The Young And The Restless

You might have heard me mention that I’m retired. True enough, my retirement was as profound an event as the Binding of Isaac, the Revelation at Sinai, and even the invention of the bagel. Still, there was a time when I dwelt in the wilderness of cubicles. And children: this was in the days before Zoom. I had to endure the quiet desperation of commuting. But as soon as I got to my desk, I called my wife, my mother, and my mother-in-law.

I spent several years on the corner of Water and Wall Streets and was there the day the World Trade Center was attacked. When you look at pictures of the great clouds of smoke covering lower Manhattan, I’m somewhere in there. Of course, I was lucky. Not only was I safe, but the three ladies who kept me alive and healthy heard from me before any of them had turned on their televisions.

Nonetheless, my office mates and I were all shocked. Some were near tears, and others were in tears. I tried to shut it all out by doing crossword puzzles. It didn’t really help. One of my keenest memories was something my Israeli supervisor said: “In a way, it’s good this happened.”

Of course, she meant that now Americans would realize just how frightening terrorism could be. But taken as a sound bite, how would it play in Peoria? Tucker Carlson might take that as evidence of AIPAC’s involvement.

The Israeli consulate in New York inquired about some of its citizens. New Jersey’s Poet Laureate took that as proof the Zionists were behind the whole thing. Let a thousand conspiracy theories bloom!

If a few stray utterances can lead to such confusion, how much more so does this apply to Torah, with its seventy faces? For example, how about this: “The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.”

Alright, that’s from Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice.” Unliterate as I am, I didn’t know that until I checked in with Chat. But the phrase is indeed based on something from the Good Book.

Exodus 34:7 tell us this: “He does not remit all punishment but visits the iniquities of parents on children and children’s children, upon the third and fourth generation.” Deuteronomy 24:16 responds: “Parents shall not be put to death for children, nor children be put to death for parents: a person shall be put to death only for his own sin.” Ezekiel 18:20 drops the mike with: “A child shall not share the burden of a parent’s guilt, nor shall the parent share the burden of a child’s guilt.”

I’m sure that some of our ancestors envisioned a spiteful Old Testament G-d gleefully smiting the innocent offspring of miscreants. Today’s rabbis are more likely to talk about how a parent’s actions can impact their children in ways that might not be immediately obvious. But it doesn’t always work out like that. There are plenty of examples of escape from the generational cycle of addiction and abuse. And to be sure, anybody who watches “Law and Order” knows that perfect parents can raise perfectly psychotic serial killers.

So, which is it? Tastes great? Or less filling?

You might also have heard me mention that I hated Hebrew School. My classmates were all horrible. I guess they missed the part about loving your neighbor as yourself. The shul was Conservative, but the teachers were all strictly Orthodox. I learned a lot from them, but the sanctimony and cruelty they could exhibit was beyond the pale.

I’m not just talking about the old school nastiness that teachers might use to control a room full of cranky tweens. They had this delightfully snide way of shooting down any student’s observation that was to the right or left of whatever they learned in cheder. One of them had this wonderful technique of posing a question – Why do we wear yarmulkes? Why do we fast during Yom Kippur? – and then ripping all the answers to shreds. But I wasn’t even in the room for the worst thing they ever did.

My younger brother died after an unhappy life. My sister had gone to a birthday party where one of the other girls had just gotten over chicken pox. I suppose her mother didn’t give any thought to it, but she didn’t tell any of the other parents. Of course, we all caught it, including my brother who was less than nine months old. He had an extremely high fever – somewhere between 105 and 110 – which caused irreversible nerve damage.

As you might expect, this caused many problems for him, including being mercilessly bullied. It seems a bit trivial, but one of the things that the doctors told my parents was that he couldn’t be a watch repairman because he would never have the fine motor control. Which was why his handwriting was always terrible.

So of course, one of the fine Hebrew School teachers would regularly humiliate him in front of the class for the way he scratched out the aleph bet. So, my brother should rest in peace, but I doubt he had warm and fuzzy memories of his religious education.

Not to get too redundant, but you might also have heard me mention my son. You know, the one who works for NASA. He did not like Hebrew School either, but the worst his teachers ever did was to bore him.

