them fall immediately when it rains on the first night. Sadly, in this era of e-greetings, these cards from friends and family have been replaced by photos of Judaica clipped from the calendar of Epstein’s Funeral Home in Smyrna, Georgia.

I sometime pine for a simpler, less electronically charged Judaism. I remember with such fondness the intimate, if somewhat claustrophobic, confines of the Jewish Center of Bayside Oaks when the High Holidays found Richard Fruchter and me singing soprano in the choir, Dan Kauffman duchaning (1,280 hits on Google) in a deep resonate bass voice and Rabbi Hertzberg uttering his memorable words “shhhhhh” while all the men stood outside smoking Kents and Lucky Strikes. These were halcyon days and they have accounted for no less than 7 months of my psychoanalysis.

Thus, as a Jewish community that Facebooks, blogs, texts and tweets we send our greetings of affection and good will for the year 5770 to friends and family around the globe. We are one, and if texting brings us closer it is a good thing. Thus, this year, in lieu of sending out greeting cards, I opened my Twitter page and typed in “Shanah Tovah Tikatevu”, a phrase that was well below the 140 character maximum. Unfortunately, I immediately received 47 requests to be followed on Twitter by Scottish dog tossers. A new strategy was called for and thus I endeavored to pen the perfect 140 character Twitter High Holiday message. Here is the progression:

“L'shanah Tovah. May you be inscribed in the book of life.” 58 characters.

“L'shanah Tovah. May this new year bring you and your family much joy and peace.” 120 characters.

“L'shanah Tovah. My best wishes to you and your family for a happy and healthy new year”. 97 characters. This is harder than I thought.

Finally, I nailed it: “L'shanah Tovah. May this New Year bring much peace and happiness to you and your loved ones. With love the Raphael family and Goldie the dog.” 140 characters on the button.

As we say in the vernacular: “Ken Yirbu.” Look it up on Google.

The Road Test

Jacob took his road test at the Sandy Springs branch of the Georgia Department of Driver Services approximately two years after he first received his Learner’s Permit at the Westminster Branch of the Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration. Our move to Atlanta, and the requirement that he begin the process anew, was the primary reasons for the delay. Our sense of dread was, most probably, lurking somewhere in the background as a further deterrent.

It was all planned out: I would pick Jacob up at his school at 1:30 pm. The drive to the Department of Driver Services (DDS) branch would take 10 minutes. Jacob would have ample time to fill out the requisite forms and calm himself down before the time for the test arrived. At 1:20 pm I finished writing an email, looked at the clock and realized to my horror that it was - 1:20 pm. Driving like I hoped Jacob never would, I arrived at his school at 1:23 pm. He was nowhere to be found. The receptionist intercommed the Economics teacher – to no avail. The administrator barked into her walkie talkie; to no avail. I pleaded to be allowed to go search the halls; to no avail. Finally, at 1:40 pm he emerged from the stairwell apologetically – providing a fine alliterative pairing to my state of apoplexy.

“I forgot”

Again, driving like I hoped he never would, we arrived at the DDS at 1:50 pm. Two lines and three forms later, at 2:05 pm, we were ready. No, that is a misstatement; all the required administrative requirements had been carried out. I am still not ready

As Jacob completed the last of the forms, I went outside and moved the car from the parking space to the curb in front of DDS, and stood outside and waited.
The examiner came first. I was expecting a state trooper with badge, Smokey the Bear hat; Glock and pepper spray dispenser. Instead, he was a slight, middle aged man with a goatee, yellow knit shirt and a warm smile.

“Is he ready?” He enquired.
So many answers swirled through my head. But this was not the time for honesty.
“Yes”
“A Prius” “What year?”
“2007”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s great”
“Is he nervous?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Don’t worry, I calm them down. I sing Frank Sinatra to them.”
“I’m not sure whether that would make things better or worse”
He smiled.

Jacob emerged from the building and, after a brief inspecting of the lights, horn and turning signals he and the driving examiner entered the car, strapped on seat belts and drove through and out of the DDS parking lot. Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I lingered outside on the curb in the August in Atlanta humidity.

