The Scribbler on the Roof

SHAVUOUS - THE JEWISH FORTH

SHAVUOUS - THE JEWISH FORTH OF JULY

Have you ever noticed that all of the great truth-thundering prophets get a “book” of their own; and even lightweights with little to say like Habakkuk, Malachi, and Nahum share in this privilege of an eponymous book. There is one glaring omission. I speak of Elijah, arguably our greatest - certainly in the top three. No book. Just scattered through Kings I and II. I asked my rabbi about this, but he said, “No time, gotta meet with the ladies’ kugel club”.

I consider this oversight every time I think of Shavuous - one of the three special occasions, along with Succot and Pesach, when all Israel flocked to the Temple. With the destruction of the Temple, I think we lost the grandeur of Shavuous.

It should be our number one celebration - the giving of Torah - our handbook, our manual, our charter and our contract with G-d. Yet, the holiday gets little attention from most Jews. Even in Telushkin’s book, Jewish Literacy, where he tells us ignoramuses about every holiday with its own chapter, Shavuous is slighted - lumped with small potatoes like counting the Omer. Even Lag B’Omer has a chapter. But not Shavuous. I don’t get it. To me, it’s the Jewish Forth of July - the day we signed our “constitution” with the Ruler.

Sure, observant Jews realize its importance. On this most sacred of holidays, they study Torah all night. So, I stopped my rabbi in the hall the other day. “Why this injustice?” I questioned. He was through with his kugel counseling (“Never too much sugar”) but unfortunately was on his way to the Rabbi’s compensation Committee meeting. Don’t wanta be late for that. Another lost opportunity.

Again, I wonder why. Take my uncle Louie, who if you were in a critical mood, might call a wayward Jew - a food Jew - who knows every super deli in Manhattan. Oh sure, he knows about Yom Kippur (and goes to shul, too)! And he probably could tell you about Passover, since he loves matzo balls. But Shavuous? What is it? A salad dressing?

My obvious point is that Shavuous - for all its importance - among the world of Jewry, doesn’t get its due. Probably because unlike Pesach, it offers no feasting. Unlike Succot, we build nothing. Unlike Yom Kippur, no repentant breast beating. Unlike Chanukah and Purim there is no triumphant chauvinism. It has no symbols; only the satisfaction that more than three millennia ago in the darkest of the dark ages we were chosen to receive the hand of G-d in solemn covenant that we would be a light of civilization to the nations. We were given our constitution and told to share it with the barbarous world we live in.

They shouldn’t have named it Shavuous - weeks. Weeks - 7 weeks after Pesach comes along Shavuous. Like in our wedding ceremony - the seven times the bride, Israel, circles the groom - our Creator. Signifying our covenant. The seven years the land must lie fallow. Even today - from the sublime to the ridiculous - the seven that wins for the dice shooter and excites the roar of the winners. Seven, that ancient poetic number that still glows with luck.

But seven or three or eight weeks after Pesach. “Weeks” doesn’t do it justice. They should have called it Yom Torah or something more descriptive of the stature of the event. If I was a member of the holiday naming committee, I’d call it our “Independence Day”.

Scribbler on the Roof te11d@hiwaay.net
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THE WAITING GAME As in

THE WAITING GAME

As in every conception in G-d’s world, there are usually two sides. So it is with the Cosmos – not only people, villages, stars, constellations, and galaxies, but the Divine mind that frames the universe. We lived on the material side; suffering, exalting, hoping, dreaming. It was like that in my shtetle. They tell the story of Israel, the kite flyer, who lived a mile or two down the road toward Vlank. A nice stroll from the shtetle.

All agreed that he was a strange man with no visible measure of support except what the charitable left at his door. His vocation was zero – his avocation was flying kites. Yes, that’s what I said, flying kites. And since he did not play cards or indulge in Loshon Hara and he stayed away from the village tavern, he had no friends except every child in the village under the age of twelve who were also enchanted with the heavenly flight of kites.

