Me and my big brother (well, 1 of 4 anyway)

My brother Jimmy came up from Florida last week to spend time with me and my family. Jimmy is number five of the six Dreskin children. I’m number six. We’re two years apart. Much of my childhood was spent fending off attacks – both physical and psychological – from Jimmy. When I was six, he sent me flying through our all-glass front door bestowing upon me a wrist-to-elbow scar that has been ever-so-useful, to this day, in prompting his guilt-ridden conscience to do pretty much anything I ask of him.

So, for seven days this past week, Jimmy fixed things around my house. And since he used to build houses for a living, he can pretty much fix anything.

But here’s the problem. He fixed things a little too well. Our bathroom door, which used to require powerful effort to move it along the carpet in order to open or close, is now damaging my dresser when I push it too hard and it flies above the carpet only to be stopped by what used to be the beautiful finish of our bedroom furniture. Same with the bathroom mirror. It used to not even close but now, held firmly in place by a strong magnet, my pull to open it sends it careening into the adjacent wall. And then there’s the secret annex, a collection of shelves that is home to many family photographs but whose existence hides a storage space behind which we keep our Shabbat paraphernalia, cookbooks and more. The shelves used to require a rather Herculean effort to lift and simultaneously pull the unit open. Now, thanks to my brother, a simple, gentle tug will access its interior. But since my brain’s neuron-firings haven’t yet learned that, I continue to lift and pull which sends the photographs flying across the room.

I say this all not to complain about my brother. Although that’s always fun. To the contrary, I am in awe of his abilities. And after helplessly standing by as, year after year, more parts of our home whither and atrophy, Jimmy’s prowess at restoring hinges and catches and the like makes him nothing less … than my hero. Ellen’s delight at walking into our kitchen and having a flood of light replace the dim shadows she’s cooked in for two decades is all the reward this husband ever needs.

Which got me thinking about heroes.

We all grow up, I think, with pretty clear ideas of what makes a hero. Heroes save lives. Heroes sometimes sacrifice their own to do that. They certainly put their own welfare last when it comes to helping others. War heroes like Gen. George Washington in the Revolutionary War, Maj. Eddie Rickenbacker in World War I, and Lt. John F. Kennedy in World War II, conjure up magnificent images of brave men risking it all to save others. When 9/11 occurred, firefighters and police officers became our heroes as we watched them run into falling buildings to rescue those trying to get out.

Recently, we have seen heroes work their magic in ending the Ebola outbreak in Africa, aiding victims of the earthquake in Nepal, and fighting the flames of major fires out west. These folks do the work that needs to be done if lives are to be protected, but is work that neither you nor I can nor (probably) would want to do.

Jewish tradition has its heroes too. Noah saved the remnants of global destruction. Abraham risked the wrath of God to challenge the Divine’s decree against Sodom and Gomorrah. Esther knew her place but stepped away from it in order to reverse a king’s edict for genocide. Young David felled the mighty Goliath. And the prophetess Deborah led successful military campaigns against Israel’s enemies, freeing Israel from oppression beneath the yoke of Yavin, king of Canaan.

Tzedek, tzedek tirdof, the Torah teaches us. “Justice, justice you shall pursue.” Paving the way for myriad heroes to arise from our own ranks effecting social change for the better in all corridors of human life.

And so we’ve seen Jews step up and be counted in so many different heroic ways. In 1964, Andrew Goodman gave his life in the struggle for civil rights. In 1952, Dr. Jonas Salk developed the first successful polio vaccine. In 1776, Polish-born American-Jewish businessman Haym Solomon was possibly the prime financier of America’s involvement in the Revolutionary War. In the early 1900s, Julius Rosenwald, co-owner of Sears and Roebuck Company, established a fund that helped build nearly 5000 public schools for America’s black children. Film director, producer and screenwriter Steven Spielberg not only brought us “Schindler’s List,” but, in 1994, created the USC Shoah Foundation Institute which has recorded and preserve testimony from nearly 52,000 Holocaust survivors and other witnesses.

The list goes on and on. And on. And on. And on. Our measly 1/4 of 1% of the world’s population has effected immeasurable change for the better throughout the world.

Had to wander back through time a bit to get all the Dreskin men (and then some) in one photo (my wedding, 1982!)

And then there’s you and me. During his week with us, Jimmy was telling me how he’d done nothing of importance with his life. It’s a Dreskin trait, especially among the Dreskin men. My father, a much-loved physician in Cincinnati, always lamented that he’d not won a Nobel Prize in medicine. As a kid, Jimmy had dreamed of becoming a nuclear physicist. While he had the brains for it, he lacked the ability to sit still and do the hard studying to get there. And me? I look at rabbis like Gordon Tucker in White Plains, David Wolpe in Los Angeles, and Rick Jacobs at the URJ, and, like my father, I too lament what I have not become.

Do you suppose I was listening when I said to my brother, “Are you kidding me? Look at your life. Look at the beautiful, loving, giving children you’ve brought into this world. Look at the home you’ve built for them, a space in which they grow, safe and loved. And look at the good you’ve done for so many by making their electricity work, their roofs not leak, their doors and windows open and close, and a thousand other ways that you improve other people’s lives. Believe you me, when you get the lights working or fix the heat in one of the homes you’ve visited, you’re that family’s hero.”

Maybe I’m stretching the definition a bit. I don’t know if we have to risk limb and life in order for others to place us in that superlative category. Sometimes a quiet conversation when someone is troubled can leave that person feeling like their life has just been saved. Even a student who’s got a paper on ancient Greece due in three days and, not knowing how to get the work done, is calmly ushered through by a teacher or a mentor who simply takes the time to help – that’s a hero.

My wife Ellen’s mom is 93 years old. She’s blind and suffers from dementia. Other than that, she’s been nearly as healthy as a horse. But this summer, her body put her through the wringer and it didn’t look like she’d be around much longer. Ellen and her sister Claudia tended to their mom around the clock, sometimes trying to save her life, sometimes just trying to make what appeared to be the end a bit more comfortable. It was exhausting work for them. To me, it was heroic. What a gift, whatever the outcome, that they gave to their mom. A gift of profound love during this late chapter of her life.

Even when the photographs of Pluto began streaming back to earth from three billion miles away this summer, I very proudly made one of them the feature image on my phone, so grateful was I that some team of rocket scientists and computer geeks had figured out how to show us a piece of creation that resides so far away.

I’m pretty enamored of heroes. And I try to stay open to every possibility for meeting new ones.

Hanging in my home is a framed piece by artist Brian Andreas who draws somewhat goofy but delightful cartoons accompanied by pithy words. This one reads: “Most people don’t know that there are angels whose only job is to make sure you don’t get too comfortable and fall asleep and miss your life.” Ellen, one of the wisest people I know, put the Andreas piece on our wall. It reminds us both that the world is an amazing place and that there are equally amazing people living in it. We ought never get so busy nor so preoccupied with ourselves that we can’t find time to be amazed. Hence, the Pluto pictures on my phone.

Kohelet wrote, Ein kol hadash takhat hashamesh … there’s nothing new under the sun. While many read this verse as an excuse to be blase about everything because, after all, we’ve seen it before, Kohelet’s point was quite likely the opposite. Stay awake. Stay alert. The world never stops being amazing. And if you think it has, you’re missing out on the best life has to offer.

To see as heroic the sandwiches a young parent makes for a kindergartner’s first day of school … makes the world a bright, interesting, affirming and wonderful place. To see as heroic the young idealist who licks envelopes so that others can receive and learn about the candidate this kid thinks will be great for our community … warms our hearts and fills us with hope that a new generation is going to do what they can. And yes, to see as heroic the efforts of a big brother who once scarred his bratty kid brother for life and now fixes his doors and cabinets so that they move freely for the first time in years … why not?