To say that I was nervous doesn’t quite get at the complexity of my emotion state at that time. “Is he ready?” What kind of question is that? The crucial question is "am I ready? Is this another test along the path to normalcy? How far has he really come? How much will my auto insurance go up? I pondered this emotional Gordian knot as I made my way to the bathroom. As I exited, graffiti on the wall provided a valuable perspective and put things in their place: “Wash your hands asshole”.

I opened the book I had brought with me to pass the time but could not find the concentration to read a single word. Instead, I practiced my Torah reading for the next day. “Thou shalt not abhor an Edomite, for he is thy brother; thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because thou was a stranger in his land.” I looked for meaning in the verses, but could find none.

After fifteen minutes, I spied the Prius returning to the parking lot. It disappeared behind the rows of cars and then, Jacob emerged, walking toward me, looking solemn. I prepared words of condolence.

At three feet he broke out in a grin and proclaimed: “I passed”
We hugged

As the examiner passed by he proclaimed: “He did very well – he’s ready”
Not quite knowing what to say, I responded: “You’re a mench” (Yiddish – you’re a good man)
“Gay G’zint (Yiddish - “go in good health”).
It’s a strange world.

Jacob and I returned to the DDS office to complete the requisite form filling, photo taking and fee paying. As he stood in line I e-mailed Jo, Alya and Naomi: “Holy Shit – PASSED”

Fine minutes later, Jo responded “OMG”

My Facebook post: “Under the joint heading of miracles and profound anxiety attacks Jacob just passed his road test. I don't know whether I should say a Shehehiau (a prayer of thanks for reaching an auspicious occasion) or Gomel (a prayer for making through a dangerous time). I don't know whether to celebrate or throw up. I know; I'll drink heavily.

We drove home looking for a suitable ice cream place to celebrate. As we drove, a wishful litany, written 15 years ago, repeated itself in my head: “Jacob will go to school and he will have friends. He will join a soccer team and play an instrument. He will be bar-mitzvahed and will go out on dates. He will drive a car. He may not go to MIT, but he just might. But then again, that will be his choice.”

We’re almost there.

Justice, Justice Shall You Pursue

Whether one is a Republican or a Democrat, it is easy to cast a callous eye at Senate Judiciary Committee confirmation hearings for Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor and view it as no more than political theater and partisan grandstanding. In spite of my own personal need to be as cynical as is humanly possible, I do occasionally take a step back and reflect on just how extraordinary it is to live in a nation with an independent judiciary. Whether or not we agree with a Presidential nomination or a particular Supreme Court decisions, the fact that these nine individuals are empowered by our Constitution to make rulings that stand independent is a great gift that we should never take for granted. In countless countries across the globe the judiciary is no more than a strong-arm carrying out the policies of oft corrupt regimes. Chinese parents are deemed criminals for seeing the truth about children lost in an earthquake; Iranian protesters are arrested and die in prison for speaking out against a rigged election; A recent report on the Russian judicial system speaks of “telephone justice" -- an official calling and telling a judge how to rule.

For over three thousand years justice has been at the core of our Jewish tradition. “Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may live, and inherit the land which the Lord your God gives you. (Deut. 16:18-20)

As we begin each day with the morning Shaharit service we are reminded of this extraordinary heritage. We read from the pages of Pirkei Avot 1:18:
“Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel taught: The world rests on three principles: On justice, on truth and on peace – as it is written: “With truth, justice and peace shall you judge in your gates.”

Gamaliel’s restatement of the text from Proverbs places justice first within this trilogy of core human values. Can truth or peace exist without justice?

In our prayers we recall the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, but are reminded in Proverbs 21:3: “To do what is right and just is more desirable to G-d than sacrifice.” Countless generations of injustice and oppression have been pursued and perpetuated around the world since those words were uttered. For 3,000 years we have been called to pursue justice.

In preparing this D’var Torah I pondered that Hebrew has a number of terms to express the concept, or concepts of “justice”. “Din” refers to the exact quality of laws – one might say “the letter of the law”. “Mishpat” can be interpreted as the act of judging. Finally, “Tzedek” refers to a larger sense of social justice. These multiple terms reveal a keen cultural awareness of the complexity of justice. In the act of judging, the exact letter of the law must be balanced with the quality of “Rachamim” - compassion. Through these judgments we seek to advance a greater good.

