Poetry: On a Summer’s Day, p.2 The Gift of Community, (Editorial),Amala Levine p. 3 Commitment to a Common Cause, Rabbi Peter J. Rubinstein p. 4Searching for Community, Joshua Blau p. 6 The Power of Song, (A Tribute to Debbie Freedman), Amala Levine p. 8 Born to Kvetch, Rabbi Maurice A. Salthp. 9 Losing a Child, Bonnie C. Mitelman p. 10 Teen Communities Go Green,Jon Cohen p. 12 Bread of Affliction, Eric Levine p. 14 We Are Family, RabbiMarion Lev-Cohen p.16 Communities of Textual Studies, Ron Walter p. 18The Best and Worst of Times, Alan Herman p. 20 Community Jest, SteveKlausner p. 21 Nuremberg: Its Lesson for Today, Steve Klausner p. 22

S P R I N G 2 0 1 1 T H I S I S S U E : CO M M U N I T Y

Let us pursue ways to study and support social justice as progressive Jews in common purpose. Let us bring our children together to talk about their common con-cerns and a common purpose that binds our communi-ties together. Commitment to a Common Cause Rabbi Peter J. Rubinstein, Page 4

The Gift of Community

EDITORIALPOETRY

2 3

On a Summer’s Day

When high noon on a summer’s daymakes the sky a fiery furnaceand the heart seeks a quiet corner for dreams,then come to me, my weary friend.

A shady carob grows in my garden —green, remote from the city’s crowds —whose foliage whispers secrets of God.Good my brother, let’s take refuge.

Pleasure and tenderness let us share in the sweet hidden prime of noon,and the mystery golden rays revealwhen sunlight pierces the rich shade.

soul that binds us together.” Ron Walter describes how he experiences just that in his Talmud study group at Central Synagogue, where the connective link between a group of 21st century New Yorkers and the community of ancient Rabbis is restored on a weekly basis. Also, Jon Cohen was surprised and de-lighted to find his Teen Green Fellowship bonding instantly with their Israeli counterpart because they shared a com-mon goal—to make the world a greener, better place. Communities are like cocoons, offering security, stability and, when neces-sary, reinforcement to the vulnerable self at the center that, without these surround-ing layers, would be utterly helpless. Communities guide, nurture and protect, and in the process, leave their imprint on everyone of us—they constitute both our individual and collective DNA. Sometimes communities close their doors, segregating their members from outsiders, as Josh Blau experienced as a teen and young adult when he joined an Ortho-dox community in Florida. Eventually he crossed their boundaries, drifted away from Judaism and then entered the community of Central Synagogue, surprised and elated to find “a Judaism that included all people and cultures.” Ultimately, community is a gift—the present of our presence to each others’ joy and grief. The moving stories of Bonnie Mitelman and Alan Herman attest to the extraordinary reservoir of good-will and empathy within our own synagogue. Ideally, wherever we find ourselves, community is the gift of each of us, our energy and resources because we are tied, at all times, by the bond of our common humanity and by our particular common purpose as Jews—to love our neighbor as ourselves.

We live as in a set of matryoshka dolls, nestled in the center of a series of concentric circles of communities, fanning out from immediate

family to the human community at large. Stacked one within the other, we are connected by social, cultural, religious, professional, educational, and emotional ties that bind and support us but also, at times, confine and contravene. “Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly,” said Martin Luther King. Community is the fundamental structure of human relationships—one for all and all for one. Inspired by Rabbi Rubinstein’s Rosh HaShanah address, this issue of HaShiur explores the rewards, obli-gations and demands of living within several communi-ties at once. Central Synagogue is an extraordinary com-munity but, as our congregational and rabbinical voices here attest, it exacts a price—the price of commitment to a common purpose. Rabbi Rubinstein challenges us to dedicate our efforts and energy to the preservation of Jewish life and to struggling congregations worldwide. He challenges us to publically affirm, as worshippers do before beginning a new book of the Torah, “Chazak, chazak v’nitchazayk—we will be strong and we will stand shoulder to shoulder to strengthen each other.” What is the common purpose of the Jewish com-munity? Is it really to be the world’s champion kvetch-ers? Though at times it may seem so—just listen to the ancient Israelites in the desert and to contemporary Jews in New York—Rabbi Salth reminds us that our commu-nal mission is to “Do justly, love mercy, and walk hum-bly with God,” to work together to create a better world. Like kvetching, meddling over-familiarity is another stereotype of common Jewish behavior and the butt of many a joke, which is satirically highlighted in The Finkler Question, the topic of our book review. However, Rabbi Lev-Cohen in her reflections traces such over-zealous yet well-meant concern for others to its roots in a profoundly “shared sense of [Jewish] destiny and…mutual obligation” for each others welfare. As Jews, we are family and, like family, we are sometimes intrusive and overbearing, but this does not change our bed-rock connection or affection. Reb Yosef, the fictional hero of our Passover story set in a concentration camp, reminds the tattered prisoners at their makeshift Seder that “we are not just individuals…Each of us is a part of K’lal Ysrael, each of us is part of the Jewish community—a collective

When the black cold of winter’s nightbruises you with its icy pinchand frost sticks knives in your shivering flesh,then come to me, blessed of God.

My dwelling is modest, lacking splendour,but warm and bright and open to strangers.A fire’s in the grate, on the table a candle —my lost brother, stay and get warm. Chaim Nachman Bialik

Cover:Detail of a statue of Gudea, ruler of the city of Lagash in Southern Mesopotamia from 2144-2124 BCE. Altogether 26 statues of his likeness have been found in temples throughout Sumer. One of the first rulers to claim divinity, some of his feats were later incorporated into The Epic of Gilgamesh.

Hayim Nahman Bialik, born in southern Russia in1873, became known as ‘the poet of the national renaissance.’ At age 16, while preparing for the rabbinate in the yeshiva of Volozhin (Lithuania), he became acquainted with a clandestine Zionist group and Russian poetry. In 1891 he joined the literati of Odessa where he composed his major poems. He was also instrumental in re-linking Hebrew literature to some of its medieval sources. In 1925 he settled in Tel Aviv and died in Vienna in 1934.

Amala Levine

54REFLECTIONS

Commitment to a Common CauseRabbi Peter J. Rubinstein

Above: Marching together—Selma, 1965. Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Rabbi Maurice Eisendrath, and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. Left: Tremont Temple

Each of us has a story which ex-plains how we arrived at our present expression of Judaism

as members of the community of Central Synagogue. This is part of the tale of my journey. Yielding to pressure from his wife and oldest son, my father was finally willing to breach the boundary of his denominational Orthodox upbringing on the Lower East Side, despite his unfamiliarity with Reform Judaism. After be-longing to an Orthodox synagogue around the corner from our Bronx apartment, my parents switched their membership to Tremont Temple on the Grand Boulevard and Concourse. Captivated by the creativity and ingenuity of Reform Judaism, Tremont became our syna-gogue home where my parents got genuinely involved, and my broth-ers and I became b’nai mitzvah and were confirmed. I trace my tena-cious Reform Jewish roots to this congregation.

Growing up, I distinctly knew that we Reform Jews were different from our more ritually observant neighbors. They carried tallitot under their arms and walked to synagogue (or shul as they called it) on the holidays. We drove to

synagogue and “prayer shawls” (as we called them) were never part of our ritual wardrobe. They kept Ko-sher. We religiously ate at Chinese restaurants on Sunday evenings and lobsters and clams when we sum-mered in Maine. Our Reform temple’s wor-ship style was vastly different from any Orthodox or Conservative synagogues my friends attended. At Tremont Temple our clergy wore clerical robes, our service was almost entirely in English and the minimal Hebrew passages in the service were sung by a non-Jewish choir located in a choir loft with the organ above the sanctuary. We were forbidden to wear anything on our heads in the sanctuary and would never use either the Hebrew word kippah or Yiddish word yarmulke to describe those traditional head cov-erings. We Reform Jews were differ-ent, but nothing compromised the comfort and sense of meaning we felt as Reform Jews. Since childhood this has been a source of authentic-ity and pride for me. In those halcyon days of the “Golden Age” of post-World War II Reform Jewry, Reform Judaism was robust, meaningful and focused on being a distinctly modern bridge be-tween Jewish loyalties and beckon-ing American society. But with the quickening evolution in Jewish life impacted by social changes, par-ticularly in the last two decades, our once visionary Reform movement has been left behind. We know that now Jews do not feel an obligation to be Jewish as previous generations did. Con-temporary Jews have a diminished sense of Jewish kinship and less personal commitment to the Jewish

people. Ensuring Jewish survival, once considered a collective sacred duty, does not rank highly today. There is no one way to be Jewish today. In fact, there are limitless ways to be Jewish and to connect to Jewish life, beyond the traditional structure of synagogue affiliation. According to the soci-ologist Steven M. Cohen, Jewish Community Centers comprise “the largest institutionally based associa-tion in American Jewish life, with about a million Jewish members.”1 This movement outnumbers Re-form Judaism, which is numerically the largest Jewish denominational movement in this country. In ad-dition to the JCC’s there are many independent minyanim, Jewish spiri-tual support communities, Jewish social justice organizations, and a myriad of doors into Jewish life. Despite the diversity ex-pressed in the broadest spectrum of observance, ideology, affiliation, and belief we are united by an overarching commitment to Jewish survival and communal expressions of our faith. While less than a third of American Jews presently belong to synagogues, which too often are treated as convenient pass-throughs for the purpose of life cycle celebra-tions, the continued existence of our communal institutions depends on the commitment and support of individual Jews. Otherwise the existence of our synagogues cannot be ensured.