To love and appreciate because someone can – you fill in the blank – administer a life-saving drug, cook a nourishing meal, teach a curious child, give a warm, loving embrace, are these not among life’s most spectacular moments? And are these people – you, me, the members of our families, our friends, our neighbors – not performing heroic deeds by simply showing up to life each and every day, doing the same, un-famous things year in and year out, and being loved for it as if we were world-acclaimed celebrities?

My teacher, Rabbi Larry Hoffman, writes about wrinkles and how they are the marks of a life that’s been lived. It’s up to you and me to decide whether it’s been well-lived. But we get credit – lots of credit – for just showing up. True Dreskin that I am, I lament the accomplishments that I haven’t achieved. But then I look at you, at this beautiful, sweet, holy community, and I thank my lucky stars that you believe I have enough to offer that you invited me and my family to move in with you twenty years ago.

Ein kol hadash takhat hashamesh … there’s nothing new under the sun. But we can, and ought to, renew how we look at everything under the sun. It may not be new. But our appreciation of it might be.

I really am in awe of my brother’s abilities to improve the space that a person lives in, to make it lovelier and more functional. Can a million other people do the very same thing? Absolutely. But for the folks who creak front doors he is invited to walk through, Jimmy is the most important of them all.

Someone else will treat the illnesses. Someone else will put out the fires. But for those who are lucky enough to have you and me step into their lives and make a sandwich, explain something confusing, give a hug, even fix a broken light switch – we too can be their heroes.

Let’s just be sure we don’t get too comfortable, fall asleep, and miss out on the excitement.

In 2012, astrophysicist Summer Ash underwent heart surgery to replace a defective aorta. Upon her recovery, Summer discovered that her heart had developed certain acoustic anomalies that resulted in her heartbeat becoming audible to the naked ear. She, and others sitting close to her, could hear the steady beating from inside her chest, not through a stethoscope but from the heart itself.

Through this odd experience, Summer Ash achieved a level of recognition of her heart’s purpose. With her engineer’s brain, she understood the heart as a pump. But as a human being with this unique experience of living with her own audible heartbeat, always, she came to appreciate the work our hearts do to keep us alive, every minute, every day.

A different kind of hero, to be sure. But with the same message, I think … to not miss out on our lives, and to give thanks for the great gifts that are bestowed upon us … every minute, every day.

Billy

In this week’s parasha, Hukkat, it is still the second year after the Israelites’ liberation from Egyptian slavery. They’re still at Mount Sinai receiving instruction from God through Moses. Eventually, the topic of instruction turns to death. As is true with all communities, Israel too must learn how to bury its dead and how to live with loss.

Biblical regulations in the Book of Numbers (chapter 19) stipulate that an Israelite who comes into contact with someone who has died assumes the status of “unclean,” not a physical or moral state-of-being but a ritual one. An “unclean” individual is ritually suspended from participating in Israelite cultic practice for a period of seven days. At week’s end, a specified ritual prepares the individual for reentry to the community. Listen to Numbers 19:17-19 …

Ashes from the fire of cleansing shall be added to fresh water in a vessel. A person who is clean shall take hyssop, dip it in the water, and sprinkle the mixture upon anyone who been touched by a person who has died. They shall do so on the third day and on the seventh day. And by the seventh day, the unclean person shall wash his clothes and bathe in water, and by nightfall he shall be clean.

Our ancestors understood that death affects people deeply. “Business as usual” was not their response. “Bucking up” and “moving on” were not how they coped with loss. Instead, it was time, along with defined acts to move through that time, that was prescribed to assist those in mourning along their path to healing.

Today, you and I can see the continuation of those age-old practices in our own rituals surrounding death. For the week of shiva, we remove ourselves from daily life. We stay at home and, during that time, we tear a ribbon, light a candle, recite Kaddish, and receive support from others. We may not be healed by week’s end. We may only have begun the process of reentry. But at least we’ve started it. And it’s a healthy process. Shiva brings us face-to-face with our loss, and helps us – through prescribed ritual practice – to reenter life and carry on despite the pain of our grief.

And so I’ve been wondering.

Ten days ago, Dylann Roof walked into the Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina, spent an hour studying bible with clergy and congregants, and then pulled out a gun and murdered nine men and women between the ages of 26 and 87. On Thursday, their funerals commenced and will continue through next Tuesday, until all nine are buried.

Nine families are mourning their beloved dead. It is likely that these families will, in time, quiet their grief and learn to live life with their loved ones’ memories held close as a perpetual treasure.

But America too is in mourning. We have also lost nine precious lives. We too must travel and, albeit in a different manner from the victims’ families, we must nonetheless navigate the desolate valley of the shadow of death.

Emanuel AME Church, Charleston

We’ve been here before. Columbine High School. Virginia Tech. Fort Hood, Texas. Aurora, Colorado. Sandy Hook Elementary School. Since 1982, there have been at least 70 mass shootings across the country. And their frequency is on the rise.

Here’s what I’ve been wondering about. How do we process this? How do we grieve our fellow Americans’ deaths? How do we carry on?

Past experience tells us that the way we Americans mourn our dead is by spending a period of time sympathizing with the grieving families, expressing outrage that such killings are even possible, turning to our elected officials to do something that will prevent the next shooting from taking place, and then returning to our regular lives when, once again, nothing improves.

It’s not a terrible process, I suppose. As ritual goes. We repeat a number of helpful practices that link us with others who share in our sadness. We take some time to remove ourselves from everyday, unconcerned living. And after a while, we go back to the things we were doing before.

It’s “not a terrible process” because, in actuality, that’s what the period of mourning is all about. When a loved one dies, little changes except that someone we care about is now missing from our lives. We don’t necessarily change anything about the world, but the process helps us, in time, to resume reasonably contented living.

Apparently, that’s been enough for the American people, as well. America remains unchanged after each mass shooting, except for the loss of life and the ensuing grief.

Wouldn’t it be great though if the model of individual grief didn’t satisfy our national family? Wouldn’t it be great if our elected leaders decided that these killings can’t go on, and that something really needs to be done to prevent the next ones from happening? Wouldn’t it be great if Congress said, “We will convene this evening to find a solution to this epidemic, and we will not recess until a solution has been found, voted on and put into action”?

I understand that America is fairly split down the middle in terms of issues of governance. I “get it” that Democrats and Republicans see the world differently. But I happily reference today’s 6-3 Supreme Court ruling on President Obama’s health care law. Sometimes we don’t have to be split down the middle. And assuming that nobody in America wants to see mass killers on the rampage, shouldn’t our leaders be able to work together, agreeing that a solution needs to be found, and then working on one until all sides can come to an agreement?

I don’t know. That was always the America I wanted to be part of. One where dissent of opinion is not only welcomed, but is valued because of the creative process it sparks on the path to solving dilemmas.

As the Charleston nine are laid to rest between now and next Tuesday, my grief will continue. Grief for them, for their bereft loved ones. And grief for a country that lacks the resolve to fix something which everyone agrees needs fixing.

You know, God never wanted a political structure to manage ancient Israel. God didn’t think that having a king was a very good idea. God felt that if we’d just follow the Torah, if we’d just practice the mitzvot, if we’d just be good to each other, everything would be fine. Rituals prescribed for individuals who had died would never have to be applied on a wholesale basis. Economies of scale would never be needed because hinei mah tov u’ma naim … we’d all behold how pleasant it is … shevet akhim gahm yakhad … that men and women are dwelling together … in peace!

Tonight, you and I are Emanuel AME Church. Tonight, their loss is our loss. We cry for them. We cry with them.

How about if, next week, we become America? And as America, we share the loss which took place at the Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, and add this to our national ritual: remembering to do something about it. I beg of you, do more than what America usually does during its moments of national grief. Act. Do something to help things change. Do it with your voice. Do it with your wallet. Do it with your vote.

And then maybe, just maybe, we won’t have to participate in the insane national ritual of grieving like this … again … and again … and yet again.

Ken y’hee rah-tzone.