There was only one strictly Orthodox teacher at the shul, and once I discussed my own experiences with him. He listened sympathetically. Then he told me about the time when he was in second grade when his teacher smacked him for spelling a word with an ayin instead of an aleph. Oddly, he smiled as he explained that he never made the same mistake.

This kindhearted man was my son’s favorite teacher, because he always told wonderful stories.

So, with such a traumatic exposure to synagogue, what am I doing here? Indeed, if my parents knew what a shul rat I’ve become, they’d ask: “Who are you? And what have you done with our son?”

There’s something else from the Tanach that might explain my trajectory. It’s from Proverbs, and I must have been following it all along even though I hadn’t seen it until recently: “My son, heed the discipline of your father, and do not forsake the instruction of your mother; for they are a graceful wreath upon your head, a necklace about your throat.”

Dad was obviously the greatest man in the world, but it was Mom who always had wonderful stories. One of the earliest I remember was a folktale, possibly of Hasidic origin, about an orphaned boy watching services during Yom Kippur. He wanted to join in but had never been taught any of the prayers. The best he could do was to purse his lips and whistle loudly – or maybe blow on his harmonica. I’m not sure which.

Of course, the congregation was startled and then outraged. Some of the pious got out of their seats to give him the bum’s rush out of the shul. Before they could lay a hand on the boy, the wise old rabbi stopped them. He felt that the whistle was the most sincere and fervent prayer he had ever heard.

Mom also told me a story she must have gotten out of Eichah Rabbah. A cruel king was forcing Jewish children to bow before an idol, and one little boy refused. Strike that. Considering our shul’s egalitarian spirit as well as the fact this involves some Elasticgirl-like contortions, I’ll tell it differently. A cruel king was forcing Jewish children to bow before an idol, and one little girl refused. No matter how the king cajoled or threatened her, she would not bow. Still, the king was clever. He figured that if he could trick her into making it looked like she bowed, that would be enough. He took off his brightest, shiniest ring and tossed it in front of the idol. Then he said: “Young lady – will you please pick that up for me?”

But the little girl was even more clever, as well as flexible and gymnastically inclined. She walked up to the idol, faced away from it, and then did a perfect backbend to retrieve the ring. She returned it to the king without ever having bowed.

There is a lovely notion in tractate Shabbat 119b of the Talmud Bavli. Here it is:

“Two angels accompany a person home from the synagogue on Friday night — one good angel and one evil (or stern) angel. If the house is prepared for Shabbat — candles lit, table set, and bed made — the good angel says: ‘May it be so next Shabbat as well,’ and the evil angel must answer ‘Amen.’ But if the house is not prepared, the evil angel says: ‘May it be so next Shabbat as well,’ and the good angel must answer ‘Amen.’”

I once heard this applied to a round-up of Jews in Nazi-occupied Europe. As an act of desperation, some children were hidden in the rancid pit underneath a latrine. Sadly, the parents were caught almost immediately thereafter. Hours later, night fell – Friday night – and the SS and their hoodlums were conducting one last search through the area. The youngsters were terrified and started softly singing one of the only prayers they had learned: “Shalom Aleichem”. It was enough. The good angel said: “May it be so next Shabbat as well”, and the Nazis were forced to say “Amen”.

Mom didn’t tell me that story, but she would have liked it very much. I like it too, although it is a bit fanciful. That’s not to say that there isn’t some truth behind it. For example, in a U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum interview, Survivor Basia Avraham recounts that during the liquidation of the Pruzhany Ghetto in 1943, her mother lowered her and several other small children into a latrine pit. There are many testimonies of children being hidden this way, although their names and fates are not all known.

Mom always stressed how much Jews value life. Certainly, we should do just about anything to preserve our own lives. She did make one exception. If a knife were held to her throat and she was threatened with death if she did not renounce Judaism, she would accept death. That’s called “Kiddush HaShem” or “Sanctification of the Name.”

As much as I strive not to forsake Mom’s instructions, I’m not sure I could do the same, or even should do the same. I’ll try to explain.

In Seder Nashim, Tractate Semachot, Midrash Eichah Rabbah, and probably a few other places as well, a mother and her seven sons are brought before Antiochus. One at a time, from oldest to youngest, the sons are ordered to violate Torah by bowing down to an idol. Refusal meant being tortured to death in front of their mother. I’m sure I don’t have to finish this  – Kiddush HaShem all around.