The choices we Reform Jews need to make are straight-forward. We cannot continue business as usual while our institutional life moves precipitously toward at-rophy. Rather we can embrace, as we must, the courageous legacy of Reform Judaism and return to the frontier of creativity, robustness and vision. Together we will redirect the power, brilliance and creativity of the synagogues in our movement. Our goal is to take Judaism to every Jew and anyone who seeks to learn more about Judaism. To do this, we call upon our synagogues and especially the national institu-tions of our movement – Hebrew Union College, the Union for Re-form Judaism, and our professional organizations to gather together and creatively reflect and rethink our movement’s goals, priorities, chal-lenges, and opportunities beyond their own institutional survival. We need every person to support the

strengthening of our movement and liberal Jewry in North America. In his wonderful book, Rabbi Elie Kaufner writes that “empowered Judaism” recognizes that “thousands of Jews of all ages and backgrounds are thirsting for a meaningful engagement with criti-cal life questions and want to open up the texts of our past to deepen that engagement.”2 If there is no one way to be Jewish, then let this synagogue be a place of community: a place where we share stories, a place where we are taken seriously and can join together to explore the critical ques-tions of our era and our lives: How do I decide what is ultimately most important in my life? How do I wisely exercise the unlimited control I have? Why do I worry about what I do? How am I Jewish?3 These are the consequential conversations that people in community have together. If today denominational differences are blurring, then let us join with other Jews across de-nominational boundaries. Let us not artificially separate ourselves from synagogues and their members in other movements. To the contrary,

let us pursue ways to study and support social justice as progressive Jews in common purpose. Let us bring our children together to talk about their common concerns and a common purpose that binds our communities together. If our 20 and 30 year-olds are changing the rules, then let us be a harbor for our young people who seek Jewish community and life. We cannot accept business as usual in our Reform movement. We must courageously move forward again to the frontier of innovation, com-munity, meaningful engagement, support of Israel, and dedication to Jewish life. We will make one more commitment. As Kerry and I drove across this country during our sab-batical, we stopped in on struggling congregations in small towns with decreasing Jewish populations in the heartland of this nation. These communities manage to survive without rabbis, cantors or any other professionals. They do it on their own. They are inspiring! Their de-termination to survive emerges from a resolve that Jewish life will not die

...the continued existence of our communal institu-tions depends on the com-mitment and support of individual Jews.

Continued on page 19

Joshua Blau

6 7ESSAY

It was the summer of 1970; I was nine, the fourth of five children. We lived in Yonkers and I was

very happy, having just completed 3rd grade. My girlfriend, Amy Edel-son, and I were in love. I also loved Laugh In, Bewitched, The Flinstones and bell bottoms. We belonged to the conservative Midchester Jewish Center in Yonkers. The four Blau brothers sang in the shul choir and I loved Hebrew school…I loved life. Then one day, I noticed my parents were packing. I asked what they were doing. They replied, “We’re going to Israel.” ”On vaca-tion?” I asked. “No, we’re moving there,” they answered. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Amy. I didn’t even know where Israel was. My parents sold the house; we boarded the Queen Anna Maria in New York Harbor and headed for Haifa. It seemed to take forever; only when we were almost half-way there, did I finally realize we weren’t in Yonkers anymore. We arrived in Haifa at night; it was dark and scary. We drove to our house in Herzliya—it was a dump. This couldn’t be happen-ing. We had moved to the desert! Where’s the Captain Crunch? I couldn’t believe it. I was sur-rounded by hummus. Milk came in a bag, yogurt was sour, and my parents put me in Israeli school, full of kids speaking Hebrew. TV hardly existed. 4th grade was a nightmare. We were to leave after a year, but we stayed for four. Finally, the summer after the Yom Kippur War, we left. By then, I was used to living in Israel but, unlike my broth-ers, I was happy we were leaving. My sister stayed because she had

married. We moved to Miami; I was 13, entering 8th grade. Though I was happy and relieved, once again I worried I wouldn’t fit in. I didn’t know the music kids liked or what clothes they wore. My English was okay, but my Hebrew was better. I had even grown to like hummus. My parents were sensitive to this transition and gave us a choice between public school and yeshiva. Only I chose yeshiva. For four years I had been living exclusively among Jews. I was afraid to socialize in a diverse community, and I thought it might be easier if I attended Jewish school.

So I put on a yarmulke and went to the Hebrew Academy of Greater Miami. My family wasn’t religious, but I definitely excelled in Tanach and Gemara class. I was a natural. My Hebrew was better than anyone’s in school and I loved studying Torah—I think because I was good at it. The Orthodox kids were nice to me; I was popular with the girls and made many friends. I loved the community so much that in 9th grade I decided to become Orthodox. I announced this to the family and declared they do the same. Now, if my brothers brought home pizza, I would pick off the pepperoni. I insisted ev-eryone keep Shabbat my way—no driving, no tearing toilet paper, no phone calls allowed. I drove them

crazy; one of my brothers even moved out. I was constantly inspect-ing the refrigerator for non-kosher foods. I often found violations and gave lectures.

One day my mother said to me, “You know, Josh, if you did drugs it would be easier on everyone.” Passover…forget it. I made my parents blow-torch the pots and pans. No chamitz; I even threw out my mother’s lipstick—I thought it was chamitz. I buried the silverware in the backyard. Two sets of dishes, kosher meat and no Jell-O. I was a tyrant…righteous. I studied Tal-mud at the local Kolel. I knew how to live as a good Jew; I knew it was the right way and I had the commu-nity to support me. I didn’t socialize with non Jews or even non-religious Jews. They would have been a bad influence. In 10th grade I decided the Hebrew Academy was not Orthodox enough, so I went to the Misiftah in Miami Beach, an all boys yeshiva where several wore black hats. Even I thought this place

was extreme, but wouldn’t admit it. Overall, I was very content and convinced that these friends and this community would be my life forever.

After high school I entered Florida International University, which had few Jewish students but a big Cuban population. I vowed to stay loyal to Orthodoxy and I did—for a while. But I started to become friendly with some of the Cuban students. I was shocked to learn how great they were. I had only socialized with Jews since I was nine and now, at 19, I was discover-ing other people. They had families, were smart and fun. They didn’t even mind that I was Jewish. This was the beginning of my journey away from Orthodoxy, though I clung to it for awhile longer. I had so many religious friends whom I loved and I couldn’t face not being part of that community. But there were also Saturday study groups for my classes, so I started driving on Shabbat, telling myself it was for school, so God would understand. These new friendships strengthened. The Cuban commu-nity was close and so much fun. I really wasn’t used to fun. I started going to clubs. One Saturday night my friend, Sarah Nemser, one of the few Jews at FIU, invited me out to dinner. “No,” I said, “I can’t go. I am still kosher.” But she convinced me. I ordered a salad and she ordered barbeque shrimp, while I looked around, afraid someone from the Orthodox community might see me. Despite my protests, she shoved a shrimp into my mouth. I was so angry but, at the same time, the shrimp was so delicious. Could eat-ing it be wrong? What am I doing leading this double life? I decided to come out to my Orthodox friends. I couldn’t live like this anymore; I was no longer interested in being religious. I told

them individually; some accepted it, but most drifted away. It was hard to leave them and I often questioned my decision. I continued to drift away from Judaism. My parents were disappointed—I think they liked having an Orthodox son. Some years later I moved to New York City, where I met my future wife, Laura. She was a Reform Jew from Connecticut who had experienced anti-Semitism; her feelings about Judaism were stronger than mine. She wanted to join a synagogue, but I refused. I was bitter and wanted nothing to do with religion. Then Emma was born. When she was eight and ready to start religious school, Laura wanted to check out Central Synagogue. “It’s close by, we can walk there, it’s Reform.” “Reform, are you kid-ding?” Suddenly, I sounded preju-diced. I only really knew Orthodoxy and it was either that or nothing. So what if I hated Orthodoxy? I would only go to an Orthodox shul.