Billy

Closing Words
Last week, college student Melissa Wishner spoke about helping victims of the earthquake in Nepal. I opened that evening by quoting late-19th century American author, historian and Unitarian minister Edward Everett Hale: “I am only one, but I am one. I can’t do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do. And by the grace of God, I will.”

Eloheynu v’elohey avoteynu v’imoteynu … dear God and God of our ancestors,

Won’t you lend us some of that grace now? We’ll need it, if we hope to rise above that concern-unbolstered-by-action that accompanies so many of our national tragedies. We are grateful and encouraged by today’s landmark Supreme Court ruling that legalizes same-sex marriage nationwide, but we are stymied by the fact that we can’t seem to figure out how to finally learn the way to live side-by-side without consideration of the color of one’s skin.

Show us the answers at the back of book, won’t You? Help us to discover the path to finding constructive responses and solutions. Remind us that none of us are exempt from doing, nor ought we feel helpless to do, something to help find those solutions.

Shabbat shalom.

I was invited to write this piece of ReformJudaism.org where it was published on June 19, 2015. I hope you find it worthwhile reading.

Billy

I did not know that June is LGBT Pride Month. I’m not gay, which may or may not be a valid excuse. That being said, I specifically requested to write this installment of 10 Minutes of Torah. Gay rights is one of the critical issues in these beginning years of the 21st century. I may not be marching down Fifth Avenue on Sunday, June 28, in the Gay Pride Parade, but I’m very well aware that June 28 is also the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots which, in 1969, pretty much ignited the gay liberation movement and the battle for LGBT rights across our nation. It is a battle in which we all, gay and straight, are conscripts.

As a rabbi, it’s been important to stand with my community on issues of vital social concern. I’ve marched in Washington, been arrested in New York City, lobbied my elected representatives, and written endlessly on the challenges facing all who care about justice and compassion in our society.

Sometimes, however, it is normalcy (and the non-events that frequently comprise its blessed existence) that has defined my strongest stands. I learned this from my son Aiden. Now a rising college senior, when Aiden was in high school he joined the school’s Gay-Straight Alliance. He did so simply to stand by his gay friends. It was never a big deal for him, but it was still something he felt was important to do. He did so quietly, without any fanfare and, in doing so (and probably as a complete surprise to himself), made a powerful impact on his dad. To this day, I hold Aiden’s model of action close to my heart: do what’s right, and don’t make a fuss about it.

In the world of LGBT understanding, I have since made these small, but meaningful, adjustments in my life:

1) One night, after a Shabbat Evening Service, Corey Friedlander, a gay member of our temple, approached me and said, “I notice you no longer say ‘husband and wife’ when speaking about marriage. Instead, you’ve begun using the word ‘partners.’ I’m curious as to what brought about the change?” I thought about it a bit and then said to Corey, “The young people who are sitting in the congregation, some of them are engaged in a struggle to figure out their sexuality. If any of them turn out to be gay, and some very likely will, I don’t want them to ever think that their synagogue wasn’t a place where they could feel at home.” It’s not a world-altering effort, but for some teenaged kid? It could be their entire world. If I can help in these small but important ways, that’s what I want to do.

2) In 2010, when some particularly nasty anti-gay activity was taking place in multiple locations across America, the houses of faith in our area came together and published the following simple but powerful ad in our local paper: “We deplore the rage and violence directed at lesbian and gay persons and we welcome these sisters and brothers to live and worship among us.” Five years later, even as life continues to improve and ,yes, normalize for the LGBT community, our temple continues to display that ad at our entrance. It’s a simple but moving gesture that I hope one day will no longer be needed. In the meantime, it quietly affirms that our doors are open wide for all.

3) Corey and I have shared many conversations about the openness and inclusiveness of our synagogue. Ours is not a large temple, so we can’t offer every flavor of programming for every affinity group. On the other hand, we try very hard to be a “community temple” where, as much as possible, we all come together – young and old, married and single, gay and straight – to share our lives and our hopes with each other. We worship together, learn together, perform acts of tikkun olam (compassionate justice) together. The “normalcy” we strive to achieve is one where a person can walk into our temple and, not finding the affinity group that might tell them that their particular need is cared for, finds a spiritual home where Jewish men, women and children of differing stripes (including such political differences as democrat and republican, gun control advocates and gun owners) all coexist in an authentic and holistic manner.

These are three examples of the kind of work I labor at every day. I know that there are crucial legal and political challenges that need to be met. I support them and encourage others to do so. But so much of life happens in the normal, everyday. If each of us were to carefully govern “the little things” – the words we speak to friends and acquaintances, the modest actions that can mean the world to someone else – the cumulative consequences would be world-changing.

I watched a beautifully tragic film recently entitled, “Any Day Now.” It takes place in the 1970s and involves a gay couple trying to adopt an abused and abandoned child. In that world – a world not far removed from the one in which you and I now live our lives – such an effort was not often, if ever, rewarded with success. During LGBT Pride Month, I am so grateful to know that the world is changing. Little by little, if we each do our part, whether quietly or in loud protest, we just might build a world whose doors are open wide for all of us.

Billy

Woody Allen once said, “In California, they don’t throw their garbage away. They make it into TV shows.”

While much of television really is mindless drivel, we certainly love it. It’d be good to limit how much we watch, lest our brains melt into Velveeta Cheese, but even I love to occasionally relax and enjoy the view.

There are those who say that watching television cuts us off from human contact which, while that can be true, doesn’t have to be. I can tell you that the television set is where my son Aiden and I find common interest and time together. And, of course, documentaries can teach us about our world and inspire us to join with others and work to better life for ourselves and for others.

1990. Dave calls his mom, but reaches Sid Tuchman instead.

Tonight, however, I have in mind Late Night with David Letterman which, after 33 years on the air, played for the last time on May 20. That was a good episode but not the one I want to talk about.

On July 31, 1990, almost twenty-five years ago, Dave picked up the phone to call his mom during the show, which he did from time to time. But on this particular occasion, Dave dialed the wrong number. Who he got became one of the funniest Letterman bits ever. And to this day, many believe the whole thing was staged. I have information to the contrary. But first, here’s Dave, trying to call his mom, and getting Sid Tuchman instead:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZ2cAuSj-2Q

So Dave’s mom knew Sid Tuchman. Why? Because Sid Tuchman owns a network of dry cleaners all over Indianapolis. Lots of people knew Sid Tuchman, including Dave’s mom.

But guess what? I knew him too! After all, I grew up in Cincinnati. Indianapolis wasn’t far from where I lived. And guess what else? In high school, I dated Sid Tuchman’s daughter. Well, I’m not sure you’d call it dating. It was a summer camp romance. For one summer, back in the mid-70s, at the URJ Goldman Camp outside of Indianapolis, Sid’s daughter, Kathy, swept me off my besandaled feet and my heart was hers. Truth is, and I hope Ellen won’t poison my food for this, part of my heart still is hers. First big romance ever – that one kind of never fully goes away. She and I have remained friends across the decades and, even though she lives in California, I’m actually going to see her in just a few weeks when she’s in town for business. We’re going to share a good laugh over my recent awareness of the Letterman-Tuchman video and that I gave a sermon about it!

Well, I haven’t given the sermon yet, but here it comes now!

David Letterman’s connection with Sid Tuchman was quite the surprise to him, since he was expecting to reach his mom. I think that the sermon – the lesson for us – is that unexpected encounter offers new relationships and meanings. I believe that, like that phone call, there are points of contact between us and others that come as a complete surprise and go on to become significant in our lives. This video, a case-in-point. Such momentary intersections between ourselves and others can have myriad affects on us. They can make us laugh, make us cry, and make us wonder in amazement at the magic and the mystery of its even happening in the first place. If you’ve ever bumped into someone who you’ve not seen for the longest time, perhaps you’ve felt that surge of wonder and wizardry that accompanies such surprising encounters. And if it hearkens to something good (and mind you, I’ve also bumped into people who I wouldn’t have minded never seeing again), these moments can deepen the beauty and value of being alive and of simply going along for life’s ride.

