Back around 1987, just prior to my rabbinic ordination and five years after I’d left behind my dreams of a career in music (‘tho only a few years since “Personals” ran off-Broadway), I was approached by Cantor Mark Horowitz with a delightful request. He wanted to hire me to write an intergeneration musical for his congregation to perform. “Generations,” as we called it, included material from lots of wonderful sources plus five new songs I wrote especially for the occasion. It celebrated life, finding humor and poignancy at every stage along the way.

“Generations” was performed twice (that I know of). Once in 1988 at Mark’s congregation, and a second time in 1995 at my congregation in Cleveland (Fairmount Temple).

The premise for “Old Folks” is that while there is much we consider disposable in our lives, there are also things we adore because they’re older. Sadly, human beings, as we age, are often seen as belonging in the disposable category. “Old Folks” advocates for cherishing the people in our life even moreso as the years pile on.

Two of the pieces from “Generations” became regular additions to the Beged Kefet repertoire. Seeing as how we were already passionate about the cause of treating the elderly with dignity, “Old Folks” was a natural fit (and fun to sing).

Here’s a video from what was actually Beged Kefet’s final performance in 2009. We wouldn’t sing together again until a brief reunion in 2023. As you can see, we had a pretty wonderful time whooping it up in front of our audiences. No, I’m not unrecognizable in the video; I’m playing piano off-screen.

Hope you enjoy it!

Billy

P.S. The mp3 recording and sheet music (lead sheet, piano-vocal score, and full ensemble arrangement) are available at Jonah’s Trading Post (https://jonahmac.org/old-folks). Your donation of any amount will be put to use in bringing the arts to others, effecting social change, and building Jewish life. The music is free – our way of saying thank you for being so nice.

P.P.S. If you want to learn more about Beged Kefet, visit https://www.billydreskin.net/or-zarua where I tell the whole story. You’ll also find links there to hear Beged Kefet’s three albums.

Do you know what he said when they asked Uncle Jeffrey (as we know him in our house, but most everyone else knows him as Rabbi Jeff Sirkman) who he’d like them to commission to write a piece of music honoring him for his 36 years as spiritual leader of Larchmont Temple in Larchmont, NY?

“Uncle Billy.”

Yep, he’s one of my closest friends. My kids call him Uncle Jeffrey and his kids call me Uncle Billy. Just the same, his temple leadership wondered if maybe he wanted them to hire someone with a more proven track record.

“Nope. I want Billy Dreskin to write a song for me. And I want Beged Kefet to sing it.”

“But Uncle Jeffrey,” I fruitlessly explained, “Beged Kefet stopped performing more than a decade ago!” Jeffrey was adamant so I agreed to ask. And surprise surprise, everyone said yes.

But now I was in big trouble. Receiving a music commission is a big deal. I had to come through.

I asked Ellen if she would work on the lyrics with me and, thank God, she said yes. In a few days I came up with a starter idea for the music but before we set our minds to finding the words, I needed to do some research. I asked Jeffrey to send me his favorite sermons and bulletin articles which I combed through searching for common themes and motives, settling on an idea that he came back to again and again:

“Punim to punim.”

That’s Boshkenazic (Ashkenazic Hebrew with a Boston accent) for “face to face.” Throughout Jeffrey’s rabbinate, he’s always been about “meeting,” about people coming together. Whether family, friend, neighbor or stranger, Jeffrey believes that we actualize our best selves when we connect compassionately and whole-heartedly with others. Including with ourselves!

And that was plenty to get us going. Ellen and I started crafting verses, which inspired more music, which led the way to more words. It took a few weeks of shuttle diplomacy (Ellen in her study downstairs and me in mine upstairs). In time, we created a piece that we felt was perfect for honoring our friend.

I arranged the music for Beged Kefet to sing, joined by Larchmont Temple’s Cantor Katie Oringel along with her volunteer choir and temple band. Parts were distributed and rehearsals were arranged.

Beged Kefet met a month before, not only singing Panim El Panim together for the first time but ANYTHING for the first time since February 2009. What a treat to gather with these longtime friends and prepare this incredibly special gift, a gift for Uncle Jeffrey and a gift for ourselves.

On Friday, November 17, 2023, we joined Jeffrey and Katie on their bimah at Larchmont Temple and, along with 700 or so other guests, sang our little hearts out. This was the first time he had heard the song but when Jeff then got up to speak, he began his words with “punim to punim.” Guess Ellen and I chose right (even if he does pronounce it wrong).

The only thing left to do was to get into the studio and mix the raw tracks from that night and make sure it was sync’d properly with the video stream (which has a bunch of glitches in it but we were able to get the music to work just fine).

And here you have it. Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in nearly 15 years, Beged Kefet — live!

Hope you like it,
Billy

P.S. The mp3 recording and sheet music (lead sheet and instrumental parts) are available at Jonah’s Trading Post (https://jonahmac.org/panim-el-panim). Your donation of any amount will be put to use in bringing the arts to others, effecting social change, and building Jewish life. The music is free – our way of saying thank you for being so nice.

P.P.S. If you want to learn more about Beged Kefet, visit https://www.billydreskin.net/or-zarua where I tell the whole story. You’ll also find links there to hear Beged Kefet’s three albums.

Adapted from a presentation at Woodlands Community Temple
January 3, 2024 • 25 Tevet 5784

One day, many years ago, while driving my young children around town I, as usual, had music playing in the car. On this particular day I’d put on a playlist of my favorite gospel tunes. I love gospel music and have tried my hand at writing Jewish tunes that are informed by the irrepressible spirit of some of what I think is America’s greatest Christian music. As we were driving along, there was a pause between tunes when I heard a voice from the backseat ask, “Daddy, aren’t we Jewish?”

What can I say? I come by it honestly. First, regarding the lyric content of the songs, I believe in the validity of all religious messages, so long as they are kind, open-hearted and in pursuit of a just society. Second, I’ve always enjoyed a great variety of musical styles. It’s possible that comes from growing up as the youngest of six children in a home where music emerged from every room: my mom listening to Glenn Miller and to Rosemary Clooney, my dad listening to classical, and my siblings turning up the volume on everything from Andy Williams and Claudine Longet to The Beatles, Santana, and Sly and the Family Stone.

Sly and the Family Stone. Marvin Gaye. Isaac Hayes. Earth, Wind and Fire. Just a few of the superstars whose music filled my home throughout my youth. All of them were black. But at the time, I didn’t know that.