One Saturday morning, I finally went to a service. When I en-tered the synagogue, I was shocked. It was truly beautiful. There was an organ, men and women sat together, the congregation seemed so diverse. The rabbi and cantor that morning were women. This was so far from Young Israel and Miami’s Hebrew

Academy. The music and sermon moved me. I realized that this synagogue not only had everything I loved about the Orthodox commu-nity, but also included everything I loved about my college community. Central Synagogue became a magical, spiritual haven. As Emma prepared to become a bat mitzvah, our family came to know the clergy. I had found a new community, one in which my children could partici-pate fully. I didn’t know a Judaism existed that included all people and cultures. This year, our eight year old triplets started religious school and our daughter, Sarah, 11, is prepar-ing to become a bat mitzvah. I’ve had the honor of reading from the Torah on a few occasions and Emma has sounded the shofar during the High Holy Days. We have found our place in the Central Synagogue community where our children are discovering their “Jewish voices” with the kind, compassionate and learned guidance of the clergy. When we attend Friday night services, I feel strongly con-nected to both my family and Judaism. Even when I have had a stressful week, the voices of the congregation singing together lift my spirits and the love I feel is both palpable and healing. In fact, I am often moved to tears. After all the years of searching, I have finally found a community which supports and embraces my own expression of Judaism.

Joshua Blau, a Manhattan CPA, has been in private practice for two decades, specializing in tax accounting and small business man-agement. He performs regularly at the Moth Story Slams and was showcased recently at the Moth’s Main Stage Event.

Searching for Community

I loved the community so much that in 9th grade I decided to become Orthodox.

I didn’t know a Judaism existed that included all people and cultures.

REFLECTIONS Rabbi Maurice A. Salth

continued on page 11

Born to Kvetch?

While the book of Genesis focuses on the first family of Judaism and how these

“characters change and grow over a lifetime,”1 biblical commentators and scholars alike cite the book of Exodus as the first description of Jews as a community. In fact, the Rabbis were confounded that the Torah’s first commandments do not appear until Exodus, chapter 12, which contains the community’s obligation to celebrate Passover. Rabbi Isaac asked, “Why doesn’t the Torah start with Exodus, chapter 12, verse 1?” His answer was, “So that we as Jews can explain that all the earth belongs to God.” This answer, however, seems to have barely satis-fied our Sages who cared so deeply about the community of Israel and our role in the world [Rashi’s com-mentary on Genesis]. Nonetheless, it is the book of Exodus that begins the Bible’s long discussion of us Jews as a community; often it even uses the actual word community—aydah, ayin-dalet-hay—to describe the Israelites. But what does Exodus teach us about the purpose of the com-munity of Israel in the world? Some may argue that the second book of the Torah clarifies that we Jews were born to kvetch. Michael Wex, the author of the book by the same title writes, “Kvetching has its roots in the Bible, which devotes a great time to the nonstop grumbling of the Israelites who fault everything under the sun. They kvetch about their problems and they kvetch about the solutions. They kvetch in Egypt and they kvetch in the desert. No matter what God does, it’s wrong; whatever favors God bestows, they’re never enough.”2

Is it possible that our most sacred books describe our community’s mission to be the world’s champion kvetchers? I can confidently report that this is not what we are teach-ing our Religious School students each week (although they too are known to grumble every once in a while). Young and adult Jews alike are well aware of foundational texts throughout the Bible in which God charges the community of Israel to be holy and to “Love your neigh-bor as you love yourself” [Ex. 19], “Pursue justice” [Deut. 16], and “Be a light unto the nations” [Isaiah 60]. These are but a few of the mitzvot and prophetic pronouncements that explicitly state to the Israelite com-munity their goals and purpose. We know the Bible is not suggesting that the community of Israel be forever defined as whiners, so why does our most holy book spend so much time on the subject

We are about to celebrate the holiday of Pesach when we will read in the Haggadah the story of the exodus from Egypt. The Rab-bis who crafted the first Haggadot, conveniently left out the stories of the community of Israel’s bitter complaints just before (and after) the Sea of Reeds split open. In the Bible’s first example of sarcasm, they cry, “Were there not enough graves in Egypt you had to bring us into the desert to die!” [Ex. 14]

Even more upsetting, within days of experiencing the miracle of the split-ting of the sea, the Torah describes how the whole Israelite community grumbled against Moses and Aaron, groaning en masse, “If only we had died by the hand of God in Egypt…in-stead of starv-ing to death in the desert!” [Ex. 16] The kvetching does not stop there; stories of such complaining behavior are found through-out the Torah and the pro-phetic books.

Is it possible that our most sacred books de-scribe our community’s mission to be the world’s champion kvetchers?

8

times and bad.” She recognized that “the real power is in the poetry of the liturgy, how moving and stir-ring it can be, connecting us to our deepest and most precious ideas, hopes and fears.” Accompanied by her guitar, her voice became the contemporary musical expression of the shift towards congregational par-ticipation, as the community sings along in the Mi Shebeirach, Miriam’s Song or L’chi lach.

“I am a Jew because in spite of the hatred and violence in this world, I believe we must hope and live to-gether as if the world were sheltered beneath the wings of the Shechinah.” Debbie Friedman

“She has an impact that transcends all the labels dividing Jewish life…You can measure her gift by the way it feels natural now to learn and to sing Torah in women’s voices and in women’s words. And you can savor

her gift in the bountiful harvest of her enormous collection of spirited and spiritual songs,” observed Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, Ameri-can Jewish University, Los Angeles. She wanted to include all voices in the human community, male and female, straight and gay, young and old—she wanted everyone to come together in song. “25 years ago, North American Jews had forgotten how to sing,” said Rabbi Eric Joffe, president of the Union for Reform Judaism. “Debbie reminded us how to sing.” Danny Maseng, chazan and music director, Temple Israel of Hollywood added: “She gave us the precious gift of a simple tune and the power of sharing it with anyone willing to sing. In her quest for a community of singers, Debbie em-powered congregations across the continent and beyond, by making synagogue music accessible.”

“What I find most meaningful is that people are able to use my music for their own healing and well be-ing, that they find comfort in it. Who could ask for more than that? That is the ultimate gift.” Debbie Friedman

Debbie Friedman’s gift to us, her music, will continue to connect Jews across the de-

nominational spectrum even as she is no longer among us. Her spirit survives in the songs and melodies that have become an established part of our liturgy. Though self-taught and without a college degree, she was appointed to the faculty of The School of Sacred Music at He-brew Union College in 2007. In her honor it has now been renamed the Debbie Friedman School of Sacred Music. After high school, Debbie went to Israel where she lived on a kibbutz for six months, delighting in the sing-along folk music style that later was to become her trademark. Back in the United States, she found religious services boring. “I real-ized the rabbi was talking, the choir was singing and nobody was doing anything. There was no participa-tion.” She had discovered that song creates community, opens the heart and makes us present to each other. “She led a revolution,” said Rabbi Richard Levy of Hebrew Union College Los Angeles. Starting as a group song leader at the Union for Reform Judaism’s summer camp, Debbie embarked on her mission “to make prayer user friendly…From the beginning of my career, I’ve tried to help people see how prayer can be a source of comfort in both good

The Power of SongA Tribute to Debbie Friedman*

MUSIC

continued on page 13

9

“The fleshpots of Egypt”—pyramid tomb painting.*Tribute compilked by the editor.

ESSAY

The Parents, Kaethe Kollwitz, Woodcut 1923

11

■

My son Stephen died sud-denly at the age of 26. Rabbi Rubinstein had been

very much a part of his life—he named him, officiated at his bar mitzvah, his confirmation, his mar-riage and then at his funeral. With all the powerful messages Peter had given over time, there wasn’t much he could say to us or to the commu-nity that would assuage this incon-ceivable loss. Steve had been a witty, brilliant guy, one of those people who went straight into everyone’s heart. Almost self-effacingly, he had gone to Yale, to Cambridge in England for a master’s degree and finally to Harvard Law School, receiving award after award along the way. For him expectations were high and affection enormous. And then on a summer Sunday afternoon, it all just stopped. I was told again and again that this was the worst that could happen to anyone—no parent

should have to bury a child—I would have a hole in my heart for-ever. For me it was as if the laws of nature had simply ceased to be, as if gravity, centrifugal force—any natural order—no longer existed. I tried to read every book I could find about loss and grief, but they seemed trite and superficial. I sought out professionals; although they were knowledgeable and ex-perienced, they couldn’t offer more than platitudes and medication. The synagogue seemed to be the cruelest place. Judaism had been tightly entwined with our lives, our family, our closest friends. The profound connection we had felt so deeply before, was now severed and mocking. But Peter recognized there was a role the synagogue could play. He gath-ered several parents who had lost children and brought us together, creating The Bereavement Group. Mostly we were strangers and not

all of us were members of Central Synagogue. Some had children who had died unexpectedly as toddlers, others as adults after battling illness and surgeries for years. We were on a spectrum, parents whose loss was recent—only a matter of weeks before—and parents whose children had died years ago. We weren’t sure what we were looking for or what we would find. Some felt they had moved beyond their own grief, but could be resources for the newly bereaved as an example of a well-integrated, sat-isfying life yet to come. Others were actively wrestling with God, while some wanted to see God’s résumé—how qualified could this deity be if children were made to suffer and die? Month after month, we would meet. We started founda-tions, we created memorials and often, more than we ever could have

imagined, we would laugh. Deep in that black hole, we stared down de-spair, embraced new members and hoped that the glimpse of light we occasionally saw at the end of the tunnel was not an oncoming train. In spite of what we were confront-ing or how we felt, again and again, we would end up laughing.

