Just Before the New Year

In just a few days Rosh Hashanah arrives

For me that is the most important time in the year to remember the teaching of Rabbi Simcha Bunam, an 18th-19th C. Hasidic leader in Poland:  Each of us should have two pockets, In each we should carry a different quotation.

In one, for when we feel puffed up and full of pride, let there be the reminder, “I am but dust and ashes!” In the other pocket, when we feel that our efforts futile and have no consequence, let us read: “For my sake the world was created.”

 During this month of Elul we have, hopefully, dedicated our thoughts to examining our actions and thoughts during the past year with the goal of becoming kinder and more caring in the year ahead. If our self-scrutiny is honest we know that there are many times we have fallen short of our own ideals and God’s hopes for us. At such times it is easy to fall into despair and see ourselves as without merit, or little more than dust and ashes.

 At such time it is good to remember that our tradition teaches us that this world is no accident and that our lives are not accidents either. They can have purpose and meaning!

 We celebrate Rosh Hashanah as the anniversary of the creation of the world.

God charged us at creation to use our talents to make the world a better place. Few of us will find the cure for cancer or bring about world peace, but that should not stop each of us from dong something. We each can teach a child to read, help an elderly person cross the street, cook and serve a meal at homeless shelter. The possibilities are endless.

 But when we become puffed up in the pride of our accomplishments or even in our acts of kindness, it is good to remind ourselves that as Abraham realized when he addressed the Almighty (Genesis 18:27) we are ”but dust and ashes.”

 One of life’s must difficult challenges is to find the balance between conceit and despair

Henry David Thoreau reminded us: “We are double-edged blades, and every time we whet our virtue the return stroke straps our vice.”

 I think that it is no accident that, as Bahia ben Asher of Saragossa (13-14th c.) noted, the zodiacal symbol for Tishri and the Jewish New year is usually a balance scale. As we count down the weeks toward Rosh Hashanah, our tradition (Babylonian Talmud, Kiddushin 40 B) enjoins us to think of our good and evil deeds as weighing equally on the scale of merit, and that our next act will tip the scale of judgment for good or for ill.

 Think of the power the image of the balance scale can have. 

If each of us wakes up feeling an urgent need to do a good deed, what an amazingly positive impact our collective actions will have on our families, our communities and our world.

What If I Don’t Believe in God?

 (In loving memory of Jampa Williams)

The Torah assumes that God exists, and the concept of a single, good caring God who wants us to use our talents to make the world a better place. 

But what of those who don’t believe?  

In Noah Gordon’s novel, The Rabbi, young Michael Kind intervenes to rescue Rabbi Max Gross from a New York City mugging.  The encounter with the Rabbi stimulates in Michael questions about his own beliefs.  He returns to the Rabbi’s apartment and says:

 “‘Tell me about God.’

‘What is it you want to know?’

‘How can you be sure that man didn’t imagine God, because he was afraid of the dark and the lousy cold, because he needed the protection of anything, even his own stupid imagination…. I think I’ve become an agnostic.”

‘No, no, no,’ Rabbi Gross responded.  ‘Then call yourself an atheist.  Because how can anyone be certain that God exists …. Do you think I have knowledge of God?  Can I go back in time and be there when God speaks to Isaac or delivers the Commandments?  If this could be done there would only be one religion in the world; we would all know which group is right. Now it happens to be the way of all men to take sides.  A person has to make a decision.  About God, you don’t know, and I don’t know.  But I have made a decision in favor of God.  You have made a decision against Him.’

‘I’ve made no decisions,’ Michael said a bit sullenly.  ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m full of questions.  I want to study with you.’

Rabbi Gross touched the books piled on his table.  ‘A lot of great thoughts are contained here,’ he said.  ‘But they don’t hold the answer to your question.  They can’t help you decide.  First you make a decision.  Then we will study.’

‘No matter what I decide?  Suppose I think God is a fable, a bubbeh-meisir.’

‘No matter.’

Outside in the dark hallway, Michael looked back at the closed door of the shul.  Goddamn you, he thought.  And then, in spite of everything, he smiled at his choice of words.”

Like young Michael, many of us do not believe in God.  Many of us do not believe in a God who judges us. 

Our Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are ten days apart on the Jewish calendar.  The holy days, and the days between them, are a time for introspection and contemplation of one’s life and actions during the past year – a time for reflection, and repentance.

The starkest – and, for many – most difficult prayer of the High Holy Day season is the Unetaneh Tokef, which we pray at the morning service on the Holy Days:  The words “Unetaneh Tokef” mean, “Let us acknowledge the enormity (of this sacred day.)”

“On Rosh Hashanah it is written and Yom Kippur it is sealed

How many shall pass on and how many shall come to be;

Who shall live and who shall die;

Who shall see ripe old age and who shall not;

Who shall perish by fire and who by water;

Who by sword and who by beast;

Who by hunger and who by thirst;”

But, the prayer concludes,

“Repentance, Prayer and Charity temper judgment’s severe decree.”