From a Psalm for Tuesday (Psalm 62)

Champion the weak and the orphan;
Uphold the downtrodden and destitute
Rescue the weak and the needy;
Save them from the grip of the wicked

Surfing

Stories of Summers Past

For me, a child of New York ,whose lineage traces back through Flatbush, the Lower East Side and Romania and Russia, surfing as about as alien as the mating rituals of Dagara tribe of West Central Africa. Out of nowhere, but perhaps consistent with her peripatetic persona, Naomi had become interested in surfing.

A week before she was to leave for her year in Israel we took our annual family vacation together in Duck, North Carolina. These weeks on the beach have become increasingly precious to me as our family ages and each child heads down their own path. As I would not be seeing her for at least five months I agreed to both indulge and embrace her spirit of adventure by joining her in a surfing lesson. I did this being mindful of what, I believe, Woody Allen said, that for Jews, the definition of swimming is not drowning.

I understand Naomi’s interest in surfing in the context of her passion for almost everything new and untried; having said that, to me, surfing is about as alien as it comes. In fact, it is a bit of a personal anathema Ever since I shred the ligaments in my ankle playing basketball in high school I have always favored those sports that provided for consistent and steady agony over those that offer very brief periods of excitement followed by long periods of boredom. So, for instance, while all my college friends were busy downhill skiing, I was out trudging across the upper New York State landscape on cross country skis. To this day, it is difficult for me to comprehend why one would hurl himself down a frozen mountain on two sticks. To me, the odds of high speed collision, with another hurler or misplaced tree seem fairly high. This is why I now bicycle and why I am particularly drawn to trail biking with its long periods of unremitting discomfort punctuated only intermittently by brief periods of abject fear.

But it was surfing that Naomi selected and, on a profoundly hot and sunny Friday afternoon, I found myself lined up with six teenagers, facing the long-haired and meticulously tattooed Jason – our surfing instructor.

“There is only one reason to surf” he began.

Being a responsible adult, I’m guessing “to better appreciate nature” or “become more attuned to our environment”.

“To have fun”, he continued.

I never would have considered that. He then briefly went over the safety instructions. To me this was a bit of a red herring (an unintended seaside pun). Just hours earlier, I had signed a waiver limiting the liability of the surfing class. Among the rest of the small print, the waiver commented that “surfing may cause serious injury or even death.” And as Jason continued, it occurred to me that signing the release was perhaps the least stupid act of the day.

He concluded by telling us that he would keep an eye on us and flash the “thumbs up” sign if it appeared as if we were in difficulty. We only had to thrust our thumbs in the air and return the sign to let him know that all was well. How would he see my thumb if I was underwater? I recalled and seemed newly invested in a quip I often had mentioned that I purchased a watch that was waterproof to 100 meters so I would know what time it was when I was drowning. Jason concluded the safety instruction phase of the lesson by showing us how to cover our faces when emerging from the water. Why cover our faces – to avoid being hit by an errant surfboard – ours or someone else’s. This to me seemed like the proverbial insult added to injury - that one would go careening off a surfboard and with his last breaths of air manage to pierce the surface of the water only to be creamed by someone joyously riding the waves.

It seemed relatively simple on the sand. We all lie down on our surfboards, feet just touching the edge to ensure the proper front-back balance, pretend to paddle, paddle, paddle and then “pop up” into a low crouching combat-like stance at his command. Just when I was thinking that it was not quite so terrible or terrifying, Jason raised his arms and we all followed him into the surf. Lugging the surfboard behind me – mind you, this thing is seven feet long - I made my way through the surf and waited my turn as Jason took each of us out, turned us around and pushed us in front of a wave.

I’ll admit it; there was a very brief period of pleasure as Jason pushed me forward. I jumped up into my fighting stance and stood on the board for an estimated 1.3 seconds before I plunged into the water.

