The Young And The Restless

Once upon a time, there was a certain young girl named Hazel. She was pretty much like any other little girl, playing with jacks, hosting tea parties, spending 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. She just didn’t think that Ken was man enough 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 innumerable 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. Women 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 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 she didn’t have to imagine how it must have felt since it had 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!”

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 cried a river of tears. Hazel was so upset that the Almighty decided to come and check it out.

There were explosions, flashing lights, sirens, shofars – but Hazel did not notice. This was quite puzzling. The Almighty usually had no problem getting attention. 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.

And she lived happily ever after.

I’ve loved that story since the first time I heard it in shul on a Friday night. It’s just so Jewish! After all, doesn’t it say in Pesachim 64b that “One does not rely on a miracle”? Not to forget Devarim 6:16: “You shall not test the L-rd your G-d”. But my beloved wife, who looks over my shoulder as I compose these missives, points out that this is all very Christian. I’m sure there are many adherents of other religions or no religion at all who would say something similar. For that matter, the New Age Spiritualist Shaman whose seances I attend claims it for his own tradition.

Be all that as it may, this story, and others like it, are particularly important for Jews who live outside of insular, hermetically sealed communities.

You might have heard me mention that I hated Hebrew School. My classmates were horrible, and the teachers could be quite cruel. The worst instance of this involved my younger brother, he should rest in peace. I won’t go into details, but I’d like to find that teacher’s grave and take a big, beautiful dump on it.

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 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 told the wonderful stories that made me love being a Jew. One of the earliest I remember was a folktale, possibly Hasidic, about an orphaned boy watching services during Yom Kippur. He wanted to join 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 outraged. Some of the pious got out of their seats to give the brat 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 that probably originated in some Midrash. 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.

In addition to the many legends from our tradition, Mom related many stories from my family’s more recent past. These made me love being Jewish even more. I recently told you about how my mother’s mother was saved from antisemitic violence by a Russian neighbor.  My mother’s father had quite a different trajectory. His family was not nearly as poor, and his experience was certainly more cosmopolitan. Like many young Jews under the benevolent jurisdiction of the Tsar, he got involved in some low-level agitation. Nothing that intense – mostly he just served as a lookout while some older comrades held their meetings. In any event, the police took an interest in him, and he got out while the getting was good.

My mother’s father would never have met my mother’s mother in the Old Country. You know how it is with those migrants. But as my mother pointed out, her father left his religion in Europe. When friends asked him why he didn’t fast on Yom Kippur, he’d answer that he was only Jewish by marriage. Or better: he had fasted more than his share when he first got to the New World.

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. Their story was a bit different. My great grandfather was drafted to serve in the disastrous Russo-Japanese War. That’s when he decided to go west, young man. The group that smuggled him out had him leave his family behind – his wife, my grandfather, and my grandfather’s older sister. It would be easier to arrange their escape after my great grandfather disappeared. When the family was reunited in New York, my great grandfather was shocked to learn that his daughter had died during the ocean voyage. We don’t even know her name

Anyhow, once my great grandparents arrived in American, 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 anything but English.

On the other hand, Mom’s Yiddish was just fine. 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.

My mother viewed pretty much everything through a Jewish lens, which was quite something for a gal whose father left his religion in Europe. If she was happy with something I did, like helping an elderly person by carrying some packages, she would praise me for performing a mitzvah. And if I needed a scolding, and hard to believe, that did happen now and again, she would let me have it from a similar perspective. There was one time when one of my middle school teachers really pissed me off. I don’t remember what it was, but I wanted him to die. I’m sure he must have had it coming. But Mom told me that Jews weren’t supposed to talk like that.

Mom was also not shy about telling me when she felt our sages came up a bit short. Of course, she did not like some of their conclusions about women. There’s one thing that made her livid. But before I get to that, some more backstory.

Mom worked in her parents’ store. Her father certainly needed the help, and her mother was delighted that her daughter was a businesswoman. Mom had different plans. After much pleading, they allowed her to attend night school at NYU. After a few years of juggling the job, the commute, and her studies, Mom graduated and was awarded as the top chemistry student in her class.

Women chemists are a dime a dozen these days, but this was in the late 1940’s, years before any talk about the problem without a name. Mom was quite exceptional in this regard, and you might well imagine that she had no patience for rabbinical disregard of science.

For example, one of my horrible Hebrew School teachers had no use for that pesky evolution business. As far as those million-year-old dinosaur bones, well, the Almighty created them a million years old and that was that. However, Dear Old Mom walked me through the Torah’s creation story and assured me that there was nothing about evolution that should trouble a Jew.

The Talmud lists many medical treatments involving foods, herbs, and various procedures which would trap any modern doctor in a malpractice suit. My mother had no use for any of that.

Like Hazel, Mom was also torn apart by women dying in childbirth. She heard stories about long, painful labors that resulted in the deaths of mother and baby – in both the Old and New Worlds. When she came across a Mishna explaining that this was all due to the woman’s improper adherence to Jewish rituals, she was disgusted. And she was not shy about telling me so.

And she was not shy about telling me how much she loved Judaism.

Safe to say, the instruction of my mother inoculated me from the horrors of Hebrew School. Now, about my son, you know, the one who works for NASA. He didn’t like Hebrew School either. But the worst thing that was inflicted on him was boredom. Except for the kind, strictly Orthodox teacher who told the most wonderful stories.

Here’s an old joke. You’ve probably heard it before, but it’s on point. And I’m sure I tell it better.

A rabbi, a Catholic priest, a Protestant minister, and a New Age Spiritualist Shaman walk into a bar and start comparing notes. It turned out that all their places of worship had a mouse problem. Not a mice problem, but a mouse problem. A single, solitary mouse was harshing the sanctity of their prayers.