In the olden days, when record owners would read album covers over and over again while listening to the vinyl discs inside, I didn’t know that any of these performers were black simply because these weren’t my albums. I fell in love with their music from a distance, as I laid down long lines of Hot Wheels track in the hallways of our home or worked up intricate designs on my Spirograph while sitting at the kitchen table. This music was the background soundtrack to my pre-adolescent years.

What I hadn’t realized, at least not until viewing the music episode of Hulu’s “The 1619 Project” was that tunes that were written and performed by people of color, like American blacks themselves, were usually segregated out of view from my white community in Cincinnati of the 60s and 70s. “The 1619 Project,” which began as investigative reporting for The New York Times Magazine by Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Nikole Hannah-Jones and has recently become a documentary series on Hulu, very convincingly asserts that our country’s entire history, to this day, links the consequences of slavery and the contributions of Black Americans in profound ways that still demand a complete reckoning and change of national behavior.

My brothers listened to alternative FM progressive rock stations which, I think, were less subject to the subtle acts of discrimination that AM radio employed, including playing hit parade listings that excluded what was actually called by Billboard (and I remember them being listed as such in our local paper) “Race Music” or, a little bit later and, I suppose, less inflammatory, “Soul Music.”

I can tell you that, while I was growing up in Cincinnati, “Soul Music” was never played on any AM radio in my home or in the public places that I frequented.

I never noticed.

I really had no idea that my life was a pretty clear reflection of an America that had only barely moved on from slavery. While I never said or did anything that was demonstrably racist, and I never witnessed such things, my recent involvement with “The 1619 Project,” namely public conversations in our local library, each session facilitated by one black and one white community figure, and specifically my conversations with Rev. Freedom Weekes of Children’s Village in Dobbs Ferry as he and I prepared our shared presentation, I’ve only now come to understand the role that I’d had no idea I had played in discriminatory living.

Prior to my and Rev. Weekes’ presentation at the library, we met for lunch and spent a delightful few hours getting to know each other. We spoke openly about our youth, and the ways in which each of us had experienced and been affected by black-white relationships. It was during this conversation that I heard my own words about the racism which I had been part of.

I was stunned by my self-revelations.

I’m going to pause here for a moment to share with you one of the great pieces of anti-racist pop. While Sly and the Family Stone was better known for their funk and psychedelic tunes, “Everyday People” crossed over into the mainstream, crossed over the racial divide, to deliver its message of acceptance and love.

Now I’m a pretty nice guy and I don’t generally harbor anger or grudges for superficial, super-uninformed, super-selfish reasons. So I asked Rev. Weekes what I could do to be a better ally and he said to me, “Talking like this is a great first step.”

So let me urge you to do the same. Find a gathering where these kinds of conversations are taking place. Listen to others’ stories. Share your own. Be honest about it. And ask the question, “How can I better support people of color in my personal and public life?” Hopefully, you’ll find it as illuminating and challenging an experience as I have. But I want to emphasize how important an experience it is.

Since retiring, I’ve spent most of my time studying and writing music. It’s been a thrill and a luxuriant dream come true. I struggle with the value of my endeavors though. After 26 years as a congregational rabbi, it feels self-indulgent and not terribly helpful to society to be spending all my time in a little room with music (and Charlie) filling my days. But I have to remember that, despite my being 67 years old, I am still quite the newbie at this music thing. I have to give myself the time to just be a student, to acquire the skills I need to be able to bring my art to bear on the important issues of our day, something I very much want to do. In the meantime, I’m watching the world around me and am just starting to dip my toes into creating music that is responsive to these times.

Ellen and I recently wrote a piece of music together called “Panim El Panim,” which is a phrase the Torah uses to describe Moses’ face-to-face encounters with God. The song’s lyrics urge us to carefully consider how we interact with one another, and to understand that it’s when we connect with others — when we connect compassionately, lovingly, and with common humanity — “these are the moments,” the song suggests, when God is here. The piece is every bit the kind of social commentary that I’ve been used to sharing in my teaching, in my preaching, and in my writing. I hope to find a way to continue such social commentary through my music. To help further the conversation about making the world a better home for everyone.

I have no idea if I’ll ever be good at this. I’ve begun researching and thinking about a new piece that will be based on the White Rose, the resistance group that operated in Munich, Germany, for less than a year in 1942-43, urging active opposition to the Nazis but which ceased when its leadership was caught and executed. If the poet in me can get this right, the song will have as much to say about our world today as it will about the world then.

I don’t know how to solve the problem of race. All I know is that I can at least do something to try and move the needle, and to try and make sure that I’m not part of the problem.

Why do I care about racism?

Well, probably most significantly, my family cared. My father was a doctor who took care of people his entire life. My mother marched with Dr. King. And my brothers drafted little-kid me into their anti-Vietnam War activities. I am a product of a family whose values may have made it likely, if not inevitable, that I would want to help, not hinder.

Second, Jewish tradition teaches us to care. The book of Exodus tells the story of the Jewish people’s decline and descent into Egyptian slavery, and also the story of our rescue and our redemption. As we left Egypt, it became the story of our stopping at Mount Sinai and pledging ourselves for all generations to accept others and to welcome difference.

Because we know.

We know what it’s like to be stripped of freedom, and thank God what it’s like to get it back. Judaism teaches us again and again that it is our responsibility to make sure no one has to ever endure cruelty — at the very least, to not have to endure it forever.

Third, the world needs us. Regardless of religion or family of origin, the world needs us to care. It needs us to respond, to help where we can. And even when we can’t help, to name it, to call out injustice for what it is and to keep doing so until the world no longer turns a blind eye.

I don’t know whether one person’s deeds of, in this case, anti-racism are better than another’s. Sure, it seems like it would be more worthwhile to change a law than to write a song. But how are we to know who is affected by our actions? Someone might grow up to be a Supreme Court Justice because, once upon a time, they were inspired by a song!

I have always loved the music of The Beatles. I was only seven when they landed in the U.S. for the first time. But their music had already been part of that home-based soundtrack I mentioned. So in 1968, when the song “Blackbird” was released on the White Album, I was exposed to their very British view of American prejudice toward blacks. “Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly.” The Beatles had seen how America treated people of color, and they recorded “Blackbird” to let us know that they’d seen, and that they hoped we’d finally do something about it.

Did “Blackbird,” which I must have heard a thousand times in my youth, embed itself inside my heart, so that one day I would want to be part of “The 1619 Project”? I can only give you a maybe on that. But I sure am glad that they put that song out into the world. Just as I’m glad to have participated in my conversations with Rev. Freedom Weekes.