When Cheder was out, they flocked around Israel. Every afternoon except on the Sabbath and holidays they paraded down the road. They either brought their own kites or they flew his. And strangely enough, wind or not, the kites soared. Israel was the only adult they knew who demanded nothing of the children. No chores around the house or farm for the peasant boy, no stacking or carrying inventory for the sons of merchants. Not even study for the Yeshiva students.

One of the older and wiser children, though, was curious. “Israel,” (they always called him by his first name) “what do you do besides fly kites? My father says you either have a rich uncle or a guardian angel.”

“I wait,” replied Israel.

“And what do you wait for?”

“I just wait.” He looked away as he adjusted the cross rib on one of his best fliers. “One day, when you are no longer interested in kites you will understand, I hope.” And his face gleamed like that of Moses when he came down from the Mountain.

Now on the other side of this Cosmos, back in the village, life as usual was difficult. Almost impossible to cope with the difficulty of earning enough silver coins to feed your family. Corruption, Cossacks, disease, and the drought were relentless adversaries, which wiped out your crop, your family, or both. And of course, the village people weren’t ethically perfect. The Jewish community had its share of wife beaters, drunks, burglars, con men, and even worse. They were a typical mix of humanity (with hearts of good and evil) beset by the chilling winds of the world’s adversity. They, too, struggled for understanding; and coped any way they could get away with – most of which drew inspiration from their faith, and it must be admitted, with a little push from the evil half of the heart. Tzadiks were as rare as lilies in the garbage dump. Sad to say, many did not follow the advice of the prophets to walk in the ways of the Lord. Some strayed dizzily, some stepped to a different path far away.

Like all of Hashem’s creatures, from the hungry child to the bandit’s victim, they complained, but kept hope alive in their hearts. “Just wait,” they said to console each other, “and on some shining, Spring day it seems the time is ripe. Someday the Mosiach will come. Hunger, disease, and injustice will be faint memories.” They wait in ignorance. So does He, for that perfect day.

DON’T FORGET THE WOMEN Have

DON’T FORGET THE WOMEN

Have you ever noticed in our Chumash the huge positive prejudice toward women? It’s hard to miss – and yet there’s a wave of scholars and kibitzers who criticize us for our denigration of the female species. A silly judgment that ignores the surrounding world of 2000 BC and the cultural judgment that women were chattel. Into this storm of injustice Judaism introduced the notion that Eve and her sisters were not like sheep or goats, as was the view of pagan nations among whom we lived. According to their primitive mores, the two top professional opportunities were scrubwoman and Temple prostitute. Pagan women encountered in the antique annals of the time compare poorly to our aggressive matriarchs and others such as Deborah, Hulda, Yael, and Judith.

To restate simply, the Tanach and its attitudes must be judged in its time – not by today’s. You must not expect a smart young lady to crash through the glass ceiling and build the Temple or lead the Israelites into battle. Amazons they were not. And ceilings were steel, not glass.

To revive an old, but apt expression, generally they were “mothers in Israel”. And consider their role as opposed to the patriarchs. When it comes to plain ol’ honesty and goodness, I’d take Jacob’s Rachel and Leah over Jacob any day of the week: morally, behaviorally (is that not what pleased G-d?)

True, his mother Rebecca has a fleeting flirtation with deception as to Isaac’s inheritance, but we can forgive that since it’s motivated by maternal love.

And Miriam who guided us through the wilderness, certainly must have pleased G-d over Aaron, who had his weaknesses. Remember he had a fixation on golden calves when Moses was out of town negotiating with the celestial King of Kings.