I certainly do not believe, and no one I know believes, that those who died in the past year died because they were deficient in repentance, prayer and charity.

None of us knows who shall live and who shall die in the coming year.  To a great degree, how long we live is beyond our control, but how we live is up to us.

We can unlock the door of unbelief that stands between many of us and the prayers of this day with a single Hebrew word: כאלו, K’eeloo, and it means, “as if”.

It is a simple concept.  Whatever our beliefs, if we can act – K’eeloo – “as if” we stand this day under God’s scrutiny, we shall make a giant leap forward.

The word Israel – in Hebrew, Yisrael – means, “One who struggles with God.”  It does not mean, “One who believes in God”, and it does not mean “One who is always comfortable with God.”  The High Holy Days invite us to serious struggle and effort.

The Unetaneh Tokef prayer is one of the best “struggling tools” ever.  It has the power to change our lives.  

Once, during the Russo-Japanese War at the beginning of the 20th century, wrote S.Y. Agnon in Days of Awe

“A committee of Jewish soldiers passed through all the hospitals and announced there would be public prayer” for the Holy Days.

It was an awful sight.  Many of those who came were incapacitated, gloomy, and lean as corpses; many…were armless, lame, leaned on crutches, were armless, lame, leaned on crutches, were blind, and bore wounds of every description….

During the Unetaneh Tokef prayer no words were heard in the House of Prayer; only tear-choked voices filled the atmosphere of the little house.  The cantor’s voice became stronger and stronger and struck sparks in the air: ‘Who will live and who will die, who in his time, and who before his time.’  Those were terrible and awful moments.”

How many of these men were believers?  I do not know, but the real possibility of imminent death gave urgency and meaning to their prayers.

The purpose of this day of Yom Kippur is to imagine our imminent death.   On this day we separate ourselves from bodily pleasures.  We imagine that we have died, and we envision ourselves trembling before the throne of a God who calls us to account for our actions.

Even if we do not believe in God, is not well for us to try to answer the questions our tradition ascribes to God? 

How did we use the time we had?

Did we use our abilities simply to provide for ourselves, or did we work to make the world a better place?  What did we do last year that we wish we could change?

Actions in the Jewish religion are more important than beliefs.

The Jerusalem Talmud ascribes the following quotation to God: 

“Would that My people forsake Me but keep My commandments!”

Elie Weasel was a young journalist living in Israel when he published his first book, Night, in 1958.  Once, he had been a budding Talmud scholar, an ilui, a gifted one, a genius.

He was, in the words of Francois Mauriac, “One of God’s elect.  From the time when his conscience first awoke, he had lived only for God and had been reared on the Talmud…dedicated to the Eternal.”

But then, during the Holocaust, he watched “his mother, a beloved little sister, and all his family except his father disappear into an oven fed with living creatures.”  He watched the slow agony of his father’s tortured death from exposure, exhaustion and dysentery after a merciless midwinter march from Gleiwitz to Buchenwald.

Never…” Wiesel wrote, “Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and turned my dreams to dust.”

No one who has read Night can ever forget Wiesel’s description of the scene where the Gestapo hanged a small child. 

‘For more than half an hour he stayed there, struggling between life and death, dying in slow agony under our eyes.  And we had to look him full in the face.  He was still alive when I passed in front of him.  His tongue was still red, his eyes not yet glazed.

Behind me I heard a man asking:

‘Where is God now?’

And I heard a voice within me answer him:

‘Where is He?  Here He is – He is hanging there on the gallows.’

Out of the broken pieces of his life and his faith, Elie Wiesel forged a remarkable career that ranks him among the greats of Jewish history and earned him – among many honors – the Nobel Prize for Peace in 1986.  He may have stopped believing in God, but he acted as if a God of love, mercy and justice watched and judged his every action.

The Talmud teaches us (B. Kiddushin 40B that we should approach Yom Kippur thinking our good deeds and our bad deeds balance each other on the scales.  Therefore, we should go through life alert to any opportunity to do good that will tip the scales in our favor.  Who knows what the impact of that next mitzvah will be?

Once, a rabbi was missing from his synagogue on the holiest night of the year.  The worried elders searched for him all over town.  Eventually they found him in a small house close to the synagogue holding a small baby in his arms.

 “What are you doing here?” the dumbfounded elders asked the rabbi.

“On my way to Kol Nidre services, I heard a baby crying.  Seeing no one in the house, I stopped to comfort him.

For Jews, what we do is more important than what we believe or how we pray.  Comforting a crying child is a more sacred act than the holiest of prayers.

s Rabbi Max Gross told Michael Kind, “About God you don’t know, and I don’t know, but it is in the nature of human beings to make a choice.