But there are some points of contact that don’t often appear in our field of vision and experience. We only encounter them if we make the effort to do so. We have to want these points of contact and we must coax them from out of the fabric of life.

I’m speaking of what the Torah frequently makes reference to as “the orphan, the stranger and the widow,” categories which indicate people who don’t usually circulate within our sphere of living but whose welfare depends on our interest in making that happen. Exodus, chapter 23: “V’ger lo tilkhatz … you shall not oppress a stranger … v’atem y’da-tem et nefesh ha-ger … for you know the feelings of the stranger … kee gerim he-yee-tem b’eretz Mitzrayim … having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.”

Extending a helping hand to others who are in need is a well-known and deeply-held value of Jewish life. But it only happens if we allow it to happen.

A Nepali man carries recovered belongings through the street in the ancient city of Bhaktapur in the Kathmandu Valley on April. 28, 2015. Nepal had a severe earthquake on April 25th. Photo by Adam Ferguson for Time

Let me give you an example. I’ve never been to Nepal. I once learned a bit about it when our former intern, Rabbi Darren Levine, told me of a trip he’d taken there. But recently, and only briefly, Nepal entered all of our lives when a devastating earthquake struck there in April. When was the last time you heard something about Nepal’s recovery from that earthquake? In point of fact, another tremor struck there just last night, but in all likelihood, even though Nepal continues to try and rebuild and bring relief to those whose lives were upended, you and I have little connection to the people there, no point of contact, and so, “Out of sight, out of mind.”

However, temple member and recent high school graduate Melissa Wishner was in Nepal on a gap-year experience when the earthquake struck. Melissa was deeply impacted by that experience and continues to feel powerfully connected to the Nepalese people during their efforts to recover. In the hope that her experience will strengthen our connection to those people, I have invited Melissa to speak here during next Friday’s Kabbalat Shabbarbecue service.

Like the renewed connection with my friends in Indianapolis spurred on by my recent viewing of David Letterman’s misdialed phone call with Sid Tuchman, it is my hope that Melissa’s presentation will renew our connection to those who are struggling to survive in Nepal.

Right now, the people of Nepal are “the orphan, the widow and the stranger.” Perhaps they will be able to recover all by themselves, but Jewish teaching dictates that we ought not miss out on offering our assistance.

In your daf t’filah (service handout), you will find a link to a written message from Melissa. I hope you will take the time to read her note and, hopefully, reach out and help.

By the way, also in your daf t’filah is a request from our friends across the street at the First Community Church of the Nazarene. The young man who died just this week as the victim of a hit-and-run driver leaves a mom who has not been able to pay her rent without her son’s assistance. You and I are now connected to her via the beautiful Shabbat we shared with First Community Church back in May, as well as the 11:00 am church service we will share with them this very Sunday morning. I hope you will join us there for the service. I hope you will feel a line of connection and help that grieving mom.

Note to blog readers: Here’s information on how to help. Pastor Leroy Richards, at First Community Church of the Nazarene (across the street from our temple) is requesting donations to help support the family of his 23 year-old parishioner Darryl Chung, who was killed this past week in a hit-and-run incident. Darryl was helping his mother with her monthly rent who now also needs help with funeral expenses. Contributions may be sent to: “First Community Church,” 2101 Saw Mill River Road, White Plains, NY 10607. Please add “Darryl Chung Fund” in the memo area. Thanks!

The world is truly a remarkable place. While coincidence happen often, our brains seem to be hard-wired to make sense of those seemingly random points of contact and to understand them as if they had needed to happen all along, as if they are messages and lessons for you and for me. Even if they really were just coincidence, it is to humankind’s great credit that we want those connections to be real and meaningful, that we want to have purpose-filled relationships with others, both with people we know well and with those whose very existence is only made known to us through those coincidental points of contact.

Sid Tuchman’s accidental appearance on Late Night with David Letterman was pure fun and was never meant to nurture anything of consequence. Yet, here we are. Because of Sid, we have the opportunity to help out “the orphan, the widow and the stranger” — clear across the globe, and just across the street.

Ken y’hee ratzon … may God be privileged to witness the points of contact that you and I nurture and, through them, bring increased goodness and love into the world.

*     *     *

Closing Prayer
A poor man appeared at the door to Rabbi Shmelke’s home. Rabbi Shmuel Shmelke HaLevi Horowitz of Nikolsburg lived in 18th century Morvia, known to us today as the Czech Republic. The man asked for assistance but Rabbi Shmelke could find no money in his house. So instead, the rabbi took a ring off his finger and gave it to the man, who thanked Rabbi Shmelke and went away.

Telling his wife what he had done, she bemoaned her husband’s having given away so valuable a piece of jewelry. Rabbi Shmelke then had the poor man brought back to him. Upon the man’s return, he said, “I have learned that the ring I gave you is of great value. Be careful not to sell it for too little money.”

Elohenu v’elohei avoteynu v’imoteynu … dear God and God of our ancestors … we never know who’s going to appear at the doorway of our life. Whenever a new point of contact is established with another human soul, may we ever be ready to respond with openness, interest and, if needed, generosity of spirit and being. Thank You, God, for the magnificent privilege of living in a universe where such surprises can happen … at any time.

Shabbat shalom!

One of the last books Jonah read before his death in 2009 was Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, about the author’s experiences as a U.S. soldier in Vietnam. I have wanted, and I recently found time, to read it. The book speaks not only of the horrors of war, about death on both sides in the conflict, but also about friendship in the trenches, girlfriends waiting back home, the struggle for normalcy after the war, and O’Brien’s bringing his daughter with him back to Vietnam to revisit his memories and to see that war-torn land at peace. The stories, which O’Brien readily admits are some combination of fact and fiction, transported me alongside the author as he recalled his Vietnam War years. Today, Vietnam is at peace, with 90 million citizens, a communist government, and an economic growth rate among the highest in the world. It also demonstrates an abysmal record in healthcare and gender equality. A fair record for a country that lived in a state of war from 1946 until 1975.

On this Memorial Day weekend, it’s appropriate for us not only to honor those who have died in the defense of our nation, but also to reflect on the state of war in our world today. You’d think humanity would have had enough of violence and death but, of course, it’s as if there’s an insatiable thirst for destruction in the human genome.

The hotspots of military insurgency this year include Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Boko Haram in Africa, Sudan, Ukraine and, of course, the continuing unrest in Gaza and the West Bank. As for American involvement in war today, depending on how you look at it, says one writer, we’re either involved in no wars (after all, Congress hasn’t declared one since 1942), five wars (Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia and Yemen … where we either have boots on the ground or drones in the air), or 134 wars (I won’t list them all but these are places where U.S. military forces are either involved in combat, special missions, or the advising and training of foreign forces).

And it gets me wondering. When will humankind finally rise above this insane use of might to get what we want in life? When will we finally agree to work out our differences by using our words like mom and dad always taught us?

I know, I know. Probably not for a long, long time … if ever. I searched the internet for articles on violence in the world today. I love that I found these three titles: First, “Is Society Becoming More and More Violent?” Second, “Why the World Is Becoming More Violent.” And third, “World Is Becoming Less Violent.” I suppose, like the definition of American military involvement, it all depends how you view things.

Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker, in his book, The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined, asserts the following based on peer-reviewed studies using examinations of graveyards, surveys and historical records:

1) The number of people killed in battle has dropped 1000-fold over the centuries. Before there were organized countries, more than 500 out of every 100,000 people died in battle. By the 19th century, that number had fallen to 70 of every 100,000. In the 20th century, even with two world wars and a few genocides, the number dropped to 60. And now, in the 21st century, battlefield deaths are down to 3/10 of a person per 100,000.

2) In 1942, the rate of genocide deaths across the world was 1400 times higher than it is today.