It’s been several years now. None of us can remember quite how long—maybe twelve years? New babies have arrived. Marriages have ended and new ones begun. Along the way, now rabbi, then social worker, Marion Lev-Cohen joined The Bereavement Group as co-leader with Peter. They don’t flinch at the horrific details they hear, and neither do we. They understand we are the ones who know that things don’t always work out, that one in a million chances can hit you—and hit you again. They aren’t threatened or sanctimonious when we challenge Jewish teachings or rituals. They remind us that we are still connected in time and place to the generations of parents who have come before us—those who said Kaddish for children in the desert or whispered it in ghettos or gas chambers. They remind us we are connected, too, to those parents who so sadly will come after us. We refuse not to affirm life—with all its absurdity and suffering. There is a tough resilience we tenderly elicit in each other. For instance, when my younger son was living in Israel after college, the second Intifada erupted. I was concerned for his

safety, yet did not want my dread to rule his life. The group told me how in Israel, when parents have lost a child in battle, the family is not required to send another to the front lines. Yet, invariably those younger children choose to go. That kinship with Israeli parents helped me over-come my fear and accept my son’s desire to stay. The group had given me a gift—they had found a way to stand with me on the edge of that grim abyss and not turn away. Sometimes I think of The Bereavement Group as a kind of metaphor for the proverbial 19th century family doctor. Before CT scans, penicillin, chemotherapy, or heart surgery, all he could do was stay in the sickroom. There are times, when there is no comfort and there are no answers, only the steady presence of those who know the fragility of life and the relent-lessness of pain and are not afraid to stay there. Hineini—I am here for you.

Bonnie C. Mitelman is deputy director of marketing and communications at the Anti-Defamation League and is on the editorial board of Reform Judaism. She has been published in The New York Times and American History Illustrated, and co-authored a book on women combin-ing careers and family. Together with her extended family, she is a member of Central Synagogue.

Losing a Child

The group had given me a gift—they had found a way to stand with me on the edge of that grim abyss and not turn away.

Bonnie C. Mitelman

of kvetching? Rabbi Lawrence Kushner teaches that the Torah is true not because it happened but because it happens. Many a Jewish and non-Jewish comedian has made a good living with targeted jokes—how people spend their time carp-ing about the world around them. The Biblical authors deftly uncov-ered a perennial truth about human nature—we all have a great capacity

for kvetching. If we are not careful, we can spend most of our lives do-ing just that. Jewish tradition takes a clear stand against the mumbling and grumbling of our ancestors by emphasizing that the purpose of a Jewish community is to proactively engage in mitzvot that connect us to each other and to God. A Jewish community, our texts teach, should minimize time spent complaining and maximize time changing our world for the better. The Passover Seder is just one of many rituals designed to re-mind each generation of Jews of this communal mandate. Each Passover we read that we should care for the stranger, for we were once strangers ourselves in the land of Egypt. We recite these words to remind us that we should care for the other among us (in fact, this commandment is the Torah’s most repeated mitzvah). I would like to suggest that the Rabbis didn’t include our people’s kvetching in the Haggadah because they were embarrassed by the sheer amount of human complaining in the Torah. But more importantly, they didn’t include it because that is not what it means to be a part of the Jewish community. Instead, the Haggadah and other Rabbinic com-mentaries define quite clearly what it means to be part of the commu-nity of Israel—to act lovingly and righteously. Kvetching will always be a part of the human condition and of Jewish experience. But for the children of Israel, our communal mission will always be, first and foremost, “Do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.” [Micah 6]

1. Cohen, Norman, Voices from Genesis, 14. Vermont: Jewish Lights Publishing, 19982. Wex, Michael, Born to Kvetch, 3. New York: Harper Perennial, 2005.

Born to Kvetch continued from p. 9

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12 13ESSAY Jon Cohen

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Teen Communities Go Green

Last September my rabbi asked if I wanted to participate in a teenage fellowship that tied

Judaism and environmentalism and to speak out about issues we find important. Initially I shrugged off the idea, thinking it was not some-thing for me. But once I learned more about the program and with some pressure from my parents, I agreed to join the fellowship. What attracted me most about the program was its similarity to a program in Israel. If everything went well, we would be able to meet each other. The goal of the fellow-ship was to complete a “change project” by focusing on an envi-ronmental issue that we thought relevant to New York City, where we all lived. After finding such a project, we would go to friends and friends of friends, or anyone that would listen, to educate them on the topic and teach them ways to become greener. Then, we would travel to Israel and learn about the change project the Israeli group had chosen. Finally, at the end of our fel-lowship, the Israelis would come to New York City, and we would show them all the work we did here. At the first Teen Green Fel-lowship meeting I began to under-stand how big a commitment I had made. Everyone was incredibly mo-tivated and wanted to have as big an impact as possible on the people they were helping. I soon became just as eager to help. Everyone in the group con-nected immediately and we soon

became great friends. We created our own little community that began to play a big role in my life. We talked on Facebook almost every night about ideas for our change project and about the Israelis we were going to meet. Our sense of community was so strong because we all shared the same goal, which allowed us to work much faster and better than the adults leading the group had expected. They were thrilled how well we connected and were just as eager to start our proj-ect as we were. Eventually the fellowship decided to focus on energy usage. Contrary to expectation, New York is actually the greenest city in the U.S. in terms of energy consump-tion, but we still could save more by paying attention to our appli-ances. Our objective became to visit people’s apartments and perform energy audits. Then we would col-lect all the information and create a custom package with energy saving appliances and tips how to save energy. As we worked together on our change project, our sense of community grew even stronger. We now could see all the positive changes we were creating, which made us want to expand our environmental project even more. Good thing the Israel trip was right around the corner! None of us knew exactly what to expect, but we were excited! The Israelis had decided to focus on saving water, because Israel, especially Jerusalem, is constantly pressed for water. Our group was surprised by this choice because we didn’t know Israel had a water shortage and, I think, most of us took the blessing of having water

for granted. Getting off the plane in Je-rusalem, I realized how unique this program was. I was going to live with a family for 10 days and the only thing I knew about them was that they had a 15 year old son. That night all of the Israelis and Americans met and instantly I could tell that our community had dou-bled. The Israelis were so similar to us, just as motivated by their change project and as eager to help as we were. After 15 minutes together it seemed like we had known each other for 15 years. I went home that night with Gadiel, the boy with whom I was staying. Like me, he had been

of Debbie’s personal friends. At the Memorial Service, Rabbi Peter Rubinstein, a friend of 40 years, celebrated Debbie’s “rare spirit and [the] power of her pres-ence…her transcendental ability to read the room, somehow intuitively knowing what we needed and how it could be expressed in song…She combined impregnable strength and an emotional intensity with a precious vulnerability and poignant soulfulness…She was determined that the soul of our people and the prayers of each of us be lifted on the wings of song. She understood our longings and that we yearned for a spiritual uplift and she gave us a voice for it all…We will carry the song of her life and the music she left us…Her memory is a blessing and it shall always be.”

“She opens my heart…she is a hero to so many people,” observed Ann Coppel who wrote, directed and produced the award-winning 2004 documentary on Deb-bie Friedman, Journey of Spirit. Coppel followed and filmed Fried-man as she travelled, performed and taught, capturing Debbie’s uncanny ability to open people to “their truest hearts,” as Cantor Rosalie Boxt of Temple Emanuel, Kensington, MD put it, “to their longings for the Divine, and for the need we have for love and friend-ship and for each other.” On January 27th of this year, a Memorial Service was held at Central Synagogue, organized

by Rabbi Joy Levitt of the JCC with Cantor Angela Warnick Buchdahl who pledged at the beginning of the service: “We will keep singing your songs and they will help us turn our mourning into dancing.” It was a deeply moving evening of song in-terspersed with reflections by many

pressured by his parents to enter the fellowship, but had become very committed to his change project. He explained his project in more detail and I was fascinated. They designed pumps to collect rain water and pump it to the bathrooms of their school. This would save the school thousands of gallons of water a year and also save a lot of money. The ceremony to mark the opening of the water system was only a couple of days away—a ceremony Gadiel had been waiting for all year. The next day, we visited an organization entirely devoted to making Jerusalem more green. Jeru-salem turned out to be years ahead of New York in terms of saving en-ergy and water. Every building was required to have solar panels to heat the water for the house. Recycling was much more important than in New York. Israel was also building a modern green train to run through the center of the city. The Israelis loved showing off their green city, saying how much better Jerusalem was than New York. But I think they changed their mind when they came to visit New York. By far the highlight of the trip was the opening of the water system in the complex where our Israeli friends attended school. Even though I had nothing to do with the making of the system, I felt proud that part of my larger community had done something so amazing. It goes to show what we can do when we rally around a common cause as a community.