And talk about Moses – our peerless leader whose morality is impeccable – the most saintly of the Pentateuchal cast. Even Moses – if you compare him to Zipporah – has a bad day or two. In fact, you might say that this woman – lauded by Torah – daughter of a Priest of Midian – not even a Jewess – has her moment of triumph. She saves the life of Moses when at the sight of a vengeful G-d, she abruptly circumcises their son. This must be the most mysterious, enigmatic series of verses in our holy text. G-d seeks to kill Moses? (Why? Because he didn’t circumcise Gershom, say most scholars.) Remember he had a killer job. After all, he had to satisfy our stiff-necked ancestors. Constant meetings, tense parlays with Pharaoh, and meetings with the Boss himself – you didn’t want to be late for that appointment! Gershom’s circumcision? Maybe next week. Zipporah, in the midst of this encounter, grabs a sharp flint and performs the job of the Mohel and flings the foreskin at “his” feet. Whose feet? Moses? Or an anthropomorphic G-d? “You are a husband of blood,” she shrieks. Zipporah saves the day. A most puzzling passage, which scholars have indigestibly chewed upon for years. But our present concern is to point out the omnipotent role of women in our bible. And here is a significant example. Without Moses to guide them, our leaderless ancestors may have ended up in Sudan. Certainly not a land of milk and honey. And some commentators say Moses chose Zipporah because she was of a desert tribe who knew the Sinai.

Throughout our Chumash women are not only depicted with tenderness, but importance. We have the sons of Jacob and we have his single daughter – Dinah. We meet Ruth the Moabite and her unswerving loyalty to her mother-in-law, clearly a text asking for tolerance – even to Israel’s enemies. And let’s not forget heroines like Yael and Judith and the prophetesses like Deborah who basically judged the fledgling nation. We value our women. May it continue.

Scribbler on the Roof te11d@hiwaay.net
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FIRST DAY OF CREATION The

FIRST DAY OF CREATION

The Lord had finished fashioning the world and as we know He was pleased – He told us so – remember? The final touch – that garden was the crowning touch. And He knew Adam loved it; swimming in the lagoon, climbing the leafy trees, and riding on the backs of those gorgeous, striped beasts he called tigers. Adam, as we said thousands of years later, had it made.

But as the Lord looked down on his handiwork, he had a feeling that something was missing. The monkeys happily chattered as Adam caroused through his Eden playground. And the birds twittered as melodiously as the human musical entertainers yet to come – they all sounded like Joan Sutherland and Pavarotti – yet to come. He deserved a rest – the Creator, not Pavarotti. So, He rested on that 7th day. Upon awaking, He surveyed again his grand creation. But the initial thrill was missing. Adam was alone. He really needed another creature – not another Adam, but like Adam. The Lord had remembered termites, but not this unidentified addition. What should it be? Like Adam, but not Adam – physically like the man, but with a few more bells and whistles. Originally, He had not considered a reproduction mate because He only planned on one human. He didn’t want his pristine planet cluttered with Coca Cola cans, fast food wrappers, and used toilet tissue. But then He looked more closely. He noticed that animals clustered around their own kind. They ran and romped together – in herds. All except Adam. His herd was only him. Adam noticed and he was jealous. The monkeys were sympathetic as they swung through the trees and invited him to swing along, but after a couple of falls he decided to watch.

The Creator was dissatisfied; swarms of creatures from grasshoppers to giraffes with reproductive equipment to make even more of them but only one man.

You know the next chapter. As Adam sleeps and dreams of his exclusive paradise that he shares with no one, the Lord and Master Obstetrician - via an incredible surgery that’s never been duplicated – produces Eve. What a bargain, thinks the Creator. Lose a rib, gain a lovemate. So, Adam awakes to see standing next to him a creature much like himself. “What’s this?” he shrieks in surprise.

“My name is Eve.” Eve blushed and announced her status as helplmate.

Adam turned to their mutual maker and again wide-eyed and pale (his side hurt, too) and asked, “Why? What will I do with her – it’s too soon for skillets, pots, and pans. She can’t even make suppers. And from now on I must hunt down and pick TWO pieces of fruit, find TWO skins to cover her at night, and notice she talks like me, but she never stops. She already says the cave is a mess and I can’t throw my fruit leavings on the floor. And she says riding the giraffe is dangerous and has forbidden it to me. And she used words to strengthen her desires – words I didn’t understand like lawyer, divorce, and alimony.”