3) In 1946, there were fewer than 20 democracies in the world. Today, there are 115 nations with significant elements of democracy in them.

Pinker’s opinion is that one of the main reasons for the drop in violence is that we are smarter. Intelligence, he thinks, translates into a kinder, gentler world. I like his thinking. I don’t know if he’s right. But I’m all for more education.

So, that’s pretty encouraging. Sounds a lot better than what the news media shares with us, doesn’t it? If we listen to them, the world is at death’s door.

Question is, how do we – “we” being the human race – make it the rest of the way? How do we (can we) reach that age-old Jewish dream that we intone every time we sing Bayom Hahu … “On that day, God shall be One and God’s name shall be One”? How do we build a world at peace?

However we get there, I don’t imagine it’ll be an easy road. On many Shabbat mornings, when introducing Sim Shalom, Cantor Jonathan likes to talk about how we already know how to make peace. We just have to live with kindness, generosity and compassion as part of our daily routine.

It’s a simple recipe, really. What’s not so simple, I’m afraid, is obtaining the ingredients.

Leonard Mlodinow is a physicist who recently published an op-ed in the New York Times, entitled “It Is, in Fact, Rocket Science.” He was trying to correct misinformation about some of the world’s great scientific advances, explaining that things are rarely as simple as our most popular stories claim they are. Darwin, he writes, did not simply develop the theory of evolution while studying finches in the Galapagos Islands. Such a world-altering revelation would not be made public for many, many more years, including eight years spent writing a 684-page treatise on barnacles. On the Origin of Species, his magnum opus on evolution, would not be published until 1859, twenty-eight years after he met those finches. Similarly, Sir Isaac Newton would not discover gravity when an apple fell on his head. The truth is that while Newton theorized the existence of gravity when he was only 24 years old, he would not fully develop and publicly share his ideas until the printing of his book Principia when he was 71 years old.

Important stuff can take a very long time to complete. So while I can, and will, envision a world when all humanity finally commits to living together in peace, I suspect, like anything truly good and important, it’ll take a long while for us to get there.

This past Wednesday evening, in my words to those gathered for our congregation’s Annual Meeting, I said, “No matter what craziness life throws our way, let us together meet in the heights and in the depths, honoring our best selves, honoring one another, and honoring the Creator of all of it, whose most fervent prayer, I wholeheartedly believe, is that we just be good to each other.” I suspect that peace won’t come until the world’s religions all subscribe to this theological idea, and the atheists among us agree that the spirit of it is critical for the welfare of all.

There’s a Yiddish proverb: Ven ain zelner volt gevust vos der anderer tracht … if one soldier knew what the other was thinking … volt kain krig nisht geven … there would be no war. I don’t know how long it will take but, as my ancestors did before me, I believe with perfect faith that peace will happen. The day will come when there won’t be war no more. It won’t be easy. We’ll have to work hard and long for it. But on this Memorial Day weekend, I can think of no greater way to honor our nation’s military dead than to complete the work that they began.

We’ll start by teaching the little ones. Stella Marie Ivy, will you come up here please. I’ve got something to say to you. I know, you’re only about three months old, but there’s no time to waste if we want you to become a builder of peace.

[Stella Marie Ivy babynaming]

Shabbat shalom,
Billy

Postscript: Our rabbinic intern, Jason Fenster, made a beautiful contribution to this Memorial Day service as well. You can (and should!) read it here.

I found this article floating around on the internet (at reformjudaism.org). While I was reading it, it sounded familiar and with good reason; I’d written it! It was published there quite a few years back, but the message is still an important one so I’m reposting here. Please give a read and, if you’re still not an organ donor, please consider registering to be one.

Billy

Are Jews allowed to donate body organs? Yes!

Jewish law does, in fact, permit organ donation! Whatever you have heard, whatever you thought you learned, set that all aside. Jewish law permits us to sign our donor cards and, when someone we love dies, to use their body to save other lives.

Why then the persistent misperception that Jewish law opposes organ donation? There are four legal concerns Judaism confronts in determining whether or not to permit organ donation. Each concern, on the surface, appears to take a position of opposition. This is probably why so many of us conclude – even as Reform Jews – that we cannot sign donor cards. But follow the discussions to their conclusions and you will understand that, even among Orthodox Jews, organ donation is permissible.

The first area of concern is how one treats the body of someone who has died. Judaism views the human being in life as having been created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. Does it desecrate the human body to make incisions in it after a person has died? The Talmud makes it clear (in Hullin 11b) that to do so unnecessarily and for no good purpose would violate the principle of k’vod ha’met, honoring the dead. But if such a post-mortem examination might save a life, the Talmud teaches us that we should indeed examine that body by all means available.

The second area of concern is what responsibility we have for burying a person’s entire body. This area constitutes the Orthodox community’s primary concern regarding both autopsy and organ donation. Traditional authorities that discuss the burial of a person’s entire body indicate that it is done only to prevent the ritual contamination of kohanim, members of the Jewish community’s priestly class, the group that in Temple times was in charge of all the sacred rituals. In the twelfth century, Moses Maimonides, one of the all-time greatest authorities of Jewish law, differentiated (in Yad, Hil. Tumat Hamen 2.3) between parts of the body that render the kohen impure, and parts of the body that do not. Maimonides determined that internal organs do not transmit ritual impurity, and therefore, while we should not frivolously remove any internal organs, we have no obligation to bury them with the body. Further, with the innovation of organ donation, Orthodox Jewish authorities of this century have determined “that when a part of a body is taken by a surgeon and put into a living body, it becomes part of that living body. Its status as part of the dead which needs to be buried is now void” (American Reform Responsa (CCAR), page 295). The kohen need not worry about contamination.

The third area of concern is a general principle that the body of the dead may not be used for the benefit of the living (Sanhedrin 47b). It would certainly seem clear to us that organ donation would be in direct violation of such a principle; removing part of a body from someone who has died and giving it to someone who is still living certainly appears to be for the benefit of the living. But upon close examination of the word hana’ah, benefit, we find that the Talmud is, in fact, discussing cannibalism, which clearly is off-limits in our tradition. To save a human life by way of surgical transplantation, all Jewish authorities agree, does not fall into this category.

The final area of concern is in defining the precise moment of death. This has been an important issue in Jewish tradition because, as I mentioned earlier, we are required to bury our dead as quickly as possible. For thousands of years, Jewish law has understood the moment of death as being when breathing and heartbeat have stopped (M. Yoma 8.5; Yad, Hil. Shab. 2.19; Shulkhan Arukh, Orah Hayim 329.4). These are understandable criteria for past generations who, in the absence of modern technology, were limited in the resources available to them for determining when death had occurred. Today however, in an age when bodies continue to breathe and hearts continue to beat because of artificial respirators, death is now defined by the cessation of all brain activity.

What it all comes down to is this. By and large, the Jewish legal tradition has never opposed organ donation. For nearly 2000 years, it has laid the groundwork in favor of such actions. The Orthodox community is in the final stages of sanctioning it altogether. And the Conservative, Reconstructionist and Reform movements have supported and encouraged it for many years now.

So please, sign your donor card (you can do so online at organdonor.gov). And let your family know about it.

Thanks,
Billy

I wrote this piece for Shabbat Eve at my synagogue on January 9, 2015. The massacre at Charlie Hebdo in Paris had recently occurred, as had the death of our dear family friend, Susan Sirkman. It seemed like the right time to bring those two events together in a presentation about where our world is headed.

Billy

Pop quiz! I know it’s Shabbat. I know you like to sit there and not be singled out during services. And I know the last thing you want is to be graded for your performance during a service. Oh well.

Question #1. Just answer it in your head. How did the number of deaths per year from natural disaster worldwide, how did that change during the last century? Did it more than double, did it remain about the same, or did it decrease to less than half? Answer in your head: A, B or C.