Jon Cohen is a 10th grade student at Ethical Culture Fieldstone School. Besides partici-pating in his youth group and confirmation classes, he plays varsity tennis and soccer.

Our sense of community was so strong because we all shared the same goal...

You turn my music into dancing so that my soul might sing to YouSo that my soul sing to You, and not be still.Oh God, my God, forever, I will thank You. Odeca.Now I sing praises to the Holy one who lifts me up when I have fallenAnd I cry to You to heal me, and You have answered all my prayers.Oh God, my God, forever will I thank You. Odeca.I ask You to be gracious and hear me AdonaiI call to You to help me and You supported me with joy.Oh God, my God, forever I will thank You. Odeca.You turn my mourning into dancing so that my soul might sing to YouSo that my soul sing to You, and not be still.

“She opens my heart... she is a hero to so many people”...

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Debbie Friedman continued from p. 8

FICTIONEric Levine

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Bread of Affliction

14 15

to another. Louder and louder, the constant beat of the music, like some magic potion, raised the spirits of their straggling, emaciated bodies, giving them strength. Ravaged but unbroken, they arrived at the camp towards the end of March, just days before Passover. In his feverish zeal to pre-pare for Pesach, Reb Yosef seemed to forget his hunger and fatigue. First, he located one of the kapos, whom he persuaded to provide some flour and a half-bottle of schnaps; next, he organized some of those who were well-installed in the camp to scavenge for metal with which they built a makeshift oven. Then, late at night to avoid attracting the attention of the camp guards, they baked the few matzot the limited supply of flour would allow. With the arrival of Passover, a Seder was hurriedly arranged in one of the barracks. News of the event had spread throughout the camp. Those who could avoid the roving searchlights, packed into the already crowded space. A Seder table was laid out on one of the lower bunk beds. There, tri-umphantly, were three blackened, misshapen but unbroken matzot. A battered metal tin-top served as the Seder plate but there was no shank bone, no burnt egg, no haroset, no traditional greens, only a boiled potato stolen from the camp kitchen, there was no need for bitter herbs. The table was crowned with two candles, crudely-fashioned from curdled fat taken from the garbage. After lighting the candles and intoning the evening prayers, Reb Yosef, wrapped in his long tal-lit, poured some schnaps into a tin

into the camp, survivors of long and merciless hunger marches. Reb Yosef, a frail-looking Chasidic rabbi, was among the late arrivals. During those desperate last days of the forced march, Reb Yosef never tired in his efforts to sustain those who were faltering. When conditions became so grim that all hope seemed lost, he began to hum a nigun. The chant began quietly, gradually becoming louder: Yai-dai, dai-dai-dai, am Yisrael chai. Yai-dai, dai-dai-dai, am Yisrael chai—the Jewish people live on. On and on, like a drum-beat, until the melody became so compelling that, slowly but surely, it traveled the line, drifting from one parched throat

In the early morning hours of April 29, 1945, Hitler signed his last will and testament. Continu-

ing to fulminate against the Jews, he urged the Final Solution as the only way to rid the world of their pernicious influence. Shortly before four in the afternoon, he committed suicide in his bunker. At roughly the same time, units of the American army began to liberate Dachau. As the first concentration camp, Dachau became the model for all extermination camps, and the training ground for those who would implement Hitler’s plan to exterminate the Jews. During the last stages of the war, tens of thou-sands of evacuees were crammed

mug and sang the Kiddush. When he reached the last b’rachah, he raised his voice, giving thanks to God for keeping them alive, once again to celebrate the festival. Then hold-ing up the three matzot he began to recite the introductory prayer Ha lachmah anya … this is the bread of affliction. In reaching the conclud-ing words, he again raised his voice: “This year we are slaves, next year we shall be free!” “How can you say that?” a harsh voice interrupted. “Each year, we hear the same words! Yet each year, more of us perish! What’s the point?” “My friend, there is a great point!” Reb Yosef replied, address-ing the angry young man, whose wizened face belied his age. “You are right that each year we say the same words and each year more of us perish, inside and outside the camps. So it has been since our very beginnings as a people. But the difference is that we are not just individuals, we are also part of the Jewish people. Each of us is a part of K’lal Yisrael, each of us, wherever we may be, is part of the Jewish community… a collective soul that binds us together. So, however much they try and destroy us, the Jewish people will prevail. But only if we preserve our identity, which is the very point of this Seder , why it is so important to remember our past because it informs our future. Our enemies, and they are many, may rob us, enslave us, murder us, but they cannot rob us of our dig-nity as Jews, unless we allow them to strip away what makes us Jewish. So even in this hellhole of a place we can still choose to live proudly as Jews, and, if need be, die proudly

as Jews… So let us continue with our Seder.” Just at that moment the bar-racks’ door burst open. Two guards marched in with savage dogs strain-ing at the leash. They were closely followed by the tall, elegantly-uni-formed Camp Commandant.

“Das ist verboten!” he snarled, striding straight towards Reb Yosef and striking him in the face with his baton. “Take him out!” he ordered. “I’ll deal with him later! In the meantime take ten men outside and shoot them!” Then he turned on his heels and left. The loudspeakers woke the camp early next morning, ordering an assembly in the camp square. They were left standing in the freez-ing cold, lined up in long rows, facing the gallows that had been erected overnight. A terrible sense of dread spread among them as they came to realize the fate that awaited Reb Yosef. Suddenly orders were shouted, accompanied by heel click-ing. The Commandant appeared, surrounded by camp officials, a cruel smile on his face. He nodded to one of the guards who marched quickly to a hut at the far end of the square. Moments later the door swung open. Reb Yosef appeared, his limp body hanging between two guards. His face was badly bruised, his tallit torn and blood-stained. Blinking in the daylight, he looked

around, noticing all the people. Seized by some extraordinary burst of strength, he shook off the guards who seemed unable to resist. Then straightening himself, he began the long walk to the gallows, his head held high. A strange silence fell over the square, broken only by Reb Yosef’s clear voice as he began to chant his nigun. Reaching the refrain, am Yisrael chai, he was joined by thousands of voices, loudly and insistingly accompanying him all the way: am Yisrael chai, am Yisrael chai. When they placed the noose around his neck he proclaimed the Vidui in a clear, unwavering tone. Then, head proudly erect, he met his death. Two kapos managed to save his body, which was then buried in a makeshift coffin in a carefully marked spot. A month later, the camp was liberated and the Com-mandant, Martin Gottfried Weiss, who had attempted to escape in civilian clothes, was arrested, tried and later executed by hanging on May 28, 1946 at Landsburg prison. Four years later, some of those who had attended the Seder returned to the camp site, recovered Reb Yosef’s remains and flew them to the newly created State of Israel to be buried on the Mount of Ol-ives—much like his biblical name-sake, whose remains were carried out of Egypt by the Israelites, to be buried with his ancestors in the land that would become Eretz Yisrael.

* While the historical facts are accurate, the story of Reb Yosef and the Seder are pure fiction, though consistent with Holocaust accounts.

Eric Levine is a transnational corporate law-yer, a founding principle of Millenia Capital Partners, an investment advisory firm.

... the melody became so compelling that, slowly but surely, it traveled the line, drifting from one parched throat to another.

About three years ago, my husband and I were sitting in a trendy, upscale restaurant,

when a cute twenty-something wait-ress began pouring water into our glasses. My husband stopped her and declined. The waitress asked, “Why don’t you want water?” To which he responded, “I don’t like water.” The waitress insisted, “But it’s good for you!” If I were to ask you if this exchange took place in Tel Aviv or in New York, and you had spent any time in Israel, you would have correctly guessed that the exchange took place in Tel Aviv (or the Lower East Side one hundred years ago). We spend three months a year in Israel, and I could readily shower you with many more amusing ex-amples of this sort of behavior that one might experience as rude and invasive, or concerned and caring.