“Adam,” said his Maker, “I intend to make of you a great nation of creatures, not as kind as your monkey friends, but much smarter. And I shall charter your offspring to gentle and refine this crude world and to do this you’ll need a mate, as you’ll soon figure out. When you need my help, call upon me with prayer. I may or may not respond, depending on your motives. Bon Voyage.”

Adam was silent and walked slowly away holding the hand of his new companion. At least the wound in his side was feeling better.

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I WONDER ABOUT THE TEMPLE

I WONDER ABOUT THE TEMPLE

I think G-d has a sense of humor. Pardon me if you think that’s blasphemous, but until I learn more – when I stride through those pearly gates - I’ll stick with that theory. Let’s take one example. Our creator, when he first meets up with our forefathers – especially Moses – plays one theme over and over. Do not, He says, mingle with the people of the land I shall give you. It is a repetitive theme. Don’t eat with them (especially at the Annual Canaanite Carnival). Stay away from their cheeseburger booth; don’t eat their fat pork cutlets. In fact, eat none of their improperly slaughtered livestock. But that’s just the prelude to the ban on any cultural comingling. Obviously, stay away from their women. The point is non-arguable – treat the people of the land as though they are all infected with the plague. Separation is the theme. I am a jealous G-d, says the author of the Chumash. Don’t mess with these barbarians and especially their gods. He obviously abhors their multiple deities. Stick with me, says the creator of Jews and Canaanites.

So many of the mitzvahs have as their purpose a fence between us and them. And it’s not because Joe Phililstine and Jimmy Jebusite are inferior creatures – it’s because their god is not our G-d. Their religious system is barbaric; involving multiple sins such as Temple prostitutes, child sacrifice, idolatry, and other assorted immoralities. And besides that, remember – and you should have no trouble, since it’s repeated eight times in our book – remember, says the Humash, “I am a jealous G-d”.

Having said this, let’s flip a few pages further in our Chumash and what do we find, but page after page of detailed instruction as to the home that our G-d shall occupy and detailed instructions on sacrifice. A Temple – like a celebrity’s mansion in Hollywood Hills. It’s a 20 million shekel spread – like Brad Pitt or George Cloony would order from some architect to the stars. Do you really believe that pleases him? And in its insistence on sacrifice, it smells of paganism. Their hilltops and groves are polluted with temples.

Waitaminute – I thought we were supposed to stay away from this kind of theological excess. Our G-d is everywhere: and invincible since he is invisible. The aforementioned Temple sounds like the kind of residence that would please Baal and all his idolatrous kinfolks. And this estate is manned by a thousand man union of Levites. Hmmm, besides the smell of barbecued beef, I also smell the strong possibility of graft. I give you a lamb to sacrifice and you take the tenderloin home for supper and maybe the smoke of chuck steak ascends to Heaven. And remember only the smoke goes to Heaven. The chuck steak still sits – all crispy and juicy (unless you overcooked it) on the grill. It’ll make a fine supper. If I was a Levite in 900 BCE, I would take a large cooler to work.

But, there’s an anomaly here – or more acutely an evolution of Judaism. The overall irony is that the recipient of lamb smoke, ox smoke, and other delicacies tells us not to behave like Jebusites and their kin and then tells us in the case of sacrifice HOW to behave like the Jebusites and their kin. Flip some more pages to the Psalms and prophets and we get sarcastic lectures on sacrificial ceremony, biting sarcasm about our perception of a G-d who likes barbecue! For example, read Psalms Chapter 50 that constantly dins into our ears a civilized doctrine of a G-d who delights in goodness, not lamb smoke, and needs no physical home other than your heart. We find our creator in a highly sarcastic mood about this imperial “House” that he so painstakingly described earlier. Time has passed, man has intellectually matured. First of all, he derides sacrifice. He says things like: I will not accept your bulls, your goats. “For every beast of the field is mine, the cattle on the hills”. He doesn’t stop there. With a burst of ironic humor, HE who hung the planets says: “Do I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of goats?” And he finishes his tirade with a zinger of a quote: “He who brings Thanksgiving as his sacrifice honors me.” Ah, the core of Judaism, not sacrifice, not even prayer, but deeds and repentance.