Question #2: For how long did women throughout the world who are now 30 years old, knowing that men of the same category went to school for an average of eight years, for how long did this group of women go to school? Seven years, five years or three years? Answer in your head: A, B or C.

Question #3: In the last 20 years, how did the percentage of people in the world who live in extreme poverty change? Extreme poverty, meaning “not having enough food for the day.” Did it almost double, did it remain more or less the same, or was it reduced by half? Answer in your head: A, B or C.

And our last question, question #4: What percentage of the world’s one-year-old children are vaccinated against measles: 20%, 50% or 80%? One last time, please answer in your head: A, B or C.

Okay, honor system. Here are the answers. Grade yourselves.

For question #1, deaths from natural disasters throughout the world, you can see it from the graph here, from 1900 to 2000, that in 1900 there were about half a million people dying each year from natural disasters: floods, earthquakes, volcanoes, droughts and more. How did that change by the time we entered the 21st century? Reduced by more than 80%. Not that there are fewer disasters, but that our ability to respond to those disasters and to bring help has improved mightily.

For question #2, women in school, men, on average worldwide, attended for eight years. Women, for seven. Yes, it should be as great as for men, but it’s not nearly as awful as we might have thought. And while there are certainly places where girls have great difficulty getting to school and are prevented from going altogether, in the majority of the world girls today attend more or less as long as do boys. That doesn’t mean there’s gender equity, but very likely it’s better than you or I imagined.

Question #3, what percent of the world is living in extreme poverty, that number has been reduced by 50% in only the last 20 years. Fifty percent! So many of us believe we can never end extreme poverty, and we aren’t even aware of the progress that’s taken place!

And finally, question #4, measles vaccinations. More than 80% of the one-year olds across the globe have been vaccinated. That’s a lot fewer dots the world has to contend with. And while the World Health Organization still lists measles as one of the leading causes of death among young children, the number of those deaths has been dropping rapidly.

The slides you’ve seen here come from a TED talk presented by Swedish global health expert Hans Rosling and his son Ola Rosling who directs the Gapminder Foundation, an organization that promotes sustainable global development through increased use and understanding of data. Needless to say, Rosling and son are quite optimistic about the possibilities for future progress, and so am I.

I’m no Pollyanna I know there’s a lot of ugly in our world. Just this week, we saw terrorism once again inflict horror in Paris. We hear about hate-filled violence and we can’t help but wonder what this world is coming to. But it is precisely at moments like these that we also hear about the people who open their hearts, their hands and even their homes to others in need. When the café in Australia had been taken over by Muslim extremists, there was concern of a backlash against Australian Muslims in general. But then, the story is told, a passenger on a commuter train spotted a Muslim woman removing her hijab, ostensibly out of fear of being targeted. The passenger told her to put it back on and offered to walk with her in solidarity. And thus, #IllRideWithYou went viral as non-Muslims condemned Islamophobia and stood by their neighbors.

This week’s parasha, Shemot, continues the story of Joseph and his brothers down in Egypt. After generations of cordial relations between the Hebrews and their Egyptian hosts, va-ya-kom me-lekh hadash al Mitzrayim a-sher lo ya-da et Yosef … a new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And with that, another tragic chapter in Jewish history began, the enslavement of our people in ancient Egypt.

To be sure, untold indignities and injustices occurred during those hundreds of years in Egypt. But our tradition teaches us that the worst moment of all was when our ancestors ceased hoping that one day they might become free. Hope, Reb Nakhman of Breslov insisted, is an absolute obligation. One may never give it up!

I have been a hopeful person my entire life. Yes, it began with my hopes for certain birthday presents and school-night jaunts to the ice cream shop. But in time, my hopeful appetite for gifts focused less and less on me, and more and more on the world around me. To this day, you can throw a whole mess of disappointments my way – Ferguson, Malaysia and AirAsia Airlines, Ebola, ISIS and, yes, Charlie Hebdo in Paris – drop them all on humanity and I’ll still have faith that things will get better.

George Carlin once quipped, “Scratch a cynic and you’ll find a disappointed idealist.” Well, I’m not so sure. I loved George Carlin. And God knows, I’ve had my share of disappointment. But my ideals are still intact. And in the face of this week’s tragedy – now two of them – in Paris, I hope your ideals will remain intact too. I will never condemn Islam for Muslim terrorism. I hold those individuals responsible. I hold their sponsoring organizations responsible. But Islam? I think it’s contributed greatly to the welfare of human civilization – check out the Golden Age of Spain – and I think it will contribute greatly in the future.

Dr. Mahjabeen Hassan

In March, we will welcome to Woodlands Dr. Mahjabeen Hassan, a reconstructive and aesthetic plastic surgeon, and an active Muslim here in Westchester. Dr. Hassan will teach us about Islam. Using the imagery of her profession, Dr. Hassan, in an interview with our very own Gary Stern described the human family by saying, “I take up the skin and look inside. I see that we truly are all the same. I believe you can have multiple paths to (God and that while) we have different religions, we are talking about the same thing.” [Gary Stern, “Doctor Who Is Muslim Becomes Ambassador for Her Faith,” lohud.com, Sep 4, 2011.]

Much moreso than the acts of cowards who would hurt innocents in Paris, it is the work of a doctor dedicated to caring for the flesh and spirit of our communities that affects me. Yes, she strengthens my hope.

Susan and Katie (Jun 2015)

Yesterday, a dear friend of mine, a friend for thirty-three years, lost her battle with cancer. Susan Sirkman, here signing my daughter’s ketubah this past summer, fought valiantly. [I have to add here, post-funeral, that Susan hated being defined as “fighting cancer.” At the funeral, her husband quoted her as often saying, “I’m not fighting cancer, not battling a disease. I’m not being courageous in my struggle. I hate this, all of it!  I’m just trying to live, to keep doing the things I love with the people I love.”] Her spirit, in health and in sickness, was so powerful, so vibrant, so kind and giving. She was exactly the kind of person whose death would cause one to cry out, “Why her, God? What kind of God would do this to a person like her?” But, just as with my son Jonah, I know that life’s a gamble. We give it our best (hopefully) and take our chances. We hope. We hope we won’t get sick. We hope we won’t get run over. We hope we’ll win the statistical lottery which, even though it is overwhelmingly in our favor that we’ll live pretty good lives, when even one person we care about is taken from us, our morale can sink.

Jeffrey and Susan Sirkman (photo by Hollis Rafkin-Sax)

But Susan lived a great life. She loved a wonderful man, my pal, Uncle Jeffrey, who you might know as Rabbi Jeff Sirkman of Larchmont Temple. She raised four incredible children. Got herself a daughter-in-law. She gave of herself to everyone she met, and she left her world in better shape than she found it. Yes, fifty-five years is far too few. But I will say goodbye to her this Sunday morning thankful that she was here, grateful that the world got to have her in it. She may have died young but, overwhelmingly, I feel the joy of sharing my life with her these past three decades.

It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to be disappointed. And it’s okay to hope … despite the pain that brings sorrow to our hearts. It’s okay to hope. It’s a mitzvah to hope. A religious obligation.

And you know what else? We’ve got that statistics to back us up. 87% of the world has safe drinking water. 83% of the world can read and write. 84% of the world has enough to eat. We’ve got every reason to remain hopeful, every reason not to despair, every reason to continue rolling up our sleeves and lending a hand to make this world an even better home than it already is.

Ken y’hee ratzon … thank You, God, for helping these words to already become true.

Billy

Xmas @ the Dreskins (1965). Check out the tree in the background and paper Santa on the fireplace!

Let me tell you about Hanukkah in Cincinnati, Ohio, in the 1960s. Cincinnati is where I grew up. And at this time of year, lots of families, lots of Jewish families, including mine, had Christmas trees. Hanukkah was a candle-lighting time. We celebrated it, but not by giving gifts – not even socks or underwear. That Johnny Seven seven-in-one pistol/machine gun/grenade launcher (that I would have laid down my life for) would have to wait for Christmas. As would the latest Beatles record album. Amazingly, this kid-who-would-one-day-become-a-rabbi woke up at 6:00 in the morning every December 25th to see what Santa had placed beneath the Dreskin family Christmas tree.