Vayomer el amo … and Pharaoh said to his people … hinei am b ’nai Yisrael rav v’atzum mimenu … “Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us … hava nit-chak-mah lo … let us deal shrewdly with them.” (Exodus 1)

It shouldn’t have required us to know what it feels like to be the stranger, to be scorned and outcast, in order to want to do right by others. But we were the stranger and, because of that, we carry a special knowledge and a special obligation.

We may not get it right. God knows, there’ve been many times when I’ve unwittingly hurt others. But we have to keep trying, keep learning, keep getting closer to each of us producing the art, in whatever form it takes, that will shape this world into the Garden of Eden — for everyone — that God meant for it to be.

Billy

Talk about taking your time! I first worked on this piece in 1981, but I didn’t finish it until 2022.

When I first wrote Or Zarua, it was performed by Beged Kefet in Jerusalem during my first year of rabbinical school (1982-83). Beged Kefet was a singing group. We started out as a community-service project, fulfilling Hebrew Union College’s mandate that each student, during our year in Israel, give something back to the country that was hosting us. I joined some friends who chose to give back through music. Thus, Beged Kefet began. The group included (Rabbi-to-be) me, (Cantor-to-be) Ellen, (Rabbi-to-be) Les Bronstein, (Cantor-to-be) Benjie Ellen Schiller, (Educator-to-be) Kyla Epstein and (Rabbi-to-be) David Wolfman. We performed at sites all over Israel like block parties and new immigrant absorption centers, and occasionally at our alma-mater-to-be, Hebrew Union College.

Where did we get the name Beged Kefet? Well, first you need to know that it’s a very common Hebrew mnemonic taught to Israeli children in their elementary school grammar classes. “Beged Kefet” indicates the six Hebrew letters that, when they appear at the beginning of a word, receive an added dot (a dagesh) to modify its sound. We chose the name to give our mainly Hebrew-speaking audiences a heads-up that they’d need to be somewhat patient with us as we attempted to speak and perform in our second, their first, language.

When we returned to America, we kept the group, kept the name, added more music, and performed together for another 26 years. Our personnel adjusted slightly because Kyla and David finished their studies in another city, so our ranks were replenished by the addition of (Cantor-to-be) Leon Sher and (Cantor-to-be) Riki Lippitz, and our consiglieri Beth Sher (every band needs an attorney who can sing).

Or Zarua was performed many times during our year in Israel and, before we returned stateside in the Spring of 1983, we made an informal recording of it. Here you can listen to me, Ellen, Les, Benjie, Kyla and David singing it in its original form.

Beged Kefet would record three albums during the years that followed: The First Album, Go Out in Joy, and One Little Dot. But Or Zarua appeared on none of them. Why? Because I never finished writing it. In fact, we never again performed it … until the new recording below.

The text of Or Zarua is lovely. It comes from the 97th Psalm. “Or zarua la’tzadik ul’yishrei lev simcha … light is sown for the righteous and the upright of heart.”

I knew there needed to be another section of music for the song to be complete and I’m not sure why but it would be 40 years before I noticed that the very next verse of Psalm 97 would fit perfectly: “Simchu tzadikim b’Adonai v’hodu l’zecher kodsho … the deeds of the righteous celebrate God; every kindness radiates holiness!” That’s not an exact translation but one, I believe, that conveys the beauty of the text.

A bit more about the text.

If you’ve met me in my work as a rabbi, you likely know that while God is very much at the center of my faith, it’s not a literal belief. I don’t know that God actually exists, but I choose to believe in God because it helps me organize the principles by which I try to live my life. I like thinking that the universe wants us to be good to each other. I also like thinking that the universe feels the goodness that radiates from our acts of love and generosity. Less necessary to me is the notion that the universe will reward us for being good to each other. Frankly, if that’s why we’re doing good things, we’ve already missed the point.

In this video I made with Or Zarua as the score, I’ve provided lots of visual examples of people who are being kind and generous and selfless. They’re being the kind of people that I, in my better moments, would like to be. These are the people who bring light into our world. Light is not only “sown” for them, but they have “sown” light for all of us.

And you know what I say to that? God bless them all!

Ellen and I recorded Or Zarua with our dear friends, The Levins (Ira Levin and Julia Bordenaro), in June 2022. I added a fifth voice — a cello — to join the four of us as a quintet.

Hope you like it.

Billy

The sheet music (lead sheet and/or instrumental parts) is available at Jonah’s Trading Post (https://jonahmac.org/product/or-zarua). Your donation of any amount will be put to use in bringing the arts to others, effecting social change, and building Jewish life. The music is free – our way of saying thank you for being so nice.

After writing “Kaddish,” my first piece of music, I composed a few other tunes during high school but hadn’t yet gotten serious about composition. In college, I entered as a music major with the intention of really learning what music composition is all about. Now Brandeis University, while sporting two excellent departments of Theatre and Music, was not at all known for bringing the two together. That is until then-unknown David Crane and Marta Kauffman teamed up in 1977 to direct an extracurricular student production of “Godspell” (for you Brandeis alum, Tympanium Euphorium’s very first show).

Destiny had stepped in.

Events were set in motion that led to my finally meeting the young lady who had sat in the front row of the NFTY Song Competition where “Kaddish” placed and lost. Two years after the competition, Ellen Siegel and I met at auditions for “Godspell.” Consisting of much improvisation, everyone had a great time playing together and by the time the cast list went up, many of us were already fast friends. Ellen and I were cast, she as a member of the ensemble and I as the Lord Jesus himself. Working with this irrepressible cast of amazingly talented, funny and kind actors, Ellen and I got to sing “Day by Day” together and the rest, well, would one day become history. Here we are, in the photo raising the curtain on a whole lotta fun and, in the link just below, singing our hearts out (Ellen in the lead).

Also set in motion were the events that would persuade me to pursue a career in musical theatre rather than becoming a rabbi. For a while anyway.

After “Godspell,” Marta, David, Ellen and I were all in. We wanted to produce a second musical in the coming year. But we thought that “Godspell,” particularly through its auditions, may have shown us most of the theatre talent that Brandeis could offer and we were hard-pressed to come up with a show that would fit. So we decided to write our own. (By the way, we were wrong. There was plenty of other talent at Brandeis, as the following year’s production of “Cabaret” would demonstrate.)