Was a playful G-d being ironic when He specified his Hollywood hilltop accommodations? The prophets certainly think so. Maybe that’s why we don’t rebuild the Temple now. Maybe its day has faded in the light of today’s Judaism. Ask your rabbi how the Temple, in the face of such biting criticism, has attained such shining, historical stature in our dazzled eyes. Why? And in line with today’s Rabbinical instead of Temple-based morality, why not substitute goodness for barbecued chicken and livestock. A good deed instead of a guilt offering. Generosity to our fellow man to please our G-d. A specific list of golden deeds to make amends for specific errors. Which do you think would please the Master Magistrate more – lamb smoke or goodness. We have transcended barbecue grills, don’t you think.

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I WONDER ABOUT THE TEMPLE

I WONDER ABOUT THE TEMPLE

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ADAM SEES THE LIGHT Can

ADAM SEES THE LIGHT
Can you imagine Adam - G-d’s first human creation in Eden’s green meadow? See him, newly minted. His fresh body gleaming and his mind totally empty of facts, attitudes, opinions - as empty as Eden is of thorn bushes - ready to begin its lifelong task of accumulation of data and weaving that data into an intellect. He turns slowly 360 degrees, a full circle, and takes in grass and forests, and flowers, and mountains, and brooks, all covered by a blue dome.

As he registers every throb of the new creation in the lush, green grass of Eden and wonders at his consciousness - as flimsy as the few white clouds that sail above him. He looks closer and sees the songbirds. And look, there are small creatures in the grass and larger ones hopping and bounding amongst the trees. Truly, a brave new world full of creatures unlike himself that are necessary for him to understand - he who at birth has no identity and a head full of inexperience. Then he chances to stare into that copper disc that illuminates his new world. It beams over all.

Still sitting on the green Savannah and swiveling his head in all directions, because the Lord of creation has put a potion called curiosity into his bloodstream; unappreciated at the time by Adam, but destined to nourish his intellect. So much to see that it took many hours to inscribe it all in his heretofore blank brain like the honeybee fills his comb with nectar.

Then among his recording of his surroundings, he made an alarming observation. That bright orange thing was no longer straight ahead. The trees on the far horizon appeared to consume it. And he could no longer see the sharp outlines of trees and mountains. In fact, the creatures that had been joyfully bounding in the woods were no longer visible to him. Darkness was replacing light. He trembled. Even a partially stocked brain knew that somehow darkness meant blindness and blindness was death. And as the trees pulled more and more of the light below the horizon, Adam’s blindness increased. He chose to run to escape this danger, but he fell over a large boulder. He rose, only to run into a tree. He resumed his running - somewhere there must be light and he must find it. He was cold and blind and fearful all at once.

And the Lord G-d saw his fear and took pity on him. Ah, we need a light for the night, thought the mind of G-d wherein dwells all the mechanisms of the universe. Therefore, he flung the full moon into the midnight sky. Adam stopped. Only a small improvement. Now at least he could see the river, which lay in his path. But still the garden’s beauty seemed blurred in dusky yellow. So, the lord flung millions of points of light into the sky. They helped but a little.

The good Lord, who made the heart of Adam, understood the heart of Adam. This fear of nighttime blindness needed more than moon and stars.

The Creator spoke in Adam’s ear the secret of day and night. How they revolve like all things in nature; life and death, the seasons, the great architecture of the galaxies. But Adam’s mind could not accommodate the voice of his maker. It was like talking to the beasts. He needed one of his own kind. The ragged hole of fear in Adam’s soul could only be filled by a helpmate. Thus, Adam slept and G-d made Eve.