Personally, my choice is for God.  My faith strengthens me in times of trouble; my faith enhances life’s joys.  For me faith in God is a precious gift.

That gift, though, is not one that everyone has or wants.  But even for those who do not believe, the Jewish holy day of Yom Kippur holds hope and promise.

Even if we do not believe in God, we can choose to act – K ‘eeloo – as if we do.

Even if we do not believe in God, we can act as if our fate rested on the merit of our actions.

And even if we do not believe in God, we can choose life and blessing – for ourselves and for others.Is not that the choice that really matters?

Harry William Fuchs

Twelve years ago today, our son Ben and I were playing tennis when Vickie walked up to the courts.  We knew something had to be very wrong if she showed up in the middle of our game.  We were dumbstruck when she told us my beloved first cousin Harry had a sudden heart attack and died.

Our family was in shock!  

Harry was vibrant, alive, to all appearances healthy, and then in an incomprehensible instant he was gone!  Our hearts and our minds reeled in disbelief. My cousin Harry was kind, easy going and had the most wonderful smile and infectious laugh of anyone I have ever known.

It is no surprise to me that family and friends gathered from London, California and many places in between to bid him farewell and pay him tribute.  

One of the most remarkable things about Harry is that he was still friends with almost all of the people with whom he went to grammar school, high school and college.  It is remarkable the way he stayed so closely connected with so many different people.

If we could choose a motto for Harry Fuchs, we could do no better than the words, “Life is Good.”  Indeed, life was good for Harry, and Harry was good to life.  He lived each day to the fullest.  He managed to fit exercise, reading, cooking, work, parenting, and often much more into each day and still get to bed at a reasonable hour.  He was intellectually, curious, he had a wonderful sense of humor, and he was – and now will be – forever young.

Harry William Fuchs never aged.  At 53, he looked like he looked in college—maybe even better.   I guess Harry was never meant to grow old.  He left life in its prime.  He was never sick, he never had to depend on anyone, and he never gave anyone reason to pity or feel sorry for him.

It was always easy to remember Harry’s birthday.  He was born on 5/5/55 in Manhattan, but he lived most of his life in Great Neck.  I loved my Uncle Ali and my Aunt Mimi dearly, but they had Harry rather late in life.  That reality did not make life easy for a child of the 60’s and 70’s born to European parents who both grew up with great wealth but came to this country with nothing.  They deeply loved Harry, but Ali was often away on business, and Mimi always had a hard time saying, “No,” to the apple of her eye.

After high school Harry went off to Wyndham College, but after that institution folded, he completed his studies at the University of Vermont.  In his youth he sometimes tried to hide it, but Harry was a very deep thinker with a fine, curious mind who majored in chemistry.  The last thing on his mind was to enter the fur business with his father, but Ali was persistent, and the fur business at that time offered a much more comfortable lifestyle than that of an unemployed research chemist.

I am sure there were some clashes in those early days between strait-laced nose-to-the-grindstone Ali and his “when does the party start” son.  But things changed dramatically after Harry cut his hair and became seriously successful in the fur trade.  

I still can hear the pride and love in Ali’s voice – and such gushing praise did not come naturally to Ali – when he spoke to me about Harry.

As years went by their relationship changed.  At the end it was Harry who was looking after and taking care of Ali. Lovingly he drove his father to and from work every day, and in so doing allowed Ali to cling to his life in the fur trade that he loved so much.   It was a heroic chapter in the life of Harry William Fuchs which he very seldom talked about.

My cousin Harry always loved kids, and they loved him.  My now grown children – who flew across the country to attend Harry’s funeral – remember vividly his and their joy when he carried them on his shoulders years ago when we all visited the Statue of Liberty. 

Along his all too short life’s journey Harry Fuchs was blessed with several positive influences.  

Linda Canina was Harry’s first lasting love.  They lived together for ten years.  They were different in so many ways, but she made his spirits soar and inspired him with her intellectual brilliance and love for life.  She seemed to awaken in Harry his deep and eclectic love for learning.  He read widely and avidly—on politics, sports, fashion, Israel and the Middle East.  He was interested in everything.

And then there was Bonnie! I’ll never forget the first time I spoke to Harry after he had met Bonnie on a ski trip.  It was like his whole world had changed and his whole demeanor was somehow different.  They had much in common and shared a deep and special love.  Although their marriage ended in divorce, their mutual respect and affection abide.   To their great credit, each has worked hard and made many compromises to make things as easy as possible for Casey.

When Harry met Randi, she brought a whole new dimension to his life. She gave him a newfound sense of stability and calm.  She is so down to earth and comfortable with herself that Harry became more grounded through her love.  He still loved to live well, and he did, but he no longer needed to jet around the world.  Rather he could find his pleasures in life with Randi, the music on his ipod, the beach, his bike, and a beautiful sunset. 

And then of course, there is Casey!

When Casey came into his life, Harry became a different person.  In his own words Harry said: “I really learned to love after I became a father.”