There is a similar story in 2 Maccabees, which is not included in the Tanach. There are at least two differences. First, there are ten sons, not seven. But more importantly, they were ordered to eat pork, not bow down to an idol.

Although this book was written by Jews, it was certainly not written by rabbis. As I’ve explained to so many of my gentile friends, if Jews are stranded on a desert island with nothing other than pork, of course they eat it. It would almost certainly be a sin otherwise. The rabbis even came up with some guidelines for the cantonists – the young Jews drafted into the Tsar’s army: eat the pig, just don’t suck the bones. Meaning, don’t enjoy it.

There are only two cases where Halachah instructs us to die: avoiding idol worship or committing an act of sexual morality. I’ll address both, last in, first out.

Suppose I’m given a choice between death and sitting under the apple tree with some sweet young thing. Let’s take that bit about not sucking bones and go with a quick Kal Va-Chomer. If I can convince my wife I didn’t enjoy it, I’m good.

I’d like to think there are circumstances in which I would give me life without hesitation. For example, if I had to die to protect a loved one. Or if I had to make that choice to save a lot of other people’s loved ones. But to get out of a forced baptism? I suppose if I were some sort of notable sage or even a famous TikTok influencer there might be something to discuss. But as far as my own private behavior goes, not a chance.

When I was small, Mom taught me that Jews don’t cross their fingers. For that matter, we shouldn’t knock on wood either, but that’s beside the point. I’ve heard that some Christians cross fingers to invalidate whatever promise they’re making. Jews must have some sort of equivalent. Certainly, the Almighty knows my heart. We are told that KBH is jealous, but that’s not the same thing as spiteful.

In 1096, crusaders trapped the Jews in Mainz and threatened them with death if they didn’t convert. Many, if not most of them, killed their own children before doing the same to themselves. We can only cry for these martyrs, but I can’t imagine killing my own son. Certainly not over a ritual that is completely meaningless to me.

Suppose I could spare him from an excruciating death offering myself in his place. Surely, the spirit is willing but the flesh, maybe not so much. In 1840, an Italian monk and his servant disappeared in Damascus. The Muslim authorities, perhaps to placate the Christian population, arrested some leading Jews. Employing some of the most grotesque torture I have ever read about, including the crushing of testicles, these poor souls were forced to confess and implicate their family members.

I might have done the same.

In Psalm 6, which is recited in Tahanun, we call upon the Almighty to save us from death because “In the grave who can praise You?” Really? There have been so many close calls in my own life that would have destroyed me given the difference of an inch here or there. I must have been cashing in on the merits of my ancestors. There’s no other explanation. So, I have nothing but praise for KBH. But does the Almighty really need my praise?

In Avot D’Rabbi Natan, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai comforts Rabbi Y’Hoshua as they walk past the ruins of Jerusalem. He explains to his disciple that even though the Temple is destroyed, atonement can still be gained through deeds of lovingkindness.

That’s a far better way to get the Almighty’s attention.

“The Battle Hymn of the Republic” reminds us of Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War. Although Honest Abe was a Deist, the song itself is quite Christian. Not so much in the first verse which is the only one most of us know, but very much so in the fifth verse where we sing: “As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.” During the struggle for Civil Rights it was changed to: “As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free.” Leaving that crucifixion business to the side, this strikes me as much better Kiddush HaShem. Let us live to make men free.

Getting back to Mom, one of her best stories was about a gift that she gave to my father’s father’s father. I don’t remember him. I’m told he held me when I was an infant and gave me my middle name. Before I get to the story, there is a little background.

My great grandparents came to these shores in the early 19 aughts. Once here, they got busy. A generation later, their offspring got busy. So, many grandchildren, of which my father was one. I’m sure they were all loved and doted upon, but none of them spoke Yiddish.

And why not? Back then, the biggest insult one immigrant could give to another was the dreaded epitaph “greenhorn”. You stank of the Old Country and needed to get your act together. For a Jew, that meant tossing away your  kaftan and shtreimel. No boiled potatoes either  – in America, we eat French Fries! And under no conditions should you ever utter that corrupt shtetl dialect. Indeed, Jewish dance halls in the Lower Eastside had signs forbidding Yiddish altogether.