The priest said: “It was horrible. I set out dozens and dozens of traps, and I got him at last.”

The minister replied: “I used even more traps than that, but it didn’t help. I had to call in a team of exterminators who proceeded to fumigate, expurgate, and depurate the entire building. It was worth it, though. Mickey’s gone!”

The New Age Spiritualist Shaman sighed: “I tried the traps and I tried the exterminators, but no joy. Finally, I brought in a demolition crew, had the building razed, and rebuilt from scratch. And my seances are now mouse free.”

The rabbi looked at them, as mystified as if he had spent the last month curled up with the Zohar. “I just gave the mouse a Bar Mitzvah and never saw him again.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

I used to be fond of saying that we shouldn’t worry about getting kids to come back to the shul after their big days – rather, we should focus on getting the parents to come in before. Sure sounds cute. But I was so much older then. I’m younger than that now. It’s not that the parents are a lost cause, but let’s go to the video tape.

I used to attend a shul that had B’nai Mitzvot almost every week. On one Shabbat with just the regulars in attendance, the Rabbi mentioned the many relatives who came up for an Aliyah and mumbled something like: “It’s been so many years since I’ve done this – I’m not sure I remember how.” I’m sure the Rabbi was polite in the moment, but exclaimed to us: “Were the doors to the shul locked to these folks?”

At a different shul, filled with relatives who showed up every now and again: when the young person concluded the haftarah, instead of a rousing chorus of  “Siman Tov u'Mazel Tov”, the mishpocha broke out into applause, just like they would at a school play.

I ran into an erstwhile Men’s Club president who explained to me that he let his shul membership lapse. His kids had stopped going, so what was the point? Indeed. What was the point?

 A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, there was a ritual committee meeting in a shul very much like ours. Several of those in attendance asked, repeatedly, about getting parents to come to services at least a few times.  The intrepid rabbi responded, repeatedly, that every effort was being made, but no joy. There was a notion to arrange for B’nai Mitzvot buddies to be paired up with the parents, just to familiarize them so that when the time came, these folks wouldn’t be completely out in left field. This may or may not be better than nothing.

Where does that leave us?

Orthodox Judaism is too strict, while Reform Judaism is too lax. The Conservative Movement, on the other hand, is like baby bear’s porridge: just right!

That’s certainly how I saw it before I started reading up on “Positive-historical Judaism” as formulated by Zecharias Frankel, and the closely related but unfortunately named “Catholic Israel” espoused by Solomon Schecter. I shouldn’t leave out the Neologs, who were heavily influenced by the “Wissenschaft des Judentums”, known in English as the “Science of Judaism”. And, of course, there’s the Masorti Movement in Israel. It turns out that I am completely at home both theologically and ideologically in the Conservative Movement.

By the 1950’s, the plurality of affiliated American Jews belonged to Conservative congregations. Today, we’re second place to the Reform Movement. I admire our Reform cousins, but I can’t help but recall the old Avis slogan: “We’re number 2. We try harder!” We certainly should. But if current trends continue, the Mad Magazine take-off on Avis might be better fitting: “We’re number 3. We don’t try at all!”

A few years ago, I was driving around when I heard a Reform rabbi on the radio describing her shul’s “once a week Bar and Bat Mitzvah preparation.” With the way children can be overprogrammed, I can see the appeal. But I’m not happy putting learning to be a Jew on the same level as soccer practice and guitar lessons, just another activity to fit into a busy schedule.

Many Jews in our area are sending kids to Chabad Hebrew Schools, and I’m confident they’re all getting a fine education. It’s my understanding that at least some of the parents are looking to save money by avoiding synagogue dues.

Clearly, we are in a race to the bottom. Are we merely a Bar Mitzvah mill cranking out life-long Jewish seventh graders?

Given demographics and mobility, it’s difficult for any shul to maintain itself through generations. It may not even have been an issue when our ancestors were confined in ghettos. Our Orthodox cousins living within walking distance of their shuls may not have this problem at all.

It is the minhag of many Chassidic and Haredi communities for a boy to get his first haircut on Lag B’Omer after his third birthday. The kid’s peyos are then a reminder of his Jewishness every time he looks in the mirror.

Many traditional Jews never read anything that doesn’t have an appropriate rabbinical approbation. Residents of Kiryas Joel typically don’t become proficient in English until their late teens or even early twenties. This seems to be a good way to avoid exposure to external knowledge and the many vulgarities outside of the Satmar world.

None of this is likely to help with synagogue retention in our non-insular, non-hermetically sealed communities. Is there anything that could? The short answer is that I don’t know. But here’s a modest proposal.

Our religious school has started up again, and that’s awesome. The kids are learning the Aleph Bet and the Ma Nishtana. There are some programs for the families. As important as all this is, it’s not enough.

We need to make these young Jews feel that they’re part of a community, part of a shul. They need to meet our members and know that we care about them. How do we make this happen?

Since we have the kids come into the synagogue for a few short hours on Sunday, we should dedicate about 15 minutes or so to introduce ourselves. Each week, a different one of us should come in and say a few words.

The many immigrant stories I keep mumbling about may not click, but others might. Maybe you can explain your earliest memory of being a Jew – circumcision doesn’t count. Or explain what a particular bit of Torah means to you. Maybe recall how much you loved Hebrew School. Or hated Hebrew School. Find something in your experience that they can relate to. Not to mix metaphors but run it up the flagpole and see what sticks.

Our synagogue would certainly have been affiliated with the Neologs in prewar Hungary who constituted nearly two thirds of that country’s Jews. Their movement ended when 600,000 of them were murdered by the Nazis.

It would be an insult to their memory if our Conservative Movement couldn’t survive in freedom.

When they came for the florists…

Now, go and study.