 In Casey, Harry’s life came full circle. Harry adored Casey, and I know that love will NEVER die. 

As Casey told me, “No matter what I did, he was always interested.  The most important thing for him to know was, ‘How was your day?’”

When Casey was in the hospital, Harry slept there.  He was there when she went to sleep, and he was there when she woke up.

Twelve years later, it is still hard to believe that he is gone. Yet, when we close our eyes and think of him, we shall see his smile, we’ll hear his laugh, and his memory will remain a blessing in our lives . . . always.

Psalm 23: A Personal Reflection

With gratitude to Rabbi Andi Fliegel

The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.

He restoreth my soul.  

He guideth me in straight paths for His name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

For thou art with me.

Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.

Though preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies.

Thou hast anointed my head with oil.

My cup runneth over

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.

And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Except, perhaps, for the Shma the twenty-third Psalm was the first prayer I ever learned. 

Throughout my public school years (grades 1-8 at Ashland School, East Orange, NJ) each morning began with a Psalm read by one of us students.

The Twenty-third Psalm was by far the most popular selection although some readers chose number 117 because it was the shortest of all the 150 Psalms in the book.

Without even realizing it, I memorized the words in the King James translation that we read in school.

As a rabbi, I invoked Psalm 23 at many funerals pointing out that, “Few words have brought more comfort to more people than these thoughts attributed to King David as he sat among the Judean hills some 3000 years ago.” For that reason I also include Psalm 23 as part of the Yizkor ritual on Yom Kippur.

Yes, I employed these verses frequently, but the Psalm only attached itself to my heart in the anxiety I felt leading up to and following my aortic valve replacement in 1996.

I had recently read The Relaxation Response by Dr. Herbert Benson, which offers a simple four-step guide to meditative relaxation:

  • A quiet atmosphere
  • A comfortable position
  • A mental device
  • A passive attitude

Dr. Benson’s formula would get me through open-heart surgery both in 1996 and 2012.  It would also sustain me during a life-threatening strep infection that centered in my left hip in 2016 and following my painful rotary cuff repair in 2018.

For my “go to” mental device I decided to memorize the twenty-third Psalm, so familiar to me in King James English, in the original Hebrew.

And now, as the Days of Awe approach in this unprecedented time of Covid-19 I find ever-greater meaning in these words although some of them are counter intuitive.

Vickie and I have walked though the sheep fields outside of Husum, Germany, where sheep seem to outnumber people, near the North Sea.

What my eyes and nose beheld made it abundantly clear to me that lying down in those green pastures was the last thing I would want to do.

And yet as is the case with biblical narratives, we must escape the literal to embrace the exquisite metaphor the Psalm offers us.

The idea that God takes care of our needs and offers comfort in times of trouble has great appeal. I marvel that through all the horrors history has imposed on our people, the idea still resonates. 

That even after the Shoah we can recite and on some level believe those words is a miracle to me. And yet, we can and we do.

Instead of blaming the Eternal One for society’s ills, we turn to God for comfort and the strength to bear what seems unbearable. 

Certainly for me, when my pain and fear are very great, the Psalm reminds me, “My cup runneth over,” and I count my many blessings.

.The Prophet Zechariah (9:12), active in a time of calamitous upheaval, calls the Jewish people “Prisoners of Hope.” For me the 23rd Psalm is the embodiment of that idea. 

“Yea though I walk thought the valley of the shadow of death,” I trust in God’s presence and God’s protective care.

At the same time I express the hope that “I shall dwell in the ”House of the Lord forever.”

According to biblical and subsequent Jewish thought, “dwelling in God’s House” is a privilege we should seek to earn, not a right to which we are born. As Professor Robert Alter points out in his commentary on Psalms (Alter, The Book of Psalms: A Translation and Commentary, W.W. Norton & Company Inc., 2007, Kindle loc. 2234), “ . . . the privilege of enjoying God’s presence in the Jerusalem sanctuary is a consequence of having followed the ways that God dictates to humanity.”

At this sacred season of the year we acknowledge that we often fail to meet God’s expectations of us and our expectations of ourselves. 

One of my favorite stories tells of a Monarch’s son who was estranged from his father. He journeyed far away from his home.  The father, longing for his son, “sent a message, “Return to your father.”

The son replied, “I cannot. The distance is too great.”

Replied the father, “Come as far as you are able, and I will come the rest of the way to you. (Pesikta Rabati, Shuva Yisrael)

Especially during times of pain and fear, Psalm 23 has been my mantra.

 Even in the face of death, God will comfort me; God will restore my soul.

For my part, though, I must strive to be worthy of God’s favor. I must do my utmost to fulfill my covenantal responsibilities as God articulated them to Abraham:

Be a Blessing. (Genesis 12:2)

Follow God’s teachings. (Genesis 17:1)

Bring justice and righteousness into the world. (Genesis 18:19) 

But when I fall short – as I often do — of fulfilling those sacred obligations, I trust, God will meet me halfway, and, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.”