Having been raised in the United States, “The land of the free, home of the brave,” I often find the loose-boundary, warm style of Israe-lis comfortingly reassuring. Other times, though, it feels cloyingly close. The waitress’ behavior can be seen as overstepping the boundary between wait staff and customer or, conversely, as expressing endearing concern for my husband’s welfare. Regardless of which way you see it, the example raises the question of why Israeli Jews feel so free to com-ment on what you eat, what you wear and how you drive, and so ready to watch your children in the playground, if you ask them to do

1716ISRAEL Rabbi Marion Lev-Cohen

We Are Family

so or not. But in truth, this familiar behavior is not at all alien to us American Jews. We also are very ready to offer unsolicited advice and suggestions to our children, friends and even total strangers. Unflat-tering stereotypes of overbearing and intrusive Jewish mothers not only reflect a measure of truth, but extend to Jewish fathers, siblings, cousins, friends, and neighbors. What makes us Jews act this way? Perhaps the most compel-ling reason for this behavior is that we Jews see ourselves as part of an extended family. The familiarity, presumed intimacy and highly per-sonal, interactive style that others restrict to close friends and family members, we Jews extend to wider circles of the Jewish community and Jewish casual acquaintances. “Whether it is expressed as warmth, intrusiveness, (a total stranger, reaching into a stroller to straighten a baby’s sweater), rudeness (upon seeing an expensive car, rolling

down the window to ask the driver how much she paid for the car), or even violence.”1 This sense of familism is ours. It’s tied to our birthright as Jews, and it flows from a sense of mutual obligation, as embodied in the Talmudic dictum, “Kol Yehu-dim arevim ze la ze.”2 All Jews are responsible for each other. Mutual obligation is why American Jews send money to Israel to rebuild a youth village called Yemin Orde af-ter the Carmel forest fire, as well as why many young Israelis volunteer a year of their lives post high school to live in poor towns in the Negev or Galilee, befriending and teaching disadvantaged populations. The sense of being part of an extended family, or “familism,” arises from Jews having a shared history, fate, destiny, and most importantly, purpose. We are con-nected to each other by “kinship

and consent,”3 that is, by blood and by values. We are family simply by virtue of being born into the Jewish people, our birthright, but we also are bound by a shared sense of des-tiny and purpose. Strikingly, con-verts to Judaism convert not only to our principles, but to our family, as they acquire their Hebrew name, child of Abraham and Sarah. It’s as if they’re told, “Consider yourself at home; consider yourself part of the family.” If Jews are generally fa-milistic (and they are), in Israel they are super-familistic. For Jews in Israel, transactions in personal life, business and politics are heavily influenced by family, school or army friendship connections. What would be considered cheating in American universities is considered norma-tive helping behavior in Israel. The Supreme Court recently overturned the conviction of a former Minister of the Environment for handing out government jobs to his friends on the grounds that, while techni-cally illegal, everybody does it, and he doesn’t deserve to be the first to be punished under the law against nepotism and cronyism. Why are Israelis so irrepressibly and

exceedingly familist? First, in Israel, Jews are the dominant culture. They practice their ways free of “foreign influence.” In contrast, American Jews are a minority. Here the histor-ic sense of Jewish familism is tem-pered by a universalist American culture. American values hold that we should seek to form relation-ships based on the attributes of the individual, and not to favor people because of their ethnic or religious backgrounds. Second, familism is reinforced for Israelis by their fear of hostile Arabs on their bor-ders—and sometimes in their midst. American Jews by contrast, enjoy an unprecedented level of acceptance as valued members of American society, a place where many Jews find friendships and romance with non-Jews. One circumstance can lead to expressions of racism toward the other; while the other context can mean assimilation and loss of identity. Israeli familism operates not only on the individual level, but also on the national plane. Most Jewish families (except the Haredim) have children or others who serve in the army. Families respond to each fallen soldier almost as if they were

members of their own families. Wit-ness the dramatic, national response to the prolonged capture of Gilad Shalit by Hamas terrorists. In June 2006, he was seized in a cross-border raid near Gaza. Over the last four years of imprison-ment, his parents,

Noam and Aviva, have acted to keep their son at the center of the country’s attention. They have orga-nized rallies and protests demand-ing that the government exchange Gilad for hundreds of Palestinian prisoners now in Israeli jails. A per-manent tent with Gilad information, posters and banners stands not far from our Jerusalem home, in front of the Prime Minister’s house and is manned 24 hours by volunteers. On the anniversary of the fourth year of his capture, thousands of people marched from the Shalit’s home in the Galilee to rally in Rabin Square in Tel Aviv and then marched to Jerusalem to protest in front of the Prime Minister’s home. The same day, Zubin Mehta gave a concert in Gilad’s honor in Sderot, the site of the Hamas quassam rocket attacks. Gilad has become a symbol for ev-ery Israeli soldier, every Israeli’s son. We can experience families as warm, supportive, and fulfilling. And we can experience them as suffocating, enervating and frustrat-ing. We may be of two minds about families and about familism—be they our personal families, our communities, Israel, or the Jewish People—but we still remain family.

1. Liebman,Charles & Cohen, Steven, Two Worlds of Judaism. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990 2. Babylonian Talmud, Shavuot, 39a 3. Elazar, Daniel J., ed. Kinship and Consent: The Jewish Political Tradition and its Contem-porary Uses. Washington: University Press of America, 1983.

Rabbi Marion Lev-Cohen is director of Adult Education and Engagement at Central Synagogue.

Above: Dancing the hora at a kibbutz in the 1950s. Right: Demonsrating for the release of Gilad Shalit.

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...we Jews see ourselves as part of an extended family.

19

Communities of Textural Studies

ESSAY Ron Walter18

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students. Bernie Silverman’s leader-ship opened up other opportunities for me to join communities engaged in the close study of biblical texts. Bernie was a catalyst for the forma-tion of the class now called Bible and Bagels, first led by Rabbi Peter Rubinstein and now by Rabbi Mi-chael Friedman. Bernie also started the Roosevelt Island chavurah that meets periodically for fellowship and Torah study. His motto, “First eat, then study,” led to the custom of sharing bagels at the morning classes. I continue to search out other opportunities for study and community, attending, when I can, the Wednesday Torah study led by Rabbi Maurice Salth and the Satur-day morning classes at Hevrah of the Southern Berkshires. Over the years, these classes have offered me a sense of commu-nity in two dimensions. Each class creates a community of participants, with friends of long standing and with leavening provided by those newly joining the discussion. At the same time, we all become part of the larger community of Jews who have been studying these texts, trying to answer the same questions throughout the ages. This kind of continued study has been the glue that has kept the Jewish community intact.

Ron Walter, an engineer by training, is re-tired from Citigroup. In addition to biblical studies, he takes courses at the Metropolitan Museum, is a trustee of Hancock Shaker Village and lives with his wife, Marilyn, on Roosevelt Island and in the Berkshires.

1. Steinsaltz, Rabbi Adin, The Talmud—A Reference Guide, 38. New York: 1989

dah prayer, Grace after meals, bless-ings for various kinds of foods and fragrances, and blessings for various occasions and things seen.1 Many weeks were spent examining topics such as whether the caper is a fruit or a vegetable or how many people are required for the public recitation of Grace after Meals (and do women count?). For me these were not compelling questions and I do not remember the answers. It was the process, as well as Rabbi Zlotowitz’ interesting digressions, that kept the partici-pants coming back and arranging their business travel to avoid miss-ing classes. We were living in the minds of the ancient Rabbis and our discussion was extending their discussion. Learning to understand the reasoning of the Rabbis as well as their personalities, we built a community among ourselves and with the ancients. As the class continued, an-other set of wonderful teachers took over. Currently, Cantor Elizabeth Sacks leads the class. She has added pedagogic structure, reference mate-rial, and broadened its topical inter-est. Last year we focused on some of the famous pairs in Rabbinic history, such as Hillel and Sham-mai, and this year we are studying the beginnings of civil law. The class continues to struggle with the almost mathematical reasoning of the Rabbis as they sought perfection in their understanding of the law. Yet we make progress and enjoy the effort. The community of ancient Rabbis observed a strict hierarchical structure and quite formal rules of analysis in their discussion. We, on the other hand, make up an infor-mal and democratic community of

Jewish law. Some people describe the Talmud as the Congressional Record of the ancient Rabbis. It is organized in series of tractates that together cover all aspects of Jewish life.

As I joined the class, it was going line by line through the tractate B’rachot (Blessings). This portion of the Talmud includes the laws regarding the Sh’ma, the Ami-

Bernie convinced me to give it a try. The class had been institut-ed about five years earlier by Shelly Silverman (no relation to Bernie), then the Senior Rabbi at Central Synagogue. After he left, Rabbi Bernard Zlotowitz took over; he was leading the group when I joined. Rabbi Zlotowitz was an extraordi-nary Talmud scholar. He seemed not only to have a personal relation-ship with each of the Rabbis quoted in the ancient text but he was also well versed in modern Talmudic scholarship. The Talmud, I learned, consisting of the Mishnah and the Gemara, is basically the record of Rabbinical conversations as they argue and explicate the details of

My fascination with the study of ancient Jewish texts began shortly after

my thirteenth birthday. I was a ter-rible Hebrew School student. I only went because I had to, and I was certainly not going to continue past my bar mitzvah in December 1955. The synagogue called my father to say that since he had paid for the full year and if I was not continuing with Hebrew School, I could join the confirmation class in progress. Con-firmation classes were not common at conservative temples at that time and I had never heard of one. I had no idea what to expect. I remember the first class I attended as if it were yesterday. They were studying Torah, read-ing the Joseph story. The rabbi pointed out a text passage that briefly recapitulated the story, yet the narrative style had changed. He suggested it was probably written by a different author. I remember how amazed I was that the Bible could be discussed as literature. I quickly entered into the discussion and greatly enjoyed the class, which unfortunately ended in the spring with the confirmation ceremony. I was too young then to realize that the discussion of ancient religious texts eventually would generate a special sense of community for me. I did not resume the regular study and discussion of Jewish texts until 20 years ago, some 30 years after that confirmation class. My neighbor, Bernie Silverman, told me of an unusual group of Reform Jews meeting every Friday morning at Central Synagogue to study the Talmud. Talmud study seemed very alien to me; I only had the vaguest idea of what the Talmud was. Yet

I was too young then to realize that the discussion of ancient religious texts eventually would gen-erate a special sense of community for me.

in their community on their watch, but will continue until their strength fades and their resources are gone. Let us partner with one of these congregations and share the strength and resources of our community with theirs. We have reached out to world Reform Jewry. We have nourished partnerships with struggling congregations and day schools in Mendoza, Argentina; Minsk; Berlin; and Israel. It is time to come home and take care of Reform Jewry in this country. When a congregation completes reading one book of the Torah, and before it begins the next, the worshippers publicly affirm: Chazak, chazak v’nitchazayk. We will be strong and we will stand shoul-der to shoulder to strengthen one another. I, for one, will not sur-render my claim on the robust and progressive Reform Judaism that nourished me and many of you with vision and purpose, when we were young. We are at a critical moment in American Jewry. We have much to do. We may not have chosen to be the generation to shape a Jewish future in the 21st century. But that responsibility is now ours; it is our mission and it now becomes our journey together as a community.