But Hanukkah gelt, that was something else! Those sweet, brown little coins wrapped in gold, always with a surprise inside – you never knew if it’d be fresh or years-old chocolate – that was Hanukkah for me. And being the youngest of six kids in my house, I was a pretty tranquil guy all other times of the year, but during Hanukkah all was fair in chocolate and war. Nobody’s stockpile was safe when I was in the gelt-jungle!

But here’s the funny thing about Hanukkah. Okay, funny to me. As with so many of our Jewish traditions, the reasons our religious school teacher gave us for why things were what they were, these turned out to maybe not be so true. Of course, “true” in a history where 2000 years of it was spent wandering and, far too often, running from people who wanted to kill you, “true” can be difficult to keep track of. So cut my 4th grade Sunday school teacher Mrs. Rosenfeld some slack, will you?

With gelt, plenty of explanations exist. And who knows which one is the right one. Maybe all of them.

As a kid, I was taught that when the Maccabees revolted against Syrian-Greek persecution, the rebellious Israelites minted their own coins as an act of defiance against their foreign rulers, as if to say, “You are not our government. We rule ourselves.” So the minting of coins served as a provocative and powerful statement for freedom and independence. The gelt we gobble reminds us of Hanukkah’s message about the importance of standing up to oppressive rulers who think it’s okay to bully others.

This week, bullying got a vote of acceptance when Sony Pictures acquiesced to computer hackers who broke into their digital corporate storage closets and threatened violence if the movie, “The Interview,” a comedy starring Seth Rogen and James Franco that makes fun of North Korea, is released in movie theaters. The Department of Homeland Security has deemed the threat “non-credible,” but Sony pulled the film anyway. Film star and political activist George Clooney circulated a petition urging Sony not to acquiesce to the hackers’ demands but couldn’t get a single leader in the film industry to sign it. “We have allowed North Korea to dictate content,” Clooney says, “and that is just insane.”

At the time of year when our community remembers (and honors!) our ancestors specifically for them standing up to threats from bullying thugs, it gives us food for thought that you and I can’t choose whether or not to see “The Interview” when it won’t open on December 25. Good topic for car-talk on the way home tonight.

So back to Hanukkah gelt. There’s another theory circulating about the custom which I like a lot. First, it recognizes that Hanukkah was never Judaism’s big gift-giving holiday. That role has historically belonged to Purim. It’s written right inside the Scroll of Esther that, in celebration of Shushan’s victory over Haman, “[t]hey were to observe [the 14th and 15th of Adar] as days of feasting and merrymaking, and as an occasion for sending gifts to one another and presents to the poor.”

It turns out that when Jews were living in Eastern Europe in the 19th century, Hanukkah became a time to present one’s vendors (the butcher, the teacher, the water carrier) with an end-of-the-year gratuity. A tip to say thanks, just like those envelopes we get from the newspaper delivery folks at Christmas time. Hanukkah gelt wasn’t for our kids, but for the service industry in our towns and villages.

I’m not sure there was much class distinction back then between these service providers and ourselves. Pretty much everybody was struggling to make ends meet in the shtetl. But for us today, the service industry is very often comprised of people we rarely see, or converse with, except when they’re doing their jobs. These folks, for you and me, are “the other.” So if Hanukkah was a time when our ancestors reached out to do something nice for those who fell into that social category of “the other,” maybe it’s a good time for you and me to do the same.

A Jewish holiday that recalls fighting back against those who made hurtful decisions regarding those under their power and control? Sounds to me like government policy gone wrong. I’m thinking of Eric Garner and Michael Brown, and the continuing racism in America, of how we may no longer subscribe to racist ideas but that our nation has such a long way to go before it learns how to no longer see color when interacting with another human being. African-Americans are still “the other” in this nation. We would do well to dedicate part of our Hanukkah gift-giving to the struggle against continuing inequality. “Black lives matter” has become the call for a new freedom in America. Perhaps we can be Maccabees and help.

Hanukkah gelt is a wonderful tradition. It’s sweet and it’s clouded in mystery. For me, Jewish life doesn’t get much richer than that. Except for this: When my tradition shines a light on a social condition in my community and challenges me to do something to help, now I not only like the tradition, I’m honored to be its practitioner.

Hanukkah in my life now. Tzedakah Night 2004: shopping for Toys for Tots. Doing for others became a vital part of the holiday.

Tonight is the 4th night of Hanukkah. Four down, four to go. Perhaps there are some wonderful gifts hiding somewhere in your home, still to be given out on nights five through eight. May I humbly ask that you talk tonight when you go home about this gelt tradition and how you and yours can step up and advocate for “the other.” I’m sure you won’t have to look far for a worthy recipient. Once you see them in your heart, your pocket and your hand won’t be far away.

I don’t miss the Dreskin family Christmas tree. For us, it was just about taking, anyway. We never really understood the Christian idea of responding to the gifts of the Magi and giving to others where it really matters. But Hanukkah gelt, that message – to speak up for those whose voices aren’t yet able to effect needed change for themselves – that message still reverberates loudly in my life. And I hope in yours too. I am privileged to count myself among those of all religions whose spiritual journey points them in the direction of looking out for others.

To you and your loved ones, hag urim sameakh … may this Hanukkah bring to a world that so very much needs it … light and warmth and peace.

Ken yehi ratzon.

Billy

Thanksgiving has always been a quiet affair for my family. Chalk it up, I suppose, to how much time I spend around here and perhaps that sheds some light on it. Truth be told, Thanksgiving is always a three-pronged experience for me.

Usually it begins with the Greenburgh Interfaith Caring Community’s Thanksgiving Service which, although I missed it this year due to my being in New Orleans for a wedding, always makes me feel grateful that I live in a world where being Jewish is part of a stunning tapestry of American identities where tolerance and brotherhood are, at the very least, part of our national dream and, at our best, part of our rivertowns’ actual definition. That service is a celebration of America at its best, all of us coming together for the purpose of giving thanks for the blessings we all share and, while we’re at it, to bring an offering of needed products to be distributed to the less fortunate in our community.

My 10th grade families prep Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless

The second Thanksgiving experience is meeting my Confirmation families in the vestibule just outside those sanctuary doors and spending Thanksgiving morning preparing a turkey dinner with all the requisite fixings that we then deliver to the VOA Shelter in Valhalla. In my opinion, there’s no better way to prepare for my Thanksgiving meal than by joining together with my temple family in assisting other families so that they can also celebrate Thanksgiving.

By the time I sit down to the third prong of my Thanksgiving experience – the Dreskin turkey dinner with the people I love most – my heart is already full and just waiting for my stomach to catch up. I go to sleep more spiritually satisfied on Thanksgiving than perhaps any other day of the year.

I share this with you because we’re living in an especially unsettling and disturbing time in history. And we should be disturbed. No one should celebrate this weekend without acknowledging the continuing injustices of American racism, American sexism, American homophobia, American economic inequality, and American diplomatic arrogance. Not to mention, the continuing American indifference to the Native American. Did you know that there has never been a public apology for our government’s murdering American Indians by the tens of thousands, stealing their land and booting the survivors onto reservations. This week marks the 150th anniversary of the Sand Creek Massacre, in which 200 women, children and older men were killed by Union troops during the Civil War for no militarily justifiable reason. What we did to the American Indian is unconscionable. That no one in this country has ever said “We’re sorry” defies both my comprehension and every fibre of my being that thinks about and tries to do what’s right.