These Days of Awe are Different; But Their Message is the Same

In less than two weeks, the New Year and the Days of Awe arrive.

For most of us, the coming Days of Awe will be so very different from any we have known. If anything, the looming specter of Covid-19 only heighten their significance

The Days of Awe bid us to strip away the veneer of our righteousness and act “as if” God is examining our conduct. These days urge us to examine who we have been with an eye toward who we want to be. Humbly, we acknowledge our shortcomings and resolve to improve in the year ahead.

Behold, it is the Day of Judgment. 

As a shepherd musters his sheep, causing them to pass under his staff, so do You cause every living soul to pass before You . . .

On Rosh Hashanah it is written

On Yom Kippur it is sealed

How many shall be born

Who shall live and who shall die

Who shall complete his years . . . 

And who shall not complete his years

Who shall be serene and who shall be disturbed

Who shall be at ease and who shall be afflicted

Who shall be poor and who shall be rich . . .

But repentance, prayer, and deeds of kindness and compassion avert the severity of the decree!

The excerpt above from the Unetaneh Tokef prayer, written by Kalonymous ben Meshullam in the eleventh century, starkly expresses the High Holy Day mood of impending judgment. 

It scares people. Some recoil from it. This year life seems more fragile than ever, but does the prayer mean to teach that those who die perish because they were deficient in character? Of course not!

This magnificent, though troubling, liturgical piece asks us to act “as if” our fate is in the balance. It urges us to turn away from pettiness and greed and to fill our days with as many acts of kindness as possible. If we do, two things will happen. We will become better people, and the world will become a better place.

 “Repentance prayer and deeds of kindness,” may not lengthen our days, but they will surely increase their value.

The Hebrew word for “sin,” חטא, (chet) connotes an action that we regret, but which is within our power to correct. The Days of Awe provide us with a special opportunity—although certainly we should try to be aware of the impact of our actions all the time—to ponder, reconsider, and adjust our behavior in a positive direction.

Yes, this year is so different. But the message of the Days of Awe is timeless. In one famous Midrash, the rabbis liken God to a parent whose son traveled a distance of 100 days from home.  His friends advise him to return to his parents.  He answered, “I cannot; I do not have the strength.”

His father sent him a message saying: ”Come as far as you are able, and I will come the rest of the way to you.”  (Pesikta, Rabati, Shuvah Yisrael)

Atonement during the Days of Awe is neither an act of God’s grace nor the result of humanity’s unilateral struggle.  It is rather the wonderful product of a Covenantal partnership, which allows the one who takes the process seriously to enter the New Year feeling cleansed and renewed.

This year our lives feel so cast adrift. More than ever we need the Days of Awe to help us find our way home. I truly believe if we make the effort to begin the journey, the Eternal One will lead us the rest of the way.

As Rosh Hashanah Nears

Traditionally, the last month of any Jewish year, the month of Elul, is a month devoted to profound soul searching. Why?

Between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we answer to God for our actions in the year passed.

The Days of Awe (the entire period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur) are not a time for superficial repentance and flippant confessions. They comprise a sacred season based on an exquisite metaphor that God will call us to account for our wrongdoings 

Such a trial is not one to enter into without preparation.

Any criminal defense attorney will tell you that she or he does not walk into a courtroom to represent a person accused of serious wrongdoings without intense preparation.

If we are honest  — and if ever a time in the Jewish year demands honesty of us it is the season of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur – we have all done many things we wish we had not. 

Throughout the rest of the year, we deflect blame.  We instinctively and reflexively defend ourselves and think of all the reasons why we consider ourselves innocent of wrongdoing.  All through the year we present ourselves to others in the best possible light.

But during the Days of Awe we imagine –and more importantly we act – as if God sees through all artifice and pretense.

Some readers may wonder, “Why does he use the word  ‘metaphor’ and the phrases ‘we imagine’ and ‘as if’?” The answer is: it is far beyond my ability to state with perfect faith what God does and does not do or how God may or may not act.

But it is not beyond my ability to perceive how God wants US to act or to understand that God wants us to treat one another with dignity and respect. It is not beyond my ability to know that our Torah and subsequent Jewish tradition teach that the Eternal One wants us to do all in our power to create a more just, caring and compassionate society on earth.

And so, we prepare carefully for the trial we are to undergo. But unlike an ordinary criminal trial our guilt is clear beyond doubt to the Judge of Judges. That Judge, though, is not a stern impartial magistrate. The Eternal Judge is also a loving parent to us. Yes, God is a parent who urges us to repent and to pray for forgiveness, and God is very eager to forgive and embrace us with love.

And so as the month of Elul unfolds, we constantly review the evidence against us and regret where we have gone astray. In that way we will be ready to wholeheartedly confess what we have done wrong during the Days of Awe. 