1. For statistical data see: Cohen, Steven M. “Changes in American Jewish Identities since 1948: From Norms to Aesthetics,” The Chronicle, HUC 2009 2. Rabbi Kaufner, Eli, Empowered Judaism, 3. 2010 3. Herring, Hayim, “Synagogue Renewal in an Age of Extreme Choice,” Synagogues in a Time of Change, Zachary I. Heller, ed.

Commitment to a Common Cause continued from p. 5

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ESSAY

20

Alan Herman

In late December 2010, our great-est dream came true when our beautiful daughter Noa Renie

was born. What an incredible jour-ney the past nine months had been! Throughout the pregnancy we had spent countless hours talking, pray-ing and playfully debating what life would be like. Just as many other expectant parents, we had wondered if our child would be a boy or a girl. Would he or she grow up to be a doctor, a ballerina, or an NFL quarterback? We had made plans how best to ensure that our child would always be taken care of. With so many variables surrounding the baby’s arrival, we often would find comfort in one absolute cer-tainty. From its first day, our child would be part of a sacred commu-nity—the community of Central Synagogue.

In May 2010, just when Miriam and I were going to share the great news of our pregnancy, I was diagnosed with cancer. What we thought had been a persistent tooth ache, turned out to be a rare malignant tumor. Needless to say, our world was turned upside down. For so long we had dreamed of be-ing parents and now, in the middle of what should have been the hap-piest point of our life, we were faced with an overwhelming challenge. It was a late Friday af-ternoon, when we first heard the terrifying words, “We have reason to believe you have a malignant tu-mor.” Miriam and I held each other tightly as we made our way home from the doctor. There was so much we had to understand. We felt raw with emotion. Without even discuss-ing it, we both knew we wanted to attend Shabbat services that eve-ning. As the service began, we both were fighting back tears. By the end, we felt comforted by the mere presence of our Central Synagogue family around us and, somehow, we knew we were going to get through the challenges ahead. Initially we had wanted to keep my diagnosis a private matter. I was concerned my bad news might overshadow the incredible experi-ence of Miriam’s pregnancy. We did not want anyone feeling sorry for us. But as we started talking with some of our friends at Central Synagogue, we were immediately enveloped with love, not pity. I soon realized that there were many people who knew firsthand what I was going through. As I started sharing my experience with others, I became inspired. Just as important, I felt empowered knowing that I

was helping people by giving them an opportunity to open up about their own experiences. Within moments of shar-ing the news of my diagnosis with members of the Synagogue commu-nity, we were assured they would be beside us every step of the way. As we moved forward through surgery and radiation, this assurance was not just expressed in words but through deeds. People we had met while serving dinner at a Ronald McDonald House Event, were now making sure our own refrigerator was stocked with food. The friends we had made while working on several of Central Synagogue’s social justice projects, once again sprang into action with conviction and compassion, but this time it was to take care of one of their own—Miriam and I.

Our Central Synagogue family was by our side both physi-cally and spiritually every step of the way. It made sure we never lost sight of the blessing of our pregnancy and that we would seize every opportunity to live life to the fullest. When we were not able to physically attend Friday night ser-vices, we would celebrate Shabbat with friends by watching the sun set over the Hudson River, in a park by our house. Prior to treatments that would diminish my ability to eat, arrangements were made for Miriam and I to go on a marathon

Community in ActionThe Best and Worst of Times

We shed tears of joy, watching our friend’s children start their Jewish life...

BOOK REVIEW

21

Steve Klausner

“How can I be an anti-Semite when I am Jewish?” For me, that is the heart of The Finkler Question. The Finkler Question made me laugh on more than one occasion though, like Sam Finkler, I took no pride in it. Nonetheless, whether we are attracted or repulsed by the novel, it acutely dissects the problematic aspects of being part of a community: how easily it can become a protective haven for prejudice, exclusion and demoniza-tion of both the other and ourselves. The Finkler Question never lectures; rather it uses irony to counsel the reader to be an honest and tolerant member of the Jewish community.

THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE

Founded in 1783, Man Group is a global investment management business that, as part of its com-munity outreach, awards an annual £50,000 prize to the author of “… any full-length novel, written by a citizen of the Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland and published in the United Kingdom for the first time in the year of the prize.”

Ultimately, Julian breaches the inner circle in two leaps. He joins an informal group headed by Sam Finkler called The ASHamed Jews. The group meets regularly at London’s tony Groucho Club, another of Jacobson’s ironic touches. (Groucho Marx often said he would never join a club that would accept

him as a member.) Once admitted, he begins a passionate romance with the curator of the Museum of Anglo-Jewish History, Hephzibah Weizenbaum, Libor’s niece. The more shame the so-called ASHamed ones heap upon themselves, the more tightly Julian clings to his Jew-ish identity and his zaftig Jewess. To be fair, the ASHamed Jews’ ruminations on Jewish culture, given the actual recent increase of anti-Semitic incidents in the UK and the situation in Gaza, are both genuinely horrifying and perversely amusing. Finkler is so anti-Zionist he will not even call Israel by its proper name, preferring Palestine. Many reviewers have identified The Finkler Question as an examination of what it means to be a Jew. I, for one, believe Howard Ja-cobson had a more focused literary inquiry in mind. During a family argument, Sam Finkler abruptly turns pro-Israel when he challenges his college-age son’s harsh criticism of events in Gaza. He goes so far as to accuse the young man of anti-Semitic tendencies. The son replies,

There is a scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen’s on-screen character, Alvy Singer,

turns to his sidekick Rob (Tony Rob-erts) and remarks, “You know, I was having lunch with some guys from NBC, so I said, ‘Did you eat yet or what?’ And Tom Christie said, ‘No, Jew?’ Not ‘Did you?’...Jew eat? Jew? You get it? Jew eat?” A similar gag begins How-ard Jacobson’s Man Booker Prize Winner, The Finkler Question. Decid-edly non-Jewish Londoner Julian Treslove strolls through a park at twilight and is mugged. As his pockets are emptied, Julian believes that his attacker says, “You Jules?” On further reflection he convinces himself that the assailant had actu-ally said, “You Jew!” Julian is many things, few of them admirable. In one of the many ironies in the book, he is employed as a celebrity look-alike, appearing at parties and corporate events as a faux Brad Pitt. Unsuccessful in busi-ness, marriage or parenting, he en-vies the Jewish identity of two close friends: Sam Finkler, a celebrated author and broadcaster, and Libor Sevcik, a nonagenarian scholar and Holocaust survivor. If there is any-thing that does distinguish Julian Treslove, it is perhaps his status as the pre-eminent gentile schlemiel in 21st century Anglo-Jewish literature. Not content to simply impersonate a Jew (Finkler), Julian wants to be one, completely, and an ironic, self-hating Jew at that. In his quest to succeed, he begins a clan-destine affair with Finkler’s wife, Tyler, only to be crestfallen when he learns that she is a Jew by choice. In Julian’s eyes she is, in his words, “not a true Jewess.”

Community Jest

“How can I be an anti-Semite when I am Jewish?” For me, that is the heart of The Finkler Question. Howard Jacobson

Continued on back coverContinued on p. 23

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so simple that they can hate only one enemy at a time. Forget the Nazis, they advise, and concentrate on the Reds.”

HS: Has it been screened in present day Germany? If so, what has been the reaction? It screened at the Berlin Film festival, and premiered in Nuremberg in November 2010. The response was such that the City of Nuremberg and the State of Bavaria have offered the funding for a new German-language narration. The film is scheduled to open in Sep-tember 2011, in the same courtroom where the trial took place. In my work on Partisans of Vilna, I became very aware of the impulse for revenge among victims, which evolved into an urge for justice over time. So with Nuremberg there was a hope that the world would change for the better. It had a powerful effect on the world at the time. But those who hope that

de-Nazification program.