She stood beside him and pointed to the horizon where the earth had swallowed the sun. Her eyes expressed no fear, only wonder. They sank to the grass in each other’s arms - huddled like two babes. Neither knew anything except the warmth of the other. They watched and waited. Their fearful eyes focused on the Pine tree where they had last seen the sun. Would it ever return to bless them with light and warmth? They dozed, frightful, but full of the need to sleep. Then Eve, feeling a warmth at her back and noticing the lightening of the black sky, laughed the first exultant laugh of creation and put her hand to Adam’s face in order to turn it to the life-giving light behind them. “It returns, it returns,” she whispered with awe; “but not where it was eaten by the earth.” They stand, they face the rising sun, and then they lift their faces to heaven - wherein the laws of nature are made - to thank He who gave them life and light and warmth. Around them all living things hummed a hymn of hope.

Scribbler on the Roof te11d@hiwaay.net
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ADAM SEES THE LIGHT

A CHANUKAH CONFESSION

I have a Chanukah confession to make. I like Christmas. My family has long been aware of my weakness and attributed it to my peculiar form of insanity; an eccentricity (that’s MY word - theirs is “nutty”) about Judeo-Christian affairs

I can’t help it. I know that I should feel “uncomfortable” month of December. A word many of my Jewish friends use. Why uncomfortable? I suppose because the season is full of reminders that numerically we’re a small island in a dominant sea of Christianity. Makes us feel “different”, they say. This uncomfortable sense of alienation is not unique to 21st Century American Jewry. We have lived as a minority within the grasp of every significant society that has molded the mind of Western man. Egyptian, Assyrian, Babylonian, Persian, Greek, Roman, and Angle-Saxon, to name a few. And our defenses - those 613 “weird” dictates in the Torah – the Penteteuch - that accented and advertised our uniqueness - worked to perfection. The Christmas season, when the air is heavy with carols and bells and Christmas greetings, is the mildest of challenges.

Admit it. We’re a bowl of Latkes. Potato pancakes, next to the baked ham on the Christmas table; an owl in the Pear Tree. And as Gerard Manley Hopkins, a great Christian poet says, “Glory be to God for dappled things” - by which he means diversity - a recently rediscovered concept.

Sure we’re a minority. But we sent our intellectual explorers around the cultural currents of the world. Christmas reminds me of that, too. “White Christmas” byIzzy Ballin (Irving Berlin) and piles of Yuletide films and plays and books; and most significantly the child who’s the centerpiece of this adoration - all Jewish products. Maybe it’s a proud season for us.

This all dawned on me one December afternoon in 1938. Me and the rest of my third grade class were singing Christmas carols. “Noel, Noel, born is the King of Iiiiiisrael.” I was - as usual - shall we say Uncomfortable. Those alien songs underlined my lack of credentials for the affection of Betty Ann McIntosh. I didn’t have enough trouble - once a year for two full weeks she was reminded that I was some exotic species different from her own.

Then I heard more clearly the words of the song - “Born is the King of Israel”. Hey, this lyric had something to do with me and my kind.

Most of the kids didn’t even know what “Israel” meant. I explained it to classmates and did a little PR work in the process. This was a couple of decades before the Dead Sea Scroll excitement. Well before public awareness of Jesus the Jew: “the Little Lord Jesus” was one of US. They were singing hymns of praise to a Jew! He never knew the word “Christian” in Hebrew, Greek, or Aramaic. This greatly relieved my discomfort. It still does.

But if you ARE one of the Yuletide uncomfortables, Christmas Eve you should warm yourself with a nice cup of tea and think; isn’t it amazing that my team is less than 2% of this nation, yet there’s the echo of klezmer music in the Christmas bells and a Jewish flavor to every course of the Yuletide feast, which is Christmas.

I like the music and the food. The lights, too. And best of all, the rare attention paid to civility and kindness. I think it’s a season when Christians earnestly examine their behavior and try to improve it. It’s a Christian Yom Kippur.

And as to those who talk about the materialism of Christmas; well it all depends on what kind of spectacles you’re wearing. Giving away your December paycheck in the form of gifts to others seems to me an excess of generosity, not the acquisition mania that characterizes materialism. So lighten up and thank the Lord that we live in the good ol’ USA and the knock at the door is only the mailman deliveriing a Chanukah present.