If our efforts are sincere, our tradition asserts, God’s desire to be merciful overcomes God’s desire for strict justice so that we may enter the year of 5781 with joy, feeling cleansed and renewed.

Bridging the Gap

Bridging the Gap

Between Deuteronomy 15:4 and 15:11

(I encourage you to read Deuteronomy 15:4-11 before reading my poem)

By Rabbi Stephen Lewis Fuchs


I find in Deuteronomy

A glorious proclamation:

“There shall be no needy among you

In any land or nation!” (15:4)


What a wonderful vision that is!

If only it were true,

But I note a few lines further

We have much work to do


“The poor will never cease to be,” (15:11)

The very next paragraph reads.

How can two such different views

Be almost rubbing knees?


The answer lies between

The conflicting thoughts we heard,

But we must follow closely

And take to heart God’s words!


There will be no poor who languish!

That will ONLY happen if,

All of us work together

To bridge the gaping rift!


The rift between those who have

And those whose shelves are bare;

Between those whose larders overflow

And those with nothing there.




You, who are hearing me today,

Are comfortable no doubt.

But all too many on God’s earth, 

Sadly, do without!


Without a home to keep them dry

No clothes that keep them warm,

In snow and sleet and wind and rain,

And every passing storm.


Others strive just to exist

Without enough to eat

Try feeding five on minimum wage.

That’s surely no mean feat.


Can our hearts make room for them?

Our bounty share at least?

It’s just not right that some have nil

While others freely feast!


Scripture’s charge to us is clear:

There is still much to be done,

Before our world and God’s will

Truly become one!


Yes. we all know the time’s not near

When ALL will heed God’s wish

So those of us who really care 

Must step up to the dish.


We can only thank God properly

With hearts and hands unfurled

When we embrace God’s charge to us:

Repair this broken world!






A Reform Jewish Perspective on Tisha B’Av

Today, the Ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av, Tisha B’Av, is a day when traditional Jews fast in memory of the magnificent Temples of Jerusalem which were each destroyed, the first by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and the Second by the Romans in 70 CE. The day also is a solemn one in memory of other historical tragedies associated with that date. For example, it is said that the beginning of the first Crusade in 1095, a time of persecution and slaughter of the Jews of Europe and in 1290 the expulsion of Jews from England both took place on that date. Tisha B’Av also coincides with the expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492 and the outbreak of World War I in 1914.

The meaning of this day of tragedies does not rank high in the consciousness of most Reform Jews, and that raises the question of what might we make of Tisha B’Av today

The destruction of the two Temples and the exile of Jews from our sacred land that followed, were occasions of death and suffering, and sorrow is appropriate. Certainly all the other historical tragedies associated with that date are important to remember too.

On the other hand, the centrality of the Temple in Jewish life ended abruptly with its final destruction, and there is no merit in reviving its traditions anew. Much of the Temple’s centrality revolved around its role as a place for animal sacrifice as a sign of repentance, thanksgiving or celebration. After the destruction and dispersion, though, the Jewish people found other ways worship built them around their synagogues and homes. Rabbis rose up from the community instead of priests and much of this has served us well as we wandered through the world. I know of no non-Orthodox Jews who wish to see a reconstructed Temple, a reinstitution of animal sacrifice, and a return of control over Jewish life to a hereditary priestly class.

While a tragedy of the time, the destruction of the Temple liberated Judaism to become what we treasure today, a religion based on the study of Torah, of prayer and of acts of kindness and compassion: a religion and a way of life that reaches deeply into everything we do.

The very vibrancy and strength of the Jewish people over the centuries attests to the wisdom on what we have become and not what we once were. It may sound odd, but in that sense Tisha B’Av, can be seen as both an occasion of hope and optimism as well as one of remembrance and sorrow.

It is left to us to reconcile the remembrance of genuine tragedy with the possibilities for the growth and development of the Judaism that has been passed down to us. In that context I observe a fast on Tisha B’Av until mid day. During that time I study the traditional text for the day, the biblical book of Lamentations.

At one O’clock I break my fast with a mid day meal grateful for the Judaism that has been bequeathed to us over the years, a Judaism that no longer slaughters animals and sprinkles their blood as a sign of gratitude or as a petition to God. I celebrate the fact that a Judaism without the Temple and its hereditary priestly class has been replaced by a Judaism we can all access and immerse ourselves in while we absorb the lessons our people gleaned over the centuries of wandering and before our return: that each of us should use our individual talents in our own way to make the world a better place.

Tisha B’Av for me is also the day when I begin preparing for the period of introspection culminating in the rituals of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Impetus for beginning the process of repentance comes from the middle of the book of Lamentations.