HS: Why wasn’t it screened in the United States at the same time? It was meant to be shown in the United States as an example of American and Allied justice, and as a lesson for posterity, but the film’s U.S. release was apparently suppressed. In 1948, the Soviets blockaded West Berlin, and that, in conjunction with the Red-baiting of the McCarthy era had much to do with it. A Washington Post reporter speculated at the time that “… there are those in authority in the United States who feel that Americans are

Recently screened at the New York Film Forum, the Schul-berg/Waletzky restoration of

the 1948 Nuremberg trials, which used the same documentary footage originally shot by the Nazis to cel-ebrate their acts of genocide, serves to remind the world of these horrors at a time when rampant Holocaust denial threatens to reduce one of humankind’s greatest tragedies to a dimly remembered footnote of history. The 1948 original was writ-ten and directed by Stuart Schul-berg, then the youngest member of the OSS Field Photo-War Crimes unit. It was completed in 1948, under the direction of the Motion Picture Branch of the U.S. Military Government in Berlin. The film uses footage from The Nazi Plan and Nazi Concentration Camps, films compiled by Stuart’s brother Budd Schulberg (screenwrit-er for the 1955 Oscar-winning On the Waterfront) that were presented as evidence at the trial. As documented in the film, the trial established the “Nuremberg principles,” laying the groundwork for all subsequent prosecutions, anywhere in the world, for crimes against the peace, war crimes, crimes against human-ity, and genocide. In an article in The Jewish Week Co-director and Producer Sandra Schulberg, Stuart’s daughter, said, “You know the Torah portion when Abraham is called by God and answers ‘Hineini’ [Here I am]? That’s why I started this project. It’s a strange echo for me, the idea of be-ing called and whether you’re going to answer. If I hadn’t been a profes-sional filmmaker, it wouldn’t have occurred to me, but if not me, who?

It was a choice but it wasn’t.” As the film opens around the world, HaShiur interviewed Schulberg’s co-director Josh Waletzky.

HS: What led you to the project? I ran into Sandra Schulberg at the Independent Feature Project. I have known her a long time. When she had the funds to go forward with her dream to restore the film, she gave me a call.

HS: How did some of your previous work, such as Partisans of Vilna, factor into this? I had a strong background in the era because of Image Before My Eyes and Partisans of Vilna. I began my career as a sound editor, so I was well-equipped for the creative decisions and technical challenges, which were chiefly in the domain of sound. The original 1940s narration was done by whoever was available, and it covers almost all the original

courtroom recording. You don’t hear (U.S. Prosecutor and Supreme Court) Justice Jackson, except for a few words at the beginning.

HS: The so-called American Dream, that forms the basis of the Holly-wood version, was created largely by Eastern European Jewish immi-grants and, later, by German Jews exiled by the Nazi regime. Do you feel there is some irony in the fact that the Jewish Schulberg brothers were tasked with de-Nazifying the German public through the power of film? That version of Nuremberg is very interesting in that it utilizes the American Dream to forge a new consciousness on the postwar Ger-man population.

HS: To what extent was the film screened in late 1940s Germany? The film premiered in Stutt-gart in 1948, and was shown widely across Germany as part of the Allies’

Nuremberg: Its Lesson for Today

Steve Klausner22

FILM REVIEW

A couple of hours before Noa was born, I took a few min-utes to sit in the hospital chapel and reflect. As one might expect, hundreds of thoughts were running through my mind. I thought about the road Miriam and I had trav-eled during the past nine months. There had been so many highs and lows. I cried tears of joy, thinking how lucky Miriam and I are to be surrounded by so many wonderful people. Four years ago, we joined a synagogue in our neighborhood, hoping to have a place to observe holidays, and today it has become part of who we are and, more importantly, part of the foundation

of who our daughter will be. I feel blessed she has been born into such a loving community and that she will be surrounded by people who will inspire and teach her by exam-ple the responsibility of sustaining that community. I look forward to many years of watching our pre-cious Noa grow up and earn her place within it.

Alan Herman co-founded and runs an apparel and accessory wholesale company. He and his wife Miriam have been actively engaged in the Social Justice programs of Central Synagogue since 2006. Currently they are heading the Ronald McDonald House Project.

of sampling every neighborhood restaurant we had always wanted to try. Most importantly, we had the honor to be part of various life cycle events at Central Synagogue. We shed tears of joy, watching our friend’s children start their Jewish life, recite their wedding vows or read their bat mitzvah Torah por-tion—they reminded us what our own journey was really all about. Both the best and the worst mo-ments of our lives are but transitory, gam zeh ya’avor—this too shall pass. Life challenges us to be fully present to both.

a film like this can rid the world of genocide are missing the point. The idea is to set an example that encourages those who wish for justice to find the courage to act in a way that will make a difference. To act in a way that will contribute to a better world.

Josh Waletzky is an award-winning documentary filmmaker, born and raised in New York City. He has worked as a director, writer and edi-tor on numerous documentary films about cultural and social themes. He directed and edited such films as Im-age Before My Eyes (1981), Partisans of Vilna (1986), Academy Award-nom-inated Music for the Movies: Bernard Herrmann (1992), Dashiell Hammett: Detective. Writer. (1999).

The idea is to set an example that encourages those who have a wish for justice to find the courage to act in a way that will make a difference.

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The Best and the Worst of Times continued from p. 20

Steve Klausner is an advertising copy writer, an award-winning screen writer and long-time member of Central Synagogue.

LEADERSHIP

President Kenneth H. Heitner Vice-Presidents Samuel Lindenbaum Juliana May Carol Ostrow Stephanie Stiefel Treasurer Frederic Poses Secretary Seth Berger

Board of Trustees Alan M. AdesKaren ChaikinDavid B. EdelsonEdith FassbergJanet H. FellemanRichard A. FriedmanJohn A. GoliebMichael GouldMarni GutkinPeter JakesCary A. KoplinJay MandelbaumClaudia MorseValerie PeltierLaura J. RothschildPhilip M. SatowMindy SchneiderWendy SiegelEmily Steinman Kent SwigMarc WeingartenJeffrey WilksJonathan Youngwood

Honorary TrusteesLester Breidenbach, Jr.Dr. J. Lester Gabrilove

Honorary PresidentsMartin I. KleinHoward F. SharfsteinMichael J. WeinbergerAlfred D. Youngwood

ClergyRabbi Peter J. RubinsteinCantor Angela Warnick BuchdahlRabbi Maurice A. SalthRabbi Michael S. FriedmanCantor Elizabeth K. Sacks

Senior StaffSenior Director Livia D. Thompson, FTADirector of Development Daniel A. NadelmannDirector of Lifelong Learning Yonni Wattenmaker, RJEDirector of Adult Education & Engagement Rabbi Marion Lev-Cohen

HASHIUR A Journal of Ideas is published twice a year by Central Synagogue, 123 East 55th Street, New York, NY 10022-3502

Editorial Committee: Rabbi Maurice A. Salth, Amala and Eric Levine, Steve Klausner, Danielle Freni, Rudi Wolff

Editor: Amala Levine,Designer and Picture Editor: Rudi WolffProduction Editor: Danielle Freni

PICTURE CREDITS

Cover: detail hands, ancient.eu.com (public domain)p.2: photo.net Mark J.p.3: Lebedev Studio, Moscowp.4: source unknownp.5: courtesy, Temple Sinai, Washington D.C.p.6-7: source unknownp.8: allvoices.comp.9: Skira Editions 1954, Egyptian Antiquities Dept.p.10: Collection, Eric Cohen, NYCp.14: source unknownp. 16-17: The Jewish Agencyp. 18: Ashkenazi Haggadah 1462, British Museump. 20: source unknownp. 21: courtesy The Baltimore Sunp. 22: U.S. Army Archives

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No material may be used without prior written permission from Central Synagogue.

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Community Jest continued from page 21

Critical Acclaim for The Finkler Question

“Mr. Jacobson doesn’t just summon [Philip] Roth; he summons Roth at Roth’s best.” — The New York Times

“Another masterpiece … The Finkler Question is further proof, if any was needed, of Jacobson’s mastery of humor.” — Times (UK)

“The Finkler Question is often awful-ly funny, even while it roars its witty rage at the relentless, ever-fracturing insanity of anti-Semitism, which threatens to drive its victims a little crazy, too.” — Washington Post

“…as all serious artists do, he [Jacobson] is mining his immediate milieu as a way of directly unearth-ing the deeper questions of family, society, belief, culture, relationships – the underlying nature of human-ity.”— Guardian (UK)

“Rare is a work of fiction that takes on the most controversial issues facing Jews so directly—and with enough humor, intelligence, and insight—that it changes a reader’s mind or two. Be warned: The Finkler Question will probably distress you on its way to disarming you.”—Barnes and Noble Book Review