David and Marta wrote the book and lyrics, joined by their uncommonly talented friend, Seth Friedman. I wrote the music (and also some lyrics, a sad tale which I shall share some other day). Ellen and Marta worked together as co-choreographers.

The first show that we wrote (in 1978, my sophomore year) was a one-act entitled “Foundation of Feathers.” Chronicling the world of relationships and what we learn about them in college, this show would be expanded in 1979 (my junior year) to become a two-act musical called “Waiting for the Feeling.” Then in 1980 (my senior year), we wrote “Personals,” a show about people searching for love in the big city (Seth and his brother Joel began contributing songs too at this point).

Both “Waiting for the Feeling” and “Personals” were winners of the American College Theatre Festival, each musical earning a three-day showcase at the Kennedy Center in Washington. Producers from “the real world” of television and theatre had eyes there and, as a result, the following summer (immediately following my graduation), the cast and crew of “Personals” joined a six-week USO tour of American and NATO military bases in Germany and Italy. After that, we moved to New York City where work began for “Personals” to open in November 1985 at the Minetta Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village.

Here’s a really (really!) low-quality video of Dee Hoty singing “Imagine My Surprise” in the 1985 production. The sound is clear but the picture isn’t. Dee sounds great, but without a DNA sample you’d be hard-pressed to prove that it’s her. Press PLAY anyway and listen to her great work.

“Personals” ran for eight months. and featured an a-plus cast of seasoned (or soon-to-be-seasoned) actors: Laura Dean, Dee Hoty, Jeff Keller, Trey Wilson, Nancy Opel and Jason Alexander. Paul Lazarus directed. Michael Skloff (who would go on to write the theme song for “Friends”) was our Music Director.

Oh, did I forget to mention that additional music for the show was written by Stephen Schwartz and Alan Menken? Sheesh, what a couple of hangers-on, trying to advance their musical careers by attaching themselves to my coattails. Oh well, in New York everyone’s gotta try to make it however they can.

And then the fairy tale ended.

Well, not for them. My story took a left turn somewhere in Greenwich Village, with me ending up at Hebrew Union College (a few blocks east of the Minetta Lane Theatre) where I studied to become a rabbi.

It would be nearly 40 years before I returned to music. 2019, to be precise.

In 2019, I wrote a new arrangement for the song “Imagine My Surprise” from “Personals.” I was still working full-time but, after nearly 40 years, I was itching to write music again. Not only that, I was itching to write for instruments as well as voice. I’d never done that and while I was busy rabbi-ing through the years, I’d been listening to great instrumental arrangements along the way and I couldn’t wait to begin my newest journey.

I wanted to start with some music from “Personals” because, in 1998, fourteen years after the show’s run in the Big Apple, “Personals” ran to sell-out crowds at the New End Theatre in London and a cast recording was made. Having that recording has been, of course, incredibly exciting but , two of my songs were performed too slowly. I wanted to make a “composer’s cut” that would perform the songs the way I’d originally intended.

When I wrote this new arrangement, which included parts for cello, clarinet, flute, marimba and violin. I was beside myself with excitement. I knew it would only be a first step in writing good arrangements but I certainly had to start somewhere.

We recorded all the instrumental parts and then brought in veteran Broadway singer Angela DeCicco who graciously agreed to be my vocalist for “Imagine My Surprise.” The recording took place at Studio L in Congers, NY, where sound engineer Larry Alexander — quite the phenom himself for producing albums for Janis Ian (“Between the Lines”), Diana Ross (“Why Do Fools Fall in Love”), Bruce Springsteen (“Greetings From Asbury Park”) and The Rolling Stones (“Still Life”) — took the helm and major responsibility for the final sound.

I’d like to think that, for Larry, his entire career had been leading him to this pinnacle moment. But frankly, I was just happy to sit in the room with him and hoped he wouldn’t come to his senses and throw me out.

“Imagine My Surprise” is a bittersweet ballad that tells the story of a soaring love which the singer had never thought was realistically possible. Turns out, she was right. Marta and David wrote this exquisite lyric back in 1980. The song came too late for any of our Brandeis productions, and also for our USO tour; it made its debut at the Minetta Lane.

I remember sitting in a practice room at Brandeis composing this music. Never really “the ballad guy,” this was really fun for me. I loved watching the song emerge as I played around on the piano. At times, Marta or David would be there with me and we’d work together to find just the right feel. In time, we were really pleased with what we created.

As it turns out, “Imagine My Surprise” may very well be my best known piece of music. It’s used frequently in auditions and cabarets (a lot of them on YouTube).

Here’s the final product. Angela was great. Larry the engineer was great. The song ain’t too shabby. I hope you like it.

Billy

The sheet music is available at Jonah’s Trading Post (https://jonahmac.org/product/imagine-my-surprise). Your donation of any amount will be put to use in bringing the arts to others, effecting social change, and building Jewish life. The music is free – our way of saying thank you for being so nice.

This piece got written when Rabbi Scott Weiner and I were looking for a melody for V’haer Eineinu that would work on Yom Kippur with his congregation, Tamid Westchester. There are some excellent tunes out there but not one we felt was right for this friendly, participatory community AND that fit the Yom Kippur mood.

So I sat down and worked up a melody that might be a fit. Not wanting to bias Scott’s choice, I presented mine among the other tunes without tipping him off as to its authorship. One by one, we listened to them and when we finished hearing this one, Scott exclaimed (and I quote), “Chicken dinner, we have a winner!” One of my very favorite reviews ever.

Here’s a video I put together …

V’haer Eineinu is part of Ahavah Rabbah, one of the morning prayers between Barechu and Shema. The theme of Ahavah Rabbah is the love of Torah. V’haer Eineinu asks God to open our eyes and our hearts to the teachings of Torah so that we might learn to live in such a way that we never stumble, never feel shame, and never need rebuke. It’s a tall order, to be sure, and I personally have missed the mark more than my share of the time. But a person has to have goals, right? In the musical, Merrily We Roll Along, Charley exclaims, “What’s the point of demands you can meet?” Perhaps it’s the same with lofty goals. In fact, I think it’s the point of God – a model for living that is perfection, impossible to match but commendable to try.

Living one’s life with honor and integrity seems to be a set of goals that are very much worth pursuing. That, I think, is the point of V’haer Eineinu.

Here’s a fairly literal translation of the passage. “Enlighten us with Your Teaching, help us to hold fast to Your mitzvot, and unite us in our hearts to love and revere Your Name. Then we will never feel shame, never deserve rebuke, and never stumble. Then we will put our trust in You, the great, holy and awesome One.”