“Let us search and examine our ways and return to he Eternal One!” (Lamentations 3:40)

This year, with the Covid-19 pandemic ravaging our world as we know it, Tisha B’ Av seems more real to me than ever in my lifetime. We are suffering from fear, from isolation. We cannot celebrate our joys, and we cannot mourn our sorrows with those we love.

But just as the horrific destruction of the temple allowed Jewish life to emerge int a future with new and better ways to relate to God and to each other, so too will this pandemic pass. When it does I pray we emerge into a future with greater appreciation of our many blessings and a greater consciousness of our role as stewards of god’s creation that impulses to redouble our efforts to protect our fragile environment.

For Reform and Progressive Jews, then, Tisha B’Av can be both a day of mourning and a day of joy. We mourn for the destruction of the temple, but we rejoice that we have developed a strong, resilient means of surviving as Jews.

Mourning the tragedies of the past and the present we begin our annual process of intense self-examination. May we have the courage and the strength to search and examine our ways, strive to make our actions consistent with the will of the Almighty, and face the future with hope and courage!

My Tipping Now Begins at 40%


My treasured Wes Yamaka graphic that has challenged me from my study wall since 1974.

Since local restaurants began to reopen for outdoor seating a few weeks ago, my tipping rate now begins at 40% with a twenty-dollar minimum.

There are three reasons I have adopted this practice:

  1. Server incomes have suffered greatly during the pandemic
  2. I don’t eat out very often
  3. I can afford it.

What I really would love to do is buy large pieces of prime real estate in cities throughout the country. On these parcels I would erect lovely apartment buildings, and rent the units to low income or homeless people on a sliding scale that they can afford.  If nothing is what they can afford, they get their apartment rent-free.

I would also like to start and stock a food bank that delivers food free of charge to all who our in need.  No more waiting for hours in line for a bag of groceries.  Each day trucks would deliver the food—good, nutritious and healthy food—to the homes of clients who wait for their parcels in air-conditioned comfort.

I would also love to build, staff, finance and open a massive medical research clinic with top rate doctors and scientists working diligently on two fronts. One division would be operating twenty-four hours a day in three shifts producing Covid-19 tests that the clinic would administer free of charge to any and all who requested them.  The second division would be hard at work developing a vaccine that will eliminate Covid-19 as decisively as the Salk and Sabin vaccines virtually eliminated polio. When we succeed, we shall administer those tests and vaccines at no cost.

While I am at it, I would love to operate a massive, nation-wide diversity and sensitivity training program for police officers that would insure every cop on the street knows, appreciates and responds appropriately to the very real fear so many in our country feel when an officer detains them for walking, driving or hanging out while Black.

Unfortunately, I have no plans to build apartments, establish my food bank, open my clinic or institute my dream of massive retraining of police officers because I cannot afford to do any of these things. But I can tip 40% or more.

When I was formally installed as the rabbi of my first congregation, Temple Isaiah in Columbia, Maryland—now relocated in a lovely building in Fulton, Maryland – in 1974, the congregation commissioned a well-known local artist, Wes Yamaka, to create a piece for me to include any quotation. I chose without hesitation (and slightly revised) the immortal words of the Second century Sage Rabbi Tarfon: “The day is short; the work is great … and the Master of the House is urgent.  It is not incumbent upon us to complete the task, but neither are we free to desist from it.”  (Pirke Avot 2:15-16)

That quotation looked down on me from my congregational studies in Maryland, Nashville, Connecticut, and in my office when I served as President of the World Union for Progressive Judaism in Jerusalem. Now it challenges me here in Sanibel.

Just because we cannot do everything we would like to do, we should not cease to do the things we can do to make a more just, caring and compassionate society on this planet God has entrusted to our care.

I can’t build homes, a food bank, or a clinic. I cannot provide vital training for every police officer in America. But I can respond to the pressure and hardship the pandemic has created for those who serve Vickie and me when we venture out for a meal. And so we start our tip at 40% with a twenty-dollar minimum. I add more if the service is exceptional.

None of us can do everything we would like to do, but all of us can do something. If our gesture brightens someone’s day, I am grateful.




We Still Have Much Work to Do

Torah Thought: Shelach Lecha June 19, 2020

I am beginning to feel like the rabbi who came to a new congregation and delivered his first sermon.  The congregation waited with eager anticipation for his initial Shabbat message, and the rabbi did not disappoint. He electrified them with his eloquence, knowledge, and oratorical style.  The congregation was ecstatic.

The following week a hush came over the congregation as the new rabbi stepped to the podium to deliver his second sermon. To the congregation’s shock, he repeated verbatim his message of the previous week. The officers huddled in the back of the sanctuary after the service and decided: “Lets’ not say anything. Perhaps he was nervous or confused.”

Wen the rabbi delivered the exact same message—word for word—a third time, though, the Board of Trustees convened an emergency meeting and confronted their new rabbi: “We don’t understand, the president said. “You inspired and moved us with your brilliant sermon three weeks ago, but then in the following weeks you simply repeated what you said before. Why?”