The Penitent Returns

Ted Roberts
2101 Aftonbrae Dr. SE
Huntsville, AL 35803

THE PENITENT RETURNS; HIGH HOLYDAYS 2012

If Lou Schwartz wasn’t evil - well neither was Haman. He deceived his naive wife with regularity. His marriage was only a convenience - a shell as illicit as his financial activities. Over a five year period he had skillfully, cautiously swindled his two business partners out of 1.6 mill. It sat safely in an offshore bank and collected 2% interest. His two partners had bubkes, zero, zip. They deserved it. What crooks! They used a triple entry bookkeeping system; one set of books for the IRS, one for the wives, and an accurate set for their own eyes.

$1,632,112.33 - that’s what the monthly bank statement, in his pocket, said. Lou pulled the deposit receipt out of his jacket pocket and luxuriated once more in the printed figure as he sipped a campari with soda in the ship’s lounge. He was on his way to sign a few papers at the Royal Bahamian Bank and then pick up his loot. He planned many decades of luxurious retirement in a beach front condo filled with tasteful furnishings and enough playmates to gladden his solitude. But for now, maybe a nap before the supper buffet.
But he was interrupted by the steward. “Sir, pardon the intrusion, I’m Michael, the Head Steward. The Captain wanted me to notify the passengers that since tomorrow is the Jewish holiday Rosh Hashonah, we’ll conduct services in the Dolphin Room on the middle deck.”

Lou Schwartz blinked. “A rabbi on a cruise ship?” he asked.

“Of course,” said the steward. “The motto of the Celestial Cruise Lines is; Buffets for the body - and services for the soul. Our rabbi will happily perform weddings, Bar Mitzvah, and Brisses. We even carry a Hupah for love smitten passengers. Shipboard romances, you know.”

Lou Schwartz had not attended High Holyday services since his school days. Hmmm, Rosh Hashonah, Yom Kippur, he thought. What was that prayer where you beat your chest in repentance? Strange, he had prayed so passionately then and had so little to be forgiven for. Today, he thought, I’d need a year of Yom Kippurs to clean up my act. That was his last thought before he dozed off. The dream came quickly

He was on a rocky meadow and standing before him was a tall, thin man with burning eyes and shaggy hair. He was wrapped in a robe - gray like the rocks of the hillside.

“I am Nathan the Prophet,” he said in a low tremulous voice. “The prophet who rebuked King David for his lust. But as I chastised the king, my insides, too, trembled with desire. I was as impure as he. I fear the Judgment Day even though I risked my life to speak against evil.”

As his last words echoed on the hillside, he vanished. A new figure stood before him - not ragged like Nathan, but radiant, majestic.

Somehow, Lou Schwartz, from long-ago Sunday School days, knew his identity. The apparition looked down at the wild flowers. He stated with emotion, “Even as I killed the priests of Baal at Carmen, my heart pounded joy. Even though our Master tells us to mourn for his children, the Egyptians, at the bottom of the Red Sea, my spirit laughed at the blood of my enemies. I am only made of the clay of Adam. I, Elijah, the messenger of God, fear the Judgment Day”.
Next appeared a mild man in a herdsman’s robe who blended with the boulder-strewn meadow. Yes, it was Amos, a preacher of brotherhood, of justice.

“I was a shepherd of men and sheep. Social justice was my song, but sometimes I cared more for the sound of my rich voice than the results of my preaching. And to be carried through the village on the shoulders of the oppressed was my greatest joy. Even I, who preached mercy and righteousness, fear the Judgment Day.

Now, Lou Schwartz was awake. And trembling. He rang for the steward. “Where are the Kol Nidre services?” he barked.

The steward looked confused. “Pardon me sir, I know of no services.”

“Don’t be an idiot. The Head Steward, Michael, just told me of them.”

“Mr. Schwartz, there is no Head Steward of that name on this ship.”
The fire in Lou Schwartz’s eyes dimmed. “Never mind, thanks,” he said softly. Lou Schwartz knew when the Chairman of the Board had paid him a personal visit.