We spent the remainder of the time paddling and paddling and then attempting to turn around, find ourselves in front of a wave and, as we gathered steam, “pop up” into the familiar surfing stance. Naomi was remarkable and I had a notion of asking my wife if she had ever spent time with Brian Wilson in California around the time Naomi was conceived. I was, well, pathetic. I caught one good wave and couldn’t think of any reason to ruin the ride by standing up only to plunge into the water.

It was then I realized that the unremitting rocking of the waves and the series of saltwater cocktails I had downed made me very seriously nauseated. More likely, it was existential motion sickness; the acute awareness of my age and my personal limitations as well as my internal referencing of the water as the River Styx. Certainly, I was treading in the watery boundary between the earthy plane and the underworld.

While Naomi, her peer surfers and the bronzed, indefatigable Jason paddled on and rode the waves I lumbered ashore, prostrated myself on the surf board and prayed for the two hours to be up. As I was about to head into a peaceful stupor I saw Jason flash me the “thumbs up” sign. With seemingly my last ounce of strength I returned the gesture, although my heart wasn’t in it.

Whether or not my surfing outing with Naomi counted as “quality time” remains to be seen. Perhaps, it depends on how one defines quality. But I did it for Naomi and I would do it again if she asked. And as she grows in to adulthood and has children of her own, I hope she will always take that image of me on the surfboard with her. I am praying that she does not take up an interest in rock climbing or spelunking. Quality time should have its limits.

Babette

Having managed to sleep in the 38 square inches allotted to me by Delta Airlines and having my luggage wondrously find its way more or less unscathed, I am once again reminded that Israel is a land of faith and miracles. Today marks the arrival of the Pope. Although I am someone intrigued to discover the impact of his (is that a capital “h”?) arrival is this already profoundly over relgiousized and politicized city, my single greatest concern is the impact of the visit on Jerusalem’s overcrowded narrow streets and the near psychotic drivers who inhabit them.

It is 3:30 am on the night/morning of my first full day in Israel and I have already witnessed one of the small and unpublicized miracles that make Jerusalem the Holy City and Israel the Holy Land.

It takes a special kind of masochist to choose to confine oneself to an overstuffed moving chamber after spending 11 hours and 22 minutes on the flight to Israel but that is what I chose to do. There were 8 of us in the sheruth to Jerusalem and I found myself tightly wedged between one of the four black hats in the minivan on my right and a slight young and profoundly non-Jewish looking woman on my left who, based on my keen understanding of culture and anthropology, along with her sandals and socks, had to be from Europe. Being fully intimidated by my neighbor to the right (both geographically and religiously) I struck up a conversation with Babette from Amsterdam. Here is what I learned:

Several months ago, Babette came to Israel to be with an young man she had met in Amsterdam. Unfortunately, when she arrived she discovered, to her dismay, that the prospective Israeli suitor was already engaged. She found herself alone, a stranger in a strange land.

But, she said that she was curiously drawn to this ancient city and instead of falling in love a young man, she fell in love with Jerusalem. She found herself spending almost every Friday night at the Kotel mesmerized by its energy. And so she stayed. She found herself feeling like an Israeli and doing all the things an Israeli might do including getting in an auto accident. So she travelled home to Holland where she discovered that, rather than getting engaged in Israel, she had gotten a concussion.

But while back home in Amsterdam, she uncovered something remarkable; her grandmother’s sister was Jewish. Based on this discovery, she is uncovering what she believes is her own Jewishness. A trail of documents, dating back to the Holocaust, seems to have confirmed her personal revelation. It has made her understand that, perhaps, in travelling to Jerusalem, she has truly come home.

So she plans on staying. She has no work but seems unconcerned. She is ready to begin the process of Aliyah but she has no idea how to proceed. I told her about Nefish b-Nefish. As it turns out, our Sheruth neighbor to the right is the Chabad Rabbi of Salt Lake City and he gave her the name of a woman’s yeshiva that would welcome her in. The sheruth stopped on King George Street, Babette squeezed down the aisle and disappeared into the Jerusalem evening.

It is 4:09 am. The imam is calling the faithful to prayer. The Pope will soon arrive. The Kotel will swell with Shaharit. It will soon be dawn of another day in Jerusalem.