“That’s easy,” the rabbi responded. “When you all do as I instructed you in the first sermon, I will be happy to give you another.”

 The rabbi’s answer reverberates in my mind today.

When I was 20 years-old, a rising junior at Hamilton College with no clear idea what I wanted to do after graduation, for a reason no one has ever explained, my home synagogue, Temple Sharey Tefilo in East Orange, NJ invited me to conduct a summer Shabbat Eve service when the rabbi was on vacation: It was my first sermon ever and I referenced a recent cover of Life Magazine: The photo depicted a beautiful little girl about three years old, held lovingly in the arms of her father.  Both father and daughter were identically clad—in the white robe and hood of the Ku Klux Klan

The message for me—and I hope for the congregation on that summer Shabbat eve—was clear.  We must be taught to hate, but the hope that ignited in my heart and mind that night was that we can also be taught to love.

Events of recent weeks have frustrated us so much!

Have we made any progress at all in civil rights? Has anything changed when a driving a car or committing a minor infraction while being Black can result not in a reprimand but in a death sentence? Have we achieved anything at all when Black parents cannot be sure their children are safe for the night until they lovingly tuck them into bed?

Today is Juneteenth, the day to celebrate the Liberation of those who had been slaves in the United States. But any thoughts I have of celebrating are sullied by frustration and anger over the horrific events of recent weeks. It should not be a capital crime in the land of the free and the home of the brave to drive while Black, to jog while Black, to protest while Black, or even to commit a petty crime while Black.

My frustration at this time calls to my mind God’s frustration in this week’s Torah portion. In parashat Shelach Lecha, God’s frustration with the children of Israel’s total lack of faith is so overwhelming that the Eternal One cries out:  “How long will this people spurn me? Stand back Moses and let me destroy them, and I will make you a new and better people to lead.”

It is a tempting offer, to be sure. Time and again, the people have exasperated Moses with their lack of faith. They complain about having not enough water, they complain about the food available to them in the desert. They build a golden calf, when Moses is gone too long on the mount. And now after all God has done for them, they lack the faith to carry out the mission for which the Eternal One liberated them from Egypt in the first place.

But Moses stays God’s hand.

“God,” Moses  pleads, You can’t destroy the people whom your brought out of Egypt This is Your people, and You have charge me to help You lead them from slavery to show the world a new way of life based on justice, righteousness, caring and compassion. You cannot abandon them now!”

The most wonderful feature of this week’s lesson is: God listens to Moses.  He relents and proclaims the immortal words:

“I have pardoned as you have asked.”

These are the very words we proclaim on the Eve of Yom Kippur after the Cantor concludes the singing of Kol Nidre.

These words give us hope.  If God could forgive the Children of Israel for their horrible sins, then we have reason to believe that if we repent, God will forgive us as well.

The sins the White race have committed against people of color are beyond egregious.  We traveled across the sea to hunt them as animal. We chained them to the holds of ships. We sold them like chattel at slave market, and we have impeded their march to equality at every step along the pages of history since.

Have we made progress? Undoubtedly.

But recent events make it clear how far we have to go.

The miracle of modern technology brings our transgression into sharper relief than ever before.

In the 60s, martyrs of the civil rights struggle like James Chaney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner were just names attached to gruesome but grainy photographs.

Now, we see the brutality played and replayed over and over in living color before our very eyes. Now the faces and the anguish of many of the victims of racism is inescapable:

George Floyd, Rayshard Brooks, Ahmoud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, Philando Castile, Freddy Gray, Sandra Bland, Sam Dubose, Alton Sterling, Terence Crutcher, Aiyanna Stanley-Jones, Walter Scott, Tamir Rice, Atatiana Jefferson, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tanisha Anderson, Trayvon Martin, and too many more—

These are real people. We can see their faces, see the torture they experienced and hear their plaintive cries—some literally ringing in our ears—as an indictment for 2,000 years of kidnapping, murder, exploitation and abuse.

This week’s Torah portion is Moses’ finest our because he urges God not to give up on the people even after they have shown their faithlessness time after time. Moses brings God back from the brink of despair.

Those of us who believe in full equality are also at this time on the brink of despair.  But I hope the message of the Torah resonates with us. We cannot give up. No matter how frustrated and angry we are, we must find the strength to keep writing of our anger, keep speaking out and keep marching.

We may not achieve full equality in our lifetimes, but we must not give in to despair. We must find the strength to continue the struggle and if we do, we too may hope that God will say to us as the Eternal One proclaimed to the children of Israel.

“I have pardoned your sins of the past as your actions demonstrate you have requested.”

So, I come to the end of another Torah Thought.  The portion is different, but like the new rabbi in his congregation, my message is very much the same as I delivered last week and the week before:

God urges us to do all we can to build a society of justice caring equality and compassion.  We still have so much work to do.