The Scribbler on the Roof

July 4 is OUR holiday, too!!

6/8/04
Ted Roberts
2101 Aftonbrae Dr. SE
Huntsville, AL 35803

A VISITOR FROM AMERIKA

He had returned; just as he promised two years ago, the day he left us. Who could forget that day? He walked out of Shtetle Grinz at the head of a procession of friends and villagers - almost a third of the small village. They walked two miles with Josef on the dusty road to the train station in Raskow. It was almost like a shiva - a shiva walk instead of a shiva sit. Amerika? He was going to Amerika - a land of Goyim? A land even farther than Jerusalem or Tel Aviv, the destination of a few adventurous Grinz emigrants earlier. Who knew where they ended up - a shipwreck and a watery ocean grave or maybe an Arab bullet and six feet of Jerusalem earth marked by a crude Mogen David. The minute they stepped on the train they were as dead to the eyes and ears of Grinz as the prophets who endlessly jawed about the covenant - the ketuba between Jew and G-d that promised us a land of milk and honey. A fine covenant we kvetched. We end up in Grinz.

But this rash departure was certainly the end of Josef, we thought. Didn’t the Grinzer Rebbe say never to run from a Cossack’s blows - while he’s chasing you he’ll pick up three friends to beat you worse.

Amerika! Unlike the spies that explored Canaan and returned with fruits of the land, no one until now had come back to the old country. Oh, there were letters from the emigres full of bubbermeisers about jobs that allowed even an uneducated Jew to afford a warm bed and plenty of food for supper. But above all this, boasted the new Americans, here was a nation that was governed by the Law. This law protected all, even a poor Jew who could speak only Yiddish. In the courtrooms the truth was respected. Oaths were taken on a Holy book that contained our Torah. In these courtrooms the testimony of the Czar would have no more weight than the janitor at our synagogue. That’s what the letters said. But a letter was a cheap thing costing two zlotzkys. Who knew the fate of those who left before Josef. Maybe their Shabbos meal was cabbage soup; their home a doorway. And maybe their letters were all lies.

But Josef, like the scouts of Canaan, had returned. Had he arrived in Grinz naked, bony, and shivering with hunger, his presence alone would have shouted of success because the steamship fare was 60 rubles, not to mention the train fare from Odessa to Raskow and then a wagon ride from the train station. He took the wagon just like the District Commissioner. You could tell. He didn’t muddy his shoes and cuffs of his pants. Two more rubles. And look at that suit - like from a fancy shop in Warsaw.

All that afternoon and into the night and the next morning our friend told us of the New Jerusalem. We ate and drank well. We had saved up for Josef’s homecoming. The Rebbe was there, too. He took his place of honor in a chair with a cushioned seat next to Josef.

There was even honey cake covered with plums for dessert as he told tales of a shining New World. And there on the table where we sat was a jug of vodka. We listened as closely to our spy from the Promised Land as a good Jew listens to a scholar explaining Torah. Many of those whom we had invited to the reunion crowded along the wall and leaned forward. Eyes and ears as close to Josef as possible so they wouldn’t miss a single word.

This boy who had left two years ago was now a man. We were children of the old world. He was now a man of the New World. Our eyes had never witnessed the wonders that Josef spoke of. The trolley cars that ran on rails in the street. The water that came out of a pipe in the house. Hotels with dining halls offering all manner of foods. Machines that plowed and sowed and reaped the earth outside the cities to provide an abundance of foods for all. And police who only struck and detained criminals. But the Cossacks, what about them, any Cossacks? “Not one,” he said. Not in the city - not in the fields around the city.

Oh, how we talked. Almost to sunrise. Josef, the next day, called upon all his old friends. And he was generous with his American dollars. He stayed a week - only left yesterday. Naturally, we all walked the two miles to the train station just as we had two years before. Life is a series of farewells as we are told. So Josef leaves. We stay. Here nothing changes. Pesach still comes every Spring around seedtime. We sow and reap, over and over like the turning of the earth beneath our feet that we hardly notice. Mostly it’s a quiet life. Oh, there’s talk of war between the Fascist and the Communists, but such rumors have no reality in our modern age of 1939. And who takes notice of a shtetle full of Jews beside the Warsaw to Moscow highway?