If the sheer force of Tesuvah, repentance could have been applied to the 20-ton rudder of the ship, it would have turned in mid ocean like a bathtub toy. But that would have been a miracle and we’re only allotted one per life, which the penitent had already experienced. So instead, Lou Schwartz, the voyager, rushed to the communications room and booked the next flight back home from the Bahamas. A return in more ways than one.

Scribbler on the Roof te11d@hiwaay.net
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
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CHOLESTEROL OK? HOW’S YOUR SOUL?

CHOLESTEROL OK? HOW’S YOUR SOUL?

“No doubt the world is entirely an imaginary world, but it is only once removed from the true world.” So says Isaac Bashevis Singer, an obsessed observer of this imaginary world and its gullible inhabitants, most of whom believe it’s real.
Rosh Hashonah is the time to sit on the patio in the late evening with a glass of iced tea, a bowl of peanuts and think about our personal world and our ethical scoreboard. Solitude sets the scene for introspection. I must admit that sometimes it’s easier to experience kavanah on the patio where my only fellow congregant is the tulip tree who davens in utter silence, unless there’s a breeze.

Oh yeah, I know about the big building with the six-pointed star in the stained glass windows and the stone tablets above the door. I’ll go there, too. There are no atheists in foxholes or patios, they say as Yom Kippur approaches.
Rosh Hashonah is Superbowl night The game is over. You’re alone in a vacant stadium. Players and spectators head home from the world of games, but you sit in the stands hypnotized by the scoreboard, which is still vividly lit.
It’s your personal score. Win, lose or tie - there it is. And because it’s the All Highest of Holidays, for one day you’re in the real world and with all your heart and all your soul you understand the importance of the numbers on the scoreboard. This can be terribly depressing, until you remember you get ten days of grace. Your Judge, like your banker, gives you a grace period to make the check good.

Christians - how lucky can you get - receive total forgiveness through faith, for sins. We get a ten-day grace period. That’s why there’s a billion or so of them and ten million of us. (Why weren’t we smart enough to copyright the Humash?)
We believe in forgiveness, too. But if your sin affected a fellow human being, he or she must soothe you with personal forgiveness.

There’s a story about two business partners. Both Jews. Partner A cheats Partner B: cooks the corporate books such that what appears to be lamb in wine sauce is only onions and water. Years later the crooked partner - on the High Holydays - understands the Singer comment that the real world is yet to come. Better balance his personal books, he thinks.
So, he asks his ex-partner for forgiveness. “No can do,” says the former partner, now CEO. “I’m not the only aggrieved party - the company is employee-owned. There are 672 employee/stockholders. You cheated all of us.”
But he agrees to call a meeting wherein he explains to the shorn lambs his repentant partner’s predicament. “Yom Kippur is

Wednesday,” he finishes, “let’s vote on forgiveness - let’s make it unanimous.”
No good. The vote is 671 to ONE - a hung jury.

The fourth floor maintenance man, a consistent violator of all 613 mitzvot, has voted against clemency. That night the Great Judge appears to the hold-out in a dream. “Listen,” thunders the All High. “You break my Sabbath! You don’t honor my holidays! You use my name in vain every time the toilet overflows in the 4th floor bathroom! Yet you won’t forgive one of my creatures. Come on now!” That did it. 672 to zero in favor of acquittal.

So, we plead for mercy to G-d and man. We go to synagogue. We pray and confess like it’s our last day in this almost true world.

On Yom Kippur, when all those confessions are pouring in, G-d must blush for the human race. Such ugly stories he hears rising from synagogue rooftops around the world.

Though prayer - the pleading with the Judge - is an essential element of Judaism, it’s not quite the same as ethical restitution; like fixing the fender of your neighbor’s car that you bashed one midnight - inviting to supper your wife’s cousin who you’ve ignored for years - returning the social security overpayment - praising the office competitor who you’ve routinely degraded around evaluation time. Which is more important, prayer or restitution? If the question came up on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire”, I know what I’d answer; but go ask your rabbi.

Scribbler on the Roof te11d@hiwaay.net
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
Buy Ted's collected works at

http://www.lulu.com/content/127641