Jacob’s Ladder (Dennis C. De Mars)

In this week’s Torah parashah, Vayetzay, Jacob dreams his famous dream of a ladder that reached into heaven and which had angels moving up and down its rungs. Jacob’s understanding of the dream was that God was nearby, so Jacob offered to allow God to be his God if Jacob was able to safely return home from the journey upon which he had embarked. This wasn’t exactly Jacob’s most noble moment, although it was somewhat more impressive than his earlier demonstrations of selfishness and arrogance when he sold his starving brother a meal and stole that brother’s blessing from their dying dad.

Sometimes I’m so grateful that my ancestors were being persecuted and pummeled in Eastern Europe while the early American settlers were destroying this land’s indigenous peoples. But my being a descendant of Jacob the Deceiver doesn’t bode much better. The point here, I think, is that we humans bungle life a lot. We hurt and destroy, taking what we desire, with nary a pause to consider the dishonor of our actions.

The great irony of Thanksgiving is that it celebrates a moment in our American past that, even if such a meal really occurred, served as a prequel to a disaster of cruel and epic proportions. It’s just possible that Thanksgiving ought to be called Apologiesgiving, something akin to an American Yom Kippur.

But just as Jacob’s story doesn’t end with his shortcomings, but with a transformation that enables him to reconcile with, and finally offer love to, his brother Esau, and then to father Joseph who would shine as a leader not only of our people, but of the ancient Egyptian people as well … just as Jacob’s story turns to these finer values and better outcomes, so too can the American story, which in places already has.

Racism may not be gone, but America is a whole lot better place to be black than it used to be. Same with sexism and with homophobia too. There’s so much more work to be done, but we’ve made enough progress that we needn’t feel discouraged; we need merely to strengthen our resolve.

True thanks, of course, is not something that’s demonstrated by stuffing our gullets. There’s nothing at all wrong with a symbolic, ritual moment. Goodness knows, I’ve participated in more than a few of those myself. But what’s vital is that our symbolic acts become literal, hands-on endeavors to bring a fuller, more complete justice into our communities.

Ferguson, Missouri, is a moment teaching us that the work of the civil rights movement is not done, that beyond our legal system we still need to integrate values of tolerance and brotherhood into our daily lives. And I think we can do it. When I look at the transformation of this country vis-a-vis same-sex marriage, now legal in 35 states, I am so deeply hopeful. Things do get better. Life can and does improve, even if it sometimes takes a very long time. Always too much time. But we get there, don’t we?

And on this Thanksgiving weekend, that’s worth giving our heartfelt thanks.

Courage: the ability to do something that you know is difficult or dangerous. Hero: a person who is admired for courageous action.

The fire in a small warehouse had been burning for hours. The little community had no means of fighting it and other buildings were being threatened. Suddenly, down the hill roared an old truck. Right through the flames the truck sped, bringing to the epicenter of the blaze a crew of farm workers who had been riding in the truck’s rear. Jumping from the vehicle, the workers beat at the flames with their coats until the fire was completely extinguished. The grateful citizens thanked them profusely and immediately scheduled an evening to honor them. The town raised a thousand dollars and presented it to the driver of the truck. They asked him what he was going to do with the money and, without a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “Fix the brakes on my truck!”

Bravery is much admired across the world. Individuals who are willing to step up in a moment of crisis, to do what is important but what others fear, is an attribute I imagine we all aspire to possess. But for many, if not most of us, we’re probably more like that truck driver whose vehicle was simply out of control and had no choice but to plunge into the fire (or perhaps moreso, we’re like the unsuspecting passengers in the back of that truck, who could only go where the driver took them).

But there are some amazing people who have stepped up and done fantastically courageous deeds. Malala Yousafzai, who just won the Nobel Peace Prize for her relentless devotion to educating young women in Pakistan, and doing so in the face of thugs who would see her dead. Andre Trocme, and the citizens of Les Chambons, France, about whom we read earlier this evening, an entire town that rescued thousands of Jews during the Holocaust when so many others did nothing. Those who headed into the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, while others were running out, and gave their lives to try and save the endangered. Jackie Robinson, who in 1947 bravely faced down narrow-minded bigots as he broke the color barrier in major league baseball.

What is it that makes an ordinary person into a hero?

At the beginning of the Book of Joshua, which comes right after the end of Deuteronomy and the Torah, Moses has died and Joshua has been appointed his successor. Way back in Exodus, Joshua had already proved himself a tremendous warrior and leader, guiding the Israelite troops to victory against Amalek, perhaps their most reviled enemy. And when Moses ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, only Joshua accompanied him up that mountain, only Joshua was trusted by both Moses and God to stand on that holy ground. And yet, when he was appointed Moses’ successor, one could not help but wonder what went through his own mind: “Will I meet God’s expectations? Will I prove able to continue Moses’ work? Will I be able to lead this people? Will the people obey me? Will I succeed in bringing them to the Promised Land?” God may have sensed the new leader’s hesitation when, only six verses into Joshua’s story, says to him, “Hazak ve’ematz … be strong and courageous.”

Even people who seem to define courage and bravery may themselves wonder why we would think of them as such a person.

In this week’s parasha, Bereshit, we return to the Garden of Eden and once again witness Adam and Eve’s banishment from paradise. After they have eaten of the forbidden fruit, God comes looking for them. Adam and Eve are afraid and try to hide among the Garden’s trees. Here, the Torah teaches its very first lesson in bravery: own up to your actions, take responsibility for your mistakes. Once God gets them talking, Adam blames Eve and Eve blames the snake. God decides they have some growing up to do and orders them to leave the Garden and to make their way through the world.

The word “hero” may begin not with saving lives but with living life with integrity, with caring enough to just be honest.

Truth is, while there are amazing people who have done some extraordinarily brave things, one could argue that just showing up to life – to work, to school, to the dinner table – is courageous enough. Because we don’t live in the Garden of Eden, life is quite complicated, and courage is often required of us in ordinary moments of our day – to make a presentation to our boss, answer a teacher’s question in front of the class, enter a room where there’s no one we know, stand in line as captains choose their teams, and on and on. Ordinary stuff … that can scare us stiff.

About a year ago, a woman walking with her child in Central Park saw another child fall into a pond and struggle to keep afloat. Reaching out to him, her arms weren’t long enough and so she went in to get him. Having helped the boy out of the water, she discovered she couldn’t save herself and would have to be rescued by others. She’d never intended to be a hero and then, having volunteered to do so, just as quickly needed a hero herself.

I wonder. What is required for any of us to step into the fray and to do what we can when it’s more than we’ve done before? I think of the reading we’ve heard so many times during services in this room …

The question engaged me: Would I have been on Noah’s Ark, to see the rains cover the earth? Would I have been righteous in my generation, and lived to witness the golden tones of the rainbow? Would Abraham have taken me with him to survey the destruction of Sodom? Would I have been among the fifty righteous? Would I have been the pillar of salt? Would I have been righteous in my generation?

I know we humans can surprise ourselves. I know that some of the most unadmired, untrustworthy people in the world have stepped up when true crisis called for brave and selfless response. But, for the most part, I think that courage begins with a simple upbringing of goodness and honesty. Building up a couple of decades of consistent human decency probably sets the stage for one to be able, in a pinch, to do the extraordinary.

On a sunny afternoon in Oklahoma City, a father had taken his two kids to play miniature golf. Walking up to the ticket counter, he asked, “How much for a game?” The young man sitting behind the counter answered, “Eight dollars for you and eight dollars for any kid over six. Six and under get in free.” The man said, “Well, the lawyer’s seven and the doctor is nine, so I guess I owe you twenty-four bucks.”

“Hey, mister,” the young man replied, “did you just win the lottery or something? You could have saved yourself eight bucks if you’d told me the younger one was six. I wouldn’t have known the difference.” The dad looked at his son and daughter and then said, “That may be true, but my kids would have known.”

Courage: the ability to do something that you know is difficult or dangerous. Hero: a person who is admired for courageous action. Where do such people come from? If I had to try and anticipate who might one day become a hero, I’d look to that dad and his two kids. It probably has to start somewhere, don’t you think?