ELIJAH AND HIS GOOD FRIEND SPRINGTIME

3/10/08
Ted Roberts
2101 Aftonbrae Dr.
Huntsville, AL 35803

ELIJAH AND HIS GOOD FRIEND, SPRING

You know, we’ve all heard the legend - maybe “Midrash” is a better word - of Elijah and his quick, lightening-like visit to our annual Seder table. Sure, it’s got to be quick. He can’t hang around. Millions of Jewish homes he’s gotta visit. Don’t you wish he had time to kibitz about the baseball season? Who’s going to win the pennant? Or whether Google’s still a good buy. He’s a prophet, you know. He can see over the horizon of time.

Well, sure everybody knows he sits in on every Seder, but seems to eat very little (the soup tureen seems to be at the same level as before he knocked).

But besides his visit and silent compliments on your wife’s tsimmus, there’s a second theme to the midrash. He heralds the Moshiach - he accompanies him. What a year we shall have!! Here’s the prophet of prophets - CEO of Prophets Incorporated sitting with us - not saying much, but gracing our home. The table full of fancy food witnesses our prosperity. And here’s our family beaming with good will and family love. It doesn't get much better than this, the little boy that was me thought. And nobody’s arguing or throwing boiled potatoes like usual. “Here Paul (my younger brother) you take a drumstick - I love the neck.” There’s more love than chicken in the room.

But there’s always a cynic. In our family it was my cousin, Sidney, to whom I would never give the drumstick. Sidney, chewing on my drumstick would say obnoxious things like, “Well, if he’s a prophet with supernatural powers, why do we have to get up and open the door to let him in? Why would a quarter inch Oak veneer door stop a man who talked to the Lord on Mount Horeb?”

I slurped loudly on my soupspoon and informed cynical Sidney as we called him, that it was a colorful part of the Seder ceremony. The soft knock - the drama in the room as one of us left the table and opened the door. No, saw nothing. But as the legend says, he comes in through the heart, not the door.

And there at the head of the table - we always sat him at this seat of prominence - was his place setting - his plate untouched. “I notice he never eats much,” observed cynical Sid with a mocking grin. Well, it’s a beautiful symbol - a metaphor of hope, we collectively answer, all talking at once.

“Yeah,” says Herb. “I understand he can’t gobble three million chicken legs, a half million quarts of soup, and a few hundred thousand quarts of slaw. Not all in one night anyhow.”

Then, in between slurping soup and eating MY drumstick, Sidney got to his real point. “I also notice that he’s supposed to bring the Messiah, who has yet to show up on planet earth.”

When the time is right, when the world is ready with a garland of morality and good deeds to hang around His neck - THEN He’ll come , say our sages.

“Well, all I know,” says Sidney, “is that he hasn’t brought his pal ONCE - not once!”

“Maybe,” said my Uncle Harry, “it’s because you haven’t been an ethical angel this year.”

Then he dropped the big one. “Elijah’s other partner is Spring - the renewal of the land and of the human heart. So consider, not once has our faithful Pesach visitor forgotten to bring along his warm, flowery companion. Has he ever missed? Not that I remember. He’s got a perfect record in that department. Every year here comes the prophet, hand-in-hand with the renewal of life. And one day, I’m sure, he’ll get around to the Moshiach. What do you say to that, Sid?”

MY RABBI LOVES PURIM

2/22/07
Ted Roberts
2101 Aftonbrae Dr. SE
Huntsville, AL 35803

PURIM; A RABBI’S HOLIDAY

As the reading of the Purim Megillah droned rhythmically in my ear, our rabbi seated at my side explained that Purim was his favorite holiday- from a professional point of view, that is. Here we were in the middle of the ceremony and Herb, not the Rebbe, was on the Bema reading his heart out. Our spiritual leader sat in the audience, gragar at the ready like his flock, waiting for his cue - the name of Haman the Amalakite. I was carefully listening, too, so I could plug up my ears before the kids went into action. Instead of hanging Haman, he should have been condemned to an eternity of gragar clicking and a hamentashen diet - with prune stuffing, which I hate. Did you know the name of Haman is recited 53 times in the Esther Megillah? That’s 52 times too many. And far too much noise.

The congregation cycled through the Megillah sections, the kids jeered and whirled their gragars, and later the synagogue ladies laid out the cherry, munn and strawberry hamentashen they’d baked the night before. The rabbi, so to speak, was on holiday. If every day was Purim, I told him, even I could serve as a rabbi - if I had a strong assistant to help me eat hamentashen. I’m not real good at consuming these crumbly, weird shaped cookies; particularly when their little insides contain prunes. If, as custom dictates, they’re replicas of Haman’s hat, why can’t they be made of chopped liver or brisket puree or even jelly slices.

Besides the hamentashen, I’d also need a learned assistant to help with some of the tough questions that my intellectually curious congregants throw at me. Like; Hey Rabbi - Jerusalem is hundreds of miles due West of Shushan - what were our people doing in Persia, 2 millenia before discount air fares and frequent flyer tickets?

I’d glance at my assistant. These are the kinds of quizzes he should answer. “Tell ‘em, Reuben,” I’d command, “and don’t leave out the part about Jeremiah’s letter.” This, just to show that if I wasn’t so busy enjoying the Sisterhood’s cherry hamentashen, I’d give a two-hour status report on the State of Persian Jewry, 422 BCE and Jeremiah’s instructions to the Diaspora.

So why were they in Susa (or Shushan) instead of the City of David? The blame, my assistant would say, falls on Nebuchadnezzar (a king loved by poor spellers since his name has about 28 wildly various English spellings).

Nebukanetzer (yes, that’s OK, too) was one of those violent Babylonian monarchs who’d rather knock down the wall of a neighboring city on a sunny hilltop than dally with his queen. Twice he conquered Jerusalem. The second time he delivered a death blow to his stubborn and contentious Jewish subjects. The temple was destroyed and the abject population was almost totally deported to Babylonia and its provinces. We mustn’t let an obsession with the dark side of our history blind us to the fact that ALL kingdoms in the Middle East lived and then died at the bloody hands of their successor. Hittite, Egyptian, Assyrian, Babylonian, Persian, and Roman. And when the walls came down and the temples burned, the soul of the people was consumed, as well. But the smoke pall over Jerusalem fed only off the timbers and combustibles of the city, not the granite core of Judaism. Out of the ruins of our temple a great truth was born; the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob - unlike idols of the Canaanites - was truly universal. He inhabited the heart of the faithful as well as the Temple Holy of Holys. He was transportable to Babylon, or Susa, or Haran. And many centuries later, to Rome. All this and more, with colorful historical examples and insightful parables, my able assistant would explain, to the congregation.

And luckily for the Jews and bad spellers, he’d continue, Nebucanezzor (also correct) and Babylon fell to an enlightened Persian emperor, Cyrus (spellers all over the world rejoiced).

Cyrus allowed the Jews to return to their ancestral homeland. The Book of Books tells that 42,000 returned in the first wave. (You don’t believe the Jr. Rabbi? Check out the Book of Ezra.) But all the exiles did not return. Pools of displaced Judeans remain scattered throughout the Persian empire and the royal city of Susa or Shushan contained a sizeable Jewish community. And it was on this stage that Esther, Mordechai, Ahasueros, and Haman played out Act 2 of the deliverance scenario with Mordechai subbing for Moses and a lovestruck Ahasueros instead of Pharoah.

Everybody wins - even Haman - an obscure vizier to a Persian monarch of 400 BCE. Did we not give him immortality by putting him in our book and shouting his name every year on the 14th of Adar? Can you name another royal advisor of Persian kings in any century? Even my assistant would have trouble with that one.

So as the song says, “Ring the gragar loud and long - Sing a Hamentashen song”. And remember that Susa, of “the shushi shushi shushi long ago” (the only other Purim song I recall) is now Iran - so be glad you’re here in the Good Ole USA.

Visit Ted's web site wonderordworks.com

TU B'SHEAT, WE LIKE YOU A LOT

    1/11/07
    Ted Roberts
    2101 Aftonbrae Dr. SE
    Huntsville, Al  35803

    Tu B’Shevat, Tu B’Shevat
    You ain’t in the Humash
    Or the Tanach
    But I like you a lot
    Tu B’Shevat, Tu B’Shevat.

January is not a Jewish month. The only thing Jewish about January is maybe Tu B’Shevat - a minor league event compared to say - Awesome Yom Kippur.  Tu B’Shevat is a holiday like an onion slice is an entree at your shabbus supper.  I don’t even know how Tu B'shevat  made holiday status. 

The other day after services I asked my Rabbi.  “Rabbi,” I said, “why do we observe Tu B’Shevat?”

“We do?” he declared. 

“Sure, Rabbi, Tu B’Shevat comes around in late January or early  February, you know.”

“Oh yeah,” he said.  “Uh, Tubee what?  How do you spell it?”

Our difficulty proved to be a simple communication problem.  I was working on a large mouthful of lox and bagel and he simply couldn’t understand me.  That’s what he said. 

Once I described it with a mouth dedicated to speech and cleared of lox and bagel he knew all about it.  It’s the fifteenth day of Shvat and it’s sort of a celebration of trees.  A New Year celebration for trees, as it’s described in the Jewish encyclopedia.

And even though it doesn’t rank up there with Rosh Hashanah or Chanukah or even your nephew, Danny’s, bar mitzvah, I’m sort of fond of Tu B’Shevat.  There’s not a lot of rules - there’s not even the obligatory food item.  It’s a mix and match holiday.  You like bean and barley soup?  Have a bowl for breakfast on the morning of Tubee.  You like to dip a nice slice of buttered rye in your soup?  Fine.  Anything goes on Tubee.

Ceremonially, tree planting is the traditional thing to do.  The kids love it.  In fact, you can begin your Tubee ceremony in October by collecting acorns. 

“Why are we putting acorns in that bag?” says little Ezra, my exceptional grandson. 

“I’m getting ready for Tu B’Shevat.”

Here, Ezra does a great imitation of my rabbi.  “Tubee what?”  This is your cue to give him the standard explanation, plus a treatise on the wonders of the Creator’s universe - how a 5-gram acorn will turn into a 50-ton Oak with the blessings of rain and earth and time.  Then tell him you’re gathering these seeds to plant on the big day in January.

And when early January rolls around, you and Ezra, armed with a hand digger, find a sunny spot in the back yard and plant your acorns.  Remember that nature extravagantly provides the mama Salmon with 100,000 eggs so she’ll have five or six kids to gladden her old age.  Its the same with oak trees.  So, plant a bunch of acorns.  Maybe two or three will sprout in Spring.

f you’ve properly educated Ezra, he’ll sit by the den window and watch for the seedlings like poverty-stricken writers wait for the mailman - with the check from the New Yorker. 

Then one day in Spring, when you least expect it, a few green shoots will come up to tentatively explore their new world.  Go get Ezra.  I promise you his eyes will pop wider than the time you uncrated his new video game. 

After a little watering and weeding, you and him go and have a bowl of bean and barley soup.  It’s all a part of Tu B’Shevat.  Anything goes.

CHECK TED'S WEBSITE: WONDERWORDWORKS.COM

A THANKSGIVING REVELATION

11/19/07

A quiz for the Jewish Thanksgiving celebrant: why is it so important for we Jews of 2007 to know that in 1649, a Puritan couple, asked for a repeal of the 14th century Act of Jewish banishment? To ace the quiz you must know why these Christians, the founders of America, were so sympathetic to Judaism? Why did their faith propel them in that direction.

It is the best-kept theological secret of the past millennium - especially to Jews. Can you believe it? the spiritual leanings of those wandering, persecuted Puritans included a passionate interest in the Old Testament. Wildly revolutionary in their religious beliefs, they paid more attention to the Humash than the gospels.

Before you slice into your traditionally rare, half-done turkey this Thanksgiving give a thought to those strange birds, the Pilgrims. What a rare breed they were - typical of the exotics who stand the world on its head. Hacking, sniffing, trembling with chills, they sat down to the first Thanksgiving. They gave thanks as we do before every meal. But this meal, More prayerful than usual, was their Seder. And what if half of them had fluttered skyward that year? They were happier, reflected the Plymouth remnant than the survivors gathered around the rough hewn table. You see, they believed in Heaven.

These weird people left 17th Century urban London for the Stone Age wilderness of savage North America. The “New Zion”, they called it. Does that give you a clue? “The Puritans’ mania for the Old Testament developed directly out of their experience of persecution by the established church.” So says Barbara Tuchman in “Bible and Sword”. Tuchman is a famed historian highly respected. And she verifies, by chapter and verse, my vague suspicions that our American forefathers were SO Jewish that you wonder why the old portraits don’t show them in yarmulke and teffilin.

Historians are well aware of this, though most of us Jews aren’t. But I never knew the details until I was spellbound by Tuchman’s book. Fleeing persecution, they saw themselves as 16th Century Israelites; named their kids Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, and Rebecca. And Look closely at the seal of Yale and Harvard. They are in Hebrew! Tell THAT to your family at the Thanksgiving table. “they paid a respect to the Hebrew language that they refused to the language of their gospels....” Tuchman tells us. Even McCauley, the greatest of English historians, rants about their Hebraic leanings. It was no secret - they flew the flag of Moses and metaphorically, culturally waged war with episcopal Christianity. That’s why they were treated with contempt. Another historian, Cunningham, sums it up neatly: “The general tendency of Puritanism was to discard Christian morality and to substitute Jewish habits in its stead”. How many pulpit rabbis know this and preach it to their flock? No wonder that America, of all our homes through time and space, has given us such comfort. It’s roots, nurtured by Judaism, are ours.

Let me not exaggerate these persecuted Puritans. Though quick to see the analogous relationship between Pharaoh and English Monarch, they remained Christians in name and deed if not in attitude and world view. This hatred of the ruler, King James, led them to a love of republicanism that was the most significant freight in that floundering tub, the Mayflower. “The judicial laws of Moses are binding on Christian Princes” was one of their articles of faith. So stated one of their opponents, the Bishop of London.

And the G-d of those rebels was the thunderer of Exodus, not the gentle deity who communed with Jesus, that gentle Jew. And they saw him as just that, a Jew; and like them, a target of the whip, the lash.

The Tuchman book deals with more than Puritanism and its Jewish tendencies. It has much more to say about the British culture and politics that led up to the Balfour declaration and the State of Israel. But this insight of our Puritan forbears is fascinating. I don't’ work on commission, so you can reach for your billfold when I tell you every Jew should read it.

IS WARREN BUFFET JEWISH?

Warren Buffet, a man fattened by the virtues of capitalism told the congress the other day that he favored the Estate Tax: “I think we need to......take a little more out of the hides of guys like me.” It’s rumored that several well off congressmen fainted after buttoning their back pocket. But I am not surprised. Of course WB favors the death tax - he’s not going to inherit a nickel from anyone. And he’s definitely not Jewish. What Jew would give billions to the free-spending congress in denail of his own kids. Nope, couldn’t be Jewish. Even if our kids already had a gazillion dollars, we’d rest happier knowing they had two.

And these kids? They’re probably keeping a log of his eccentricities, to use in court you know. Anybody, anywhere of any means who’s in favor of giving family money to the government is a strong candidate for the looney bin.

I began to lose respect for Buffet the day he gave Bill Gates a multi-billion dollar check - for his foundation. Not a profit making corporation, the kind that purveyed Windows to the world, but a foundation: a non-profit, non-incentivized factory of sound and fury and press releases. Not Jewish. Not bottom line oriented

But on the up side you must credit the great philanthropist for his understanding of the tradeoffs involved in pleasing the human palate: proved by his chunk of ownership of Dairy Queen - dubbed DQ by its rotund patrons. DQ makes the best chili dog in this town or any other. So I’m told. But of course they’re not kosher. They sell for $1.85 each or 2 for $1.99! Now that’s the real Warren Buffet making his contribution to society. So if he’s going to give away all that money, why not offer a Kosher hot dog as a loss leader for his Jewish customers?

Chaos in Gaza

CHAOS IN GAZA

We have misjudged our Arab antagonists. It has finally been established that they do HOT hate Jews. I'd say the average Shit (Did I spell that right?) militant would rather kill a Sunni co-religionist than a jew. And a Sunni might wipe out a Lebanese Christian, given the choice, than a Jew. Of course they also favor Iraqi victims of any persuasion. It's hard to accurately specify their bloodlust priorities. But I'm not sure we head the list.

Look what happened in Gaza early this week. In an appropriate memorial to the 3rd anniversary of “gunner” Arafat’s demise, Palestinians enthusiastically murdered each other in Gaza. It all began when Fatah threw a riot in the square and 250 thousand celebrants showed up. Trouble is, they weren’t content to drink punch, shoot up the sky and eat falafel. They made loud and inflamatory speeches. Hamas policemen, trying to nap at the station, woke and sprang into action. They gunned down dozens of partygoers - 7 unto death.

Just goes to show you - gives the lie to the canard that these people hate Jews or Americans or Lebanese Christians. And don’t think their murderous prejudices are due to Israeli Border disputes or the right of return. They don’t hate Jews. They hate their own, even. They are equal opportunity killers. Give them Jerusalem, torch the Judeo-Christian Bible, give them American taxpayers money (500 million, this year), they’ll still find someone to kill - some assembly of human beings to turn into body parts. But, they are not anti-semites. Anybody’s blood will do.

Ted Roberts ("The Scribbler on the Roof"}
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
te11d@hiwaay.net

THE ANGEL OF DEATH SITS SHIVA

4/5/07
Ted Roberts
2101 Aftonbrae Dr.
Huntsville, AL  35803

THE DAY THE ANGEL OF DEATH SAT SHIVA

Shiva is a challenging theme to a Jewish humorist.   What’s funny about death?  Well, our ancient sages, the Pharisees, strongly believed in an afterlife;  so death was only a portal into a golden world of no income tax, no calories, free groceries, and constant flattery by one’s children.

The Shiva tradition, then, is a joyful glow around that portal, some would say.

Judaism is such a practical religion, like bread and salt at the supper table.   If one word must describe our lengthy scroll of do’s and don’ts, that word might be “practical”.  Every custom, every mitzvah has a calculated impact on our lives; either health, protection, separation, spiritual improvement. Even our love life is not excepted from the mitzvah list.  There’s always a here and now impact.

Take the Shiva.  We sit for seven days - bereaved family and friends.  We hold the three daily services and recite the Kadish; that strange, 2,000 year old Aramaic prayer where, in the face of the great Quietus, we praise G-d and ignore what may be his final benediction, death. 

At the Shiva house, one is not supposed to approach a mourner - not even to mumble condolences.  Among the Shiva traditions, this one is honored more in the breach than in the observance.  Ideally, say our sages, the mourner must first approach the visitor signifying her willingness to communicate.  Some mourners need the warmth of friends to remind them of the joys of this world in order to distract their vision from the unknown dark new home of the loved one: to this land of love and ambition and apple pie, where the Angel of Death is only an erratic visitor, not a ruler. 

But still, one must believe that the true essence of the ceremony is to force the mourner to recognize his obligations to life.  L’Chaym.  That’s the banner of Judaism.  So, we bring food and companionship to remind the bereaved that it is unseemly for the lady who lost her mother to lock herself in her room and sob her day away.  Especially unseemly if the house is full of visitors who came especially to draw her back into the land of the living.  And in the living room with standing room only - what do the guests talk about?  Normally - right or wrong - not entirely about the deceased.  They talk about life; their non reciprocating kids, their job, the Dow Jones, and supper.

They tell a story about a Shiva and the Angel of Death - the Moloch Hamoves as my grandfather called him.  The dark angel was curious as to whether those below were properly honoring his favorite happening - Death.  Were they following the tradition of the seven-day mourning period?  Was anybody gauche enough to tell jokes, make football bets, or swap recipes at a Shiva house? 

He whisked himself down to earth to 2127 Morning Glory Circle from whence he had just plucked a Jewish octogenarian who, until the Moloch Hamoves caught up with him, lived with his daughter and her husband.  The Dark Angel appeared in his victim’s favorite pillowy recliner dressed impeccably in a three-piece, stylishly brown suit with a chartreuse and light brown tie to match.  He got up only to pillage the delicacies spread on the dining room table.  Then again, he took over the recliner which strangely nobody even approached.  Carefully, like a scientist in his lab, he scanned the room.

“Who’s that?” asked the bereaved daughter.  “Is that your cousin from Detroit?”  “I thought he was YOUR cousin,” said her husband.  Upon deciding that the guest who had