While I wanted English lyrics to be included in the piece, I needed fewer of them and also wanted to convey the universal impact that loving God (if we do so carefully) can have on the world around us. I settled on: “By the light of Your Word that illumines our way, help us love and revere deeds of truth and justice, so that we’ll never fall. That’s the gift of heeding Your call. We thank You.”

I finished the song as Anat Hoffman, Director of the Israel Religious Center, a bastion of justice work, was retiring. I dedicated V’haer Eineinu to her because she’s the kind of person I would point to as a Torah success story, learning and synthesizing the lessons of Jewish living into every fiber of her being and changing countless lives as a result.

I arranged “V’haer Eineinu” for two voices (duet or choral) and three horns (mostly because I was learning how to write for horns and wanted to use my newly acquired knowledge). The recording includes my and Ellen’s voices (sometimes 16 of them!), me on keyboard, plus a trumpet, a saxophone and a trombone. I admit that, while I love the horns, they may not be to others’ liking. I absolutely believe the piece can be accompanied by three gentler instruments like flute and clarinet. Or just use the piano.

Here’s a video of the two of us singing with just the piano …

By the way, while I may have composed V’haer Eineinu for the High Holy Days, it’s certainly useable on weekdays and Shabbat too.

Billy

The sheet music is available at Jonah’s Trading Post (https://jonahmac.org/product/vhaer-eineinu). Your donation of any amount will be put to use in bringing the arts to others, effecting social change, and building Jewish life. The music is free – our way of saying thank you for being so nice.

The first music I ever wrote was due to the encouragement of my mentor and friend, Rabbi Joel Wittstein (z”l). As Educational Director in the mid-1970’s of Isaac Mayer Wise Temple in Cincinnati, OH, Joel suggested I take a semester off from regular classes to study something in Hebrew and then try setting it to music. Why he saw ”the music thing” in me before I did, I’ll never know. But I’m forever grateful that he did.

That was eleventh grade. I’d spent two summers at a Jewish summer camp (URJ Goldman Camp in Zionsville, IN) and had learned lots of Hebrew prayers and songs but all in English letters. So when Joel asked me to choose something to learn in Hebrew, I settled on the Kaddish, our prayer of remembrance for those who have died. I’d learned to mimic the Hebrew pronunciations but, once given the opportunity, I knew that this was the prayer (and it’s a long one) that I wanted to study in its original language.

This, by the way, began a lifelong love affair with Hebrew that took me to rabbinical school, to Israel, and to studying and reading from the Torah (the Five Books of Moses) many, many times throughout my life.

This recording was made in 1975. The sound quality is pretty awful because all I had back then was a cheap cassette tape recorder. Amy Liebschutz, a friend from Kindergarten onward and now an extraordinary vocalist in New York City who goes by the stage name of Amy London, sang for me. The tape earned us a place that same year in the finals of Reform Judaism’s NFTY Song Competition to be held at the URJ Kutz Camp in Warwick, NY. Coming from Cincinnati where Amy and I were born and raised, traveling to New York for a North American competition was a big deal.

When we arrived at the airport, however, the organizers forgot to pick us up so Amy and I had to find a shuttle into New York City, a subway to Port Authority, and a bus to Warwick, no easy feat for two young and innocent midwesterners. We were so happy to still be alive by the time we got to Kutz!

Oh, we lost the competition. That was disappointing but it was still exciting to have been there. And guess who was sitting in the front row during the performances? A young lady named Ellen Siegel from Texas. I would meet Ellen two years further down the road when we landed at the same college, fell in love and, seven years after the song competition, got married.

The tune has never gotten much use. Folks don’t really want to sing Kaddish. We used it a few times at Goldman camp. I remember Ish Tov (Rabbi Steve Goodman) playing it on his violin, which was pretty awesome. But that’s about it. Which is okay. I’m still very proud of this first effort.

Life sure is fascinating. Hope you enjoy this first work of mine!

Billy

Addendum: I posted notice of this piece on Facebook (1/18/24) and was stunned (and delighted) at the response. So many people remember “Kaddish” from temple in Cincinnati and camp in Zionsville, Indiana. I remember it being played a few times at services, but to imprint itself in people’s memories deeply enough that they remember it even now? I just never thought it was that kind of tune. Now that I think about it though, I remember how proud we all were that a new piece of music had emerged from our temple and/or camp. After all, we had always loved and sung the songs that came from elsewhere. This (along with the Ian Silver/Julie Schorsch Sapper “Yihiyu L’ratzon,” which actually has seen real life after its 1970s summertime appearance) was one of our own. That was cool and I loved getting to share in that with everyone. All I can say is thank you for letting me know, and wait til you catch my next act!

The sheet music and mp3 are available at Jonah’s Trading Post (https://jonahmac.org/product/kaddish). Your donation of any amount will be put to use in bringing the arts to others, effecting social change, and building Jewish life. The music is free – our way of saying thank you for being so nice.

On Lech Lecha (Genesis 12:1-17:27)

“Abram went forth as God had commanded him, and Lot went with him. Abram was seventy-five years old when he left Haran.” (Genesis 12:4)

Careful there. Reading that first sentence, you might think this is a duplicate of the other D’var Torah I wrote this week (“When I Become Old”).

You wouldn’t be entirely incorrect.

This past August, I stopped by ye olde stomping grounds at Woodlands Community Temple to attend a Shabbat Evening Service. Having retired, I’m no longer on the bimah but I do drop by every now and then. On this particular evening, WCT welcomed Cantor David Frommer who sang (cantors do that!) and he spoke (I love when cantors do that!). It might interest you to know that David has a couple of other titles he uses on occasion. At his place of employment, David is addressed as Chaplain Frommer. On his stationary, it reads, “Maj. David Frommer.” If you want a cool title like that, first become a rabbi or a cantor, then get yourself a commission at the United States Military Academy in West Point, New York.

Chaplain Frommer spoke that evening about the privilege of serving his country and how more members of the Jewish community should do so. I wasn’t exactly David’s target audience, but I was really inspired by his words.

Despite the many failures and disappointments in American governance that we hear about each day, I’m deeply proud and grateful to live in the United States. I never served in the military (the Vietnam War-era draft having ended just prior to my 18th birthday) but I did spend a summer in the USO. Our small company performed for American and NATO troops, presenting to hundreds of soldiers on major bases throughout Germany and Italy, and to a dozen or so soldiers at a time who were serving in tiny command posts located in the farthest reaches of the European theater. I felt extremely fortunate to be able say “Thank you for your service” in such an exciting and rewarding manner.

After that evening’s Shabbat service, I sought out Chaplain Frommer and told him how much I enjoyed his presentation and, were I younger, that I might very well have taken him up on his request to enlist. But now counting myself among the long, greying line of the aged (as opposed to “the long grey line” of West Point cadets), the best I could do is offer to help out if he felt there was something I could do for him.

And that’s how I found myself at West Point for lunch this week.

Sixty or so college-age cadets were seated cafeteria-style in the large dining space, buoyantly chatting with each other as they heartily consumed kosher Chinese food from Monsey. It was during their meal that I was introduced and given 25 minutes or so to share some Torah.

While you teachers out there might shudder at the thought of trying to speak to a roomful of young, hungry students while they sat with friends during one of the few breaks in their day, these kids were as polite and attentive as one could ever imagine. And I loved the gone-too-quickly 25 minutes I was able to spend with them.

I began by telling them about my other D’var Torah that I wrote this week for the World Union for Progressive Judaism, a piece about getting older and, like Abraham (who the Torah says lived for 175 years), making sure those later years are filled with new experiences built atop a foundation of ever-increasing wisdom.

But, I continued, that’s probably not the most relevant topic for a group of 18-22 year olds. As I began to look for something else in Lech Lecha that I could share with them, it occurred to me that, with a bit of adjustment, these texts, and almost this same point, could work.

My thesis for the cadets was simple: Over time, regardless of age, many of us grow old in a metaphorical manner. We might be stung by disappointment. We might lose our youthful idealism. We might calcify, petrify, and otherwise toughen up into old and hardened ways. We might not become hard-of-hearing, but unhearing. We might not become blind, but unseeing. We might not die, but our feelings might.

I quoted General Colin Powell (not someone who frequently figured in sermons when I was un-retired). “Leadership is solving problems. The day soldiers stop bringing you their problems is the day you have stopped leading them. They have either lost confidence that you can help or concluded you do not care. Either case is a failure of leadership.”

I told the cadets that I love this text, because it emphasizes the humanity of the military leader and of the military soldier. Both need to retain their most human emotions and feelings, and respect the same in others.

The young people at West Point are enrolled in program that grooms them to become leaders, militarily for a while and then perhaps something else when their period of service is complete. While they train, it’s crucial that they think about what it means to be a leader. Giving troops the orders that may determine whether young men and women live or die, this is certainly part of the military leader’s job description. But remaining approachable — especially by those whose lives might one day be placed in the line of danger — preserving and nurturing those parts of themselves that will allow a solder to bring them their problems, that is extraordinary leadership.

I served as a congregational rabbi for 34 years, 28 of those years with the same congregation. Throughout that time, I observed in myself, and in other rabbis too, an evolution; namely, that through the repetition of tasks we have mastered, our attitudes can and probably will change. I have hurried people along who shouldn’t have been hurried, not because I was in a hurry (although sometimes I was) but because, owing to my mastery of the tasks at hand, I was able to move more and more quickly. What’s curious here (and what I should have learned far earlier) is that, in my line of work, not only do laypeople not move as quickly as their clergy, ofttimes they don’t want to. The work we do (in my case, as a rabbi officiating at B’nai Mitzvah, weddings, funerals and so much more) includes moments when the everyday rush slows down because these are moments that are too special to rush.

But there I was, this young rabbi who, at times, grew impatient and frustrated when it took more time to bring someone to a place of understanding or completion. I lashed out (perhaps unknowingly, perhaps not) when I felt my time was more important than their experience. And I saw others do this too — other rabbis, as well as doctors, teachers, police officers, salespeople and more.

Life, I told the cadets, isn’t so much about slowing down as about paying attention, taking the time to pay attention. For them, maybe not in the heat of battle, but when they could make the time, take the time, and that it might make a difference. Human lives aren’t only at stake on the battlefield; every moment of contact with another person is a moment during which that person can be ordered, or they can be honored. Admittedly, both can happen at the same time but I hope they understood what I meant.

In Genesis 12:9 we read, “Then Abram journeyed by stages toward the Negev.” I learned from Onkelos (in preparing my other D’var Torah) that Negev is related to Hebrew verb that means “dry.” The desert is dry. The land after the Flood became dry. And if we’re not careful, we too can “dry.” We can lose our youthful exuberance, our ideals, our sense of sympathy and, yep, our patience. We have so much to offer each other but, in the rush to success, we can lose sight of the purpose of our journey. We pursue grand ambitions (and we should) but because we have “dried,” because we have hardened, we have less and less to offer the people around us.

The I quoted General Douglas MacArthur. “A true leader has the confidence to stand alone, the courage to make tough decisions, and the compassion to listen to the needs of others. He does not set out to be a leader, but becomes one by the equality of his actions and the integrity of his intent.”

There is wisdom that comes with advancement. To these cadets I suggested it was the wisdom of resolving conflict with words rather than with weapons, and what a truly magnificent achievement that is. Soldiers or not, we all face moments of choice between words and weapons, when we can work to resolve differences and disagreements through mutual respect for common hopes and dreams, or we can strive to impose our desired outcome without the hard work of negotiation and compromise.

When I think about the number of heads I butted in my youth, and how much more adept I became, as the years marched on, at working with people to find shared resolutions, I’m so glad I moved in the direction of growing attentiveness and compassion, rather than of well-honed skills alone.

In Genesis 14:14-15, seventy-five year old Abram “heard that his kinsman’s [household] had been taken captive. He mustered his retainers, born into his household, numbering three hundred and eighteen, and went in pursuit as far as Dan. At night, he and his servants deployed against them and defeated them.”

At a time when that baton would have already been passed and such tasks would belong to a new generation, Abram took note. The new generation was being held captive somewhere and it was up to an old man to save the day.

This is where time and experience pay off, when we understand difference between biding our time and knowing it’s time to act decisively. Whether we are truly old (speak for yourself!) or we are well-seasoned, the key for all of us is to remain inspired and determined, to maintain our principles and integrity from day one (as cadets or rabbis or wherever are skills lie) to day last (as perhaps 5-star generals, CEOs, veteran educators, etc).

Then, as I wrapped things up, I quoted a general one last time. This time, General Dwight D. Eisenhower. “The supreme quality of leadership is integrity.”

Time will pass. Perhaps enough time to gray our hair and go on Medicare. Or enough that people have begun to look up to us as the voice of experience and (we should be so lucky) of reason. The trick is to not allow time to pass us by, to do what’s needed to remain strong of principle, of ideals, of conviction, of action. And we need to do so until the day we finish our own service – service to country, to ourselves and those we love, and our service to God.

Shabbat shalom.

Billy

P.S. Many, many thanks to Chaplain David Frommer for inviting me up to West Point. It’s hard to say whether this or my time in the USO was more fun!

On Lech Lecha (Genesis 12:1-17:27)

“Abram went forth as God had commanded him, and Lot went with him. Abram was seventy-five years old when he left Haran.” (Genesis 12:4)

Numbers in the Torah are an odd thing. We love that people lived such a long time in that world, but our rational selves don’t buy it because science tells us that, back then, folks probably only lived into their mid-30s.* It’s reasonable then to assume that this age was ascribed to him either because Abraham looked older than he really was, or that he became quite renowned for his remarkable vigor and strength in old age.

So when we read that Abraham (here, referred to as Abram) was 75 when he left Haran, 100 when Isaac was born, and dies at 175, these are probably not literal years but are conveying the idea that he was no spring chicken when important things were happening in his life. We’ll probably never know, but we might be able to learn something from this about our own old age.

I am recently retired. I no longer work full-time. I have Medicare health insurance. I have to be more careful about what I eat and how I move. And I’m positively thrilled to have entered this chapter of my life.

Retirement is often a choice, of course. I know lots of people who continue their careers well into their 70s, their 80s, and some even into their 90s. For those of us who’ve left our workaday world behind, old age (okay, maybe just “advancing age”) can open new vistas that bring incredible excitement and challenge.

Whatever one’s choices during these later years, the opportunities which lie before us can reinvigorate, almost like (dare I say it) a Fountain of Youth! I not only meet each new day with an eagerness I’ve not felt since my twenties, I am savoring every day in ways I’d just not had time for when I was younger.

There’s a price, of course, for growing older. A friend of mine tells me all the time, “Old age isn’t for sissies.” The aches and pains, the doctor’s appointments, the unfortunate dismissiveness-because-I’m-old by some — all these are ever-present and incontrovertible evidence that we too, like Abraham, have arrived to an advanced age.

In 12:9, we read, “Then Abram journeyed by stages toward the Negev.” Onklelos, who translated the Torah into Aramaic, understands negev (in Gen 8:13), when describing the receded waters following Noah’s flood, as meaning “dry.” Onkelos’ point is that the Negev is a desert, not too far away from viewing advancing age as a time when life “dries,” when we lose our youthful appearance and have little to offer the world around us. But while Abraham may be experiencing the inevitable physical progression of aging, our story makes clear that his life is anything but “dry.”

A bit later in the parasha (in 13:8-9) we read, “Abram said to Lot, ‘Let there be no strife between you and me, between my herders and yours, for we are kin. Is not the whole land before you? Let us separate. If you go north, I will go south, and if you go south, I will go north.’” Rashi asserts that not only has Abraham come to value the art of compromise, he also works hard to preserve the relationship he has with his nephew. Rashi rewrites this verse as, “Wherever you settle down I will not go far from you and I will stand by you as a shield and as a helper.”

There is wisdom that comes with advancing age. And the wisdom of resolving conflict, rather than reaching for weapons, is truly a beautiful (and far more reassuring) thing to behold. When I think about the number of heads I have butted in my youth, and how much more adept I became, as the years marched on, at working with people to find shared resolutions, I know that I wouldn’t want to be any other age than the one I am right now.

Lastly, in 14:14-15, we read, “When Abram heard that his kinsman’s [household] had been taken captive, he mustered his retainers, born into his household, numbering three hundred and eighteen, and went in pursuit as far as Dan. At night, he and his servants deployed against them and defeated them.”

Whatever the man’s age, there was plenty of fight still in him. His nephew had been taken captive and Abraham wouldn’t stand for it. A time for action had arrived and he would lead his retinue into the breach to restore justice and order.

Old age definitely does not mean checked out. Take at look at these late-achievers:

• In 2011, Minoru Saito from Japan sailed non-stop, by himself, around the world at the age of 77.

• In 2012, Yuichiro Miura, also from Japan, became the oldest person to conquer Mount Everest. He was 80 years old.

• In 2010, Nola Ochs, at age 98, became the oldest person to receive a master’s degree from Fort Hays State University in Kansas.

• In 2007, Leonid Hurwicz of Minneapolis received the Nobel Memorial Prize in Economic Sciences for his work in mechanism design. He was 90 years old.

• And one of my very favorites, in 2020, during the COVID-19 lockdown in England, Captain Sir Thomas Moore celebrated his 100th birthday by asking for pledges as he walked 100 lengths of his garden. He raised more than $37,000,000 for the National Health Service.

No matter what fights our body may give us as we age, there can be plenty of fight left in us. We may relish the calm, quiet which we’ve settled into but, when it’s needed, there’s a tiger that can be let loose.

Lech Lecha is best known for God’s command to Abraham, “Lech lecha … go!” These words initiated the greatest adventures of Abraham’s life at a time we might dismiss as being past any period of productivity. Well, as the Gershwins told us, “It ain’t necessarily so.” Abraham has shown us that, regardless of age, we can literally change the direction of the world.

Half a lifetime ago, when I was thirty-one and performing with a music group called Beged Kefet, I wrote a song entitled, “When I Become Old.” I considered it a declaration of human rights for the aged. Thirty-four years later, I’m finally in a good position to critique my younger self’s efforts to understand what old age might be like.

Here’s what I wrote:

When I become old, I want to live
Where I can keep my self-respect.
When I become old, I want to know
I won’t be cut down by others’ neglect.

People are the same, we’re all people.
We’ve got rights that are basic,
Regardless of whether we’re female or male
Or we’re black or we’re white.
To tell me I can’t ‘cuz I’m old, isn’t right.

When I become old,
I want to work, have a career, ply at a trade.
Or maybe instead, I’ll volunteer,
Reach out to those alone and afraid.

People have a right to contribute
To the world that we live in.
Regardless of whether we’re tall or we’re short
Or we’re weak or we’re strong,
To tell me I can’t ‘cuz I’m old, simply is wrong!

Find me a place. Open your heart.
Give me a chance. Let me become a part
Of my life and my dreams.
Let me be more than it seems that I could ever be.

People, these aren’t just other people.
If you look in the mirror,
The person you see may be selfish or kind
Or in prison or free.
But that person will one day be old.
That person is you. That person is me.

When I become old,
I pray to God the prayers of my youth
Will not be denied.
When I become old,
I hope that old doesn’t mean … I merely … survived.

The way I figure it, if God felt that Abraham wasn’t too old to start a new career (creating Judaism) or have kids (Ishmael and Isaac), you and I shouldn’t think we’re too old to pursue our own dreams.

And you youngsters out there, don’t think for a moment that you’ll be too old to pursue your dreams either. In many respects, you’ll be just getting started!

Shabbat shalom,
Billy

You can listen to Beged Kefet perform “When I Become Old.”

*en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life_expectancy

“The ground under them burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with their households, all Korach’s people and all their possessions.” (Numbers 16:31-32)

Rebellion sure does get a bad rap in the Torah.

Perhaps the condemnation was well-deserved. After all, Korach gathered two hundred and fifty well-positioned leaders of the Israelite community to challenge Moses and Aaron’s leadership. “Why do you raise yourselves above God’s congregation?” they railed. (Num. 16:3)

Midrash Tanchuma (Korach 4) blames it on nepotism. “If you have taken royal rank for yourself, you should at least not have chosen the priesthood for your brother — it is not you alone who have heard at Sinai, ‘I am Adonai your God.’ All the congregation heard it!”

Sforno thinks Korach’s 250 followers infiltrated the crowds that awaited meetings with Moses, seeking to incite them. Then, when Korach besieged Moses and Aaron, he would have a sympathetic, if not outright zealous, entourage.

Ibn Ezra perceived Korach, in a lie worthy of Donald Trump, as accusing the brothers of political corruption and greed. Granted, we only know what we read in the Torah, but it sure seems to me that the Israelites would have been hard-pressed to find two more selfless servants of God.

But none of that is actually in the Torah. All we know is that Korach rebelled. So why don’t we sympathize with, rather than spurn, Korach? After all, we ourselves live in a nation that embraces the right, even the responsibility, of public protest. Is that not an important demonstration of the freedom of expression and dissent upon which this nation was founded? “Congress shall make no law … abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” (1st Amendment, U.S. Constitution) If we value having the right to say what’s on our mind, why not accord this same right to Korach?

We are certainly living through (please, God, let it be “through” and not just “in”) an era of rampant rebellion. Here in the United States, we continue watching in embarrassment and disbelief and profound concern as Donald Trump twists the truth to his own ends, while his opportunist supporters of a stolen election continue to dismiss the hateful violence of January 6, 2021, in order to ride the populist wave to their own election victories. As distasteful a person as Trump is, what roils me even moreso is that he lies about it, and he lies so boisterously that people don’t think twice about believing him.

Now add to this equation Anti-Vaxxers, Pizzagate, the 9/11 Conspiracy, the Sandy Hook Elementary School Conspiracy, and The Great Replacement theory.

There is a widespread proliferation these days of made-up tales regarding myriad issues. And while such balderdash has been around throughout American history (think Salem witch trials, the Illuminati, and McCarthyism), it is perhaps cable television and social media that have made the ridiculous into truly frightening threats. As we all witnessed on January 6, 2021, the wide reach of conspiracy theorists enabled a gathering of like-minded, ill-informed people to break down the doors of the U.S. Capitol and place the integrity of our entire democracy at risk in their attempt to disrupt the election process.

The lesson is clear: People who are in a position that commands the respect and allegiance of a multitude, they have a particular responsibility to refrain from abusing that position.

While it’s difficult to get a complete and accurate read from the Torah of what exactly transpired when Korach stood against Moses and Aaron, it seems (in my opinion) as if Korach’s sin was not that he rebelled but that he used his position of considerable influence to manipulate and exploit those who looked up to him. Great Torah Study discussions often leave much unresolved but, in the end, we should walk away with a strengthened understanding of how we can help make the world a safer, kinder home for everybody.

So here’s what Korach’s story is saying to me: If you’re going to rebel, make sure you do so for the right reasons.

Which brings me to Andrée Geulen, who was a schoolteacher in Brussels, Belgium, during World War II.

Upon invading and occupying the country in 1940, the Nazis deported and murdered 25,000 of Belgium’s 65,000 Jews. Among the many laws imposed during the occupation, Jews were required to wear yellow stars on their clothing. Geulen, who was teaching primary-grade children in a boarding school at the time, distributed aprons to all of her students in order to cover the stars that had been forced upon her fearful Jewish students.

This was only the beginning for Andrée Geulen. Soon, she was enlisted and became one of very few non-Jewish members of the Committee for the Defense of Jews. From 1943 to 1944, she sought out Jewish families and pleaded with them to let her take their children and place them in hiding for the duration of the war. Amazingly, she was able to save the lives of three hundred Jewish children.

After the Holocaust, Geulen became involved with the relief organization Aid for Israelite Victims of the War, seeking to reunite with their families as many of these “hidden children” as possible.

In 2007, Andrée Geulen was awarded honorary Israeli citizenship. During the ceremony at Yad Vashem, Geulen said, “What I did was merely my duty. Disobeying the laws of the time was just the normal thing to do.” (“Woman Honored for Saving Kids from Nazis,” Associated Press, April 18, 2007)

This was the rebellion of Andrée Geulen.

People in positions of prominence and power usually don’t like rebels. They’re often a nuisance and, whether they’re correct in their grievances or not, they’re a threat to the status quo. In my own career as a rabbi, I was from time to time on the receiving end of a few rebellions having to do with our B’nai Mitzvah program, the temple budget, and even what was served at the Friday night Oneg. And if these don’t sound very significant to you, try to imagine what it might feel like to have someone publicly and forcefully excoriate you and your team. I actually preferred it when they were right and we could apologize and implement the proper corrections. That was far preferable to having to mount a campaign that would publicly and forcefully demonstrate our innocence.

In the end, public dissent is a vital ingredient to the preservation of freedom. And when freedom has been squashed, it’s a vital ingredient to the sacred work of restoring freedom. Amanda Gorman writes, “The point of protest isn’t winning — it’s holding fast to the promise of freedom, even when fast victory is not promised.” (“Fury and Faith,” Amanda Gorman, Call Us What We Carry, Viking Books, December 2021)

But there’s a fragile line between righteous protest and self-serving manipulation.

Donald Trump represents one of these. Andrée Geulen represents the other. She died just last month at the age of one hundred. Her memory and the legacy of her rebellion will always be for a blessing.

This piece was originally published online by the World Union for Progressive Judaism.