It was different for Mom – she was from a small family, and a girl. Which meant she spent most of her time helping in her parents’ store. Her Yiddish was just fine, so when my parents married, my great grandfather could at last converse in the mamaloshen with one of his grandkids, albeit an in-law.

As you might imagine, with so many descendants, it was not easy to buy presents for my father’s father’s father. First, you might give him a tie, a handkerchief, or a pair of socks. Then, you might go with another tie, another handkerchief, or another pair of socks. And so on. After a while, he ran out of closet space.

Mom had an idea. She knew that Grandpa loved to give tzedakah. She gave him some cash – not a lot – and asked him to donate it to charity. He just loved it. The rest of the family found out about this and did the same.

So, no more ties, handkerchiefs, or socks. Proving once again: mother knows best.

I’ll finish up with a story about a young girl named Hazel. Mom couldn’t have heard this one, since she certainly would have told me if she had.

Hazel was pretty much like any other little girl. She played with jacks, hosted tea parties, and spent a lot of time with Barbie. When her brother wasn’t looking, she used to borrow his G.I. Joe. She wasn’t a tomboy, but she didn’t think that Ken was enough man for Barbie.

Hazel was wise beyond her years. The thing that really set her apart was empathy. If she heard about anyone being sick, hurt, or just sad, it was like it was all happening to her. She was warm and sensitive, as we all should be, but so few of us are.

Once there was a report on television about famine in Africa. She couldn’t understand. Sure, she got hungry sometimes but had never experienced anything like “food insecurity.” She didn’t live in a particularly affluent area yet everyone she knew had enough to eat. She couldn’t fall asleep that night, and asked the Almighty: “Can’t you do anything about this?”

Another time her teachers were talking about a terrible war in some place she didn’t even know existed. There were explosions, fires, and many acts of unspeakable savagery. Most of the victims had no idea what the fighting was about. It made no sense. She couldn’t fall asleep that night either and asked the Almighty again: “Can’t you do anything about this?”

It went on and on. Mothers dying in childbirth. Children succumbing to deadly diseases because they couldn’t get vaccines. Students slaughtered in mass shootings. Whenever she heard any of these things, it was as if she died inside. And each time, she asked the Almighty: “Can’t you do anything about this?”

With all this tragedy in other parts of the world, she witnessed something in her own school that really set her off. There was this little boy named Ben Shalom who told stupid jokes in a whiny, nasal voice. Of course, the kids all thought Ben was a nerd and they teased him constantly. One day, he was bullied so mercilessly that you could see him fighting back tears. The more upset he got, the louder they all laughed. Ben was helpless.

Hazel realized that what Ben was going through was not nearly as bad as so many other problems in the world, but it still tore her to pieces. Perhaps because she didn’t have to imagine how it must have felt since it had already happened so many times to her. Most of all, she couldn’t understand why everyone was just standing around enjoying the spectacle. Of course, Ben could be mean and some of the kids probably felt he was getting what he deserved. Others might have stepped in but were afraid of being tormented themselves. I suppose that most of the kids didn’t think it was that big a deal.

But not Hazel. She went straight up to the biggest, most obnoxious bully and shouted: “Quit it!”

Of course that only made things worse. “Ben’s such a weenie! He hides behind his girlfriend! Hazel and Ben, sitting in a tree! Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!”

Mercifully, the bell rang and recess was over. Ben was miserable for the rest of the day, but Hazel was just stunned. When she finally got home, she went straight to her room and exploded in tears. Hazel was so upset that the Almighty decided to come and check it out.

There were explosions, flashing lights, sirens, shofars – but Hazel was too upset to notice. This was quite puzzling. The Almighty was not used to going unnoticed. Then, louder explosions, brighter flashing lights, shriller sirens and a humongous tekiah gedolah. Still, nothing. Hashem then shouted: “Hazel!”

She lifted her head from the pillow and stared blankly at KBH who then asked: “Why are you crying?”

Hazel replied: “There’s so much pain in the world: sickness, hatred, poverty, war, so much else. Can’t You do anything about it?”

The Almighty paused for a moment and then said: “But I did do something. I sent you!”

In other words, pray as if everything depends on G-d, but act as if everything depends on you.

Tikkun olam. Heal the world. Learn it. Live it. Love it.

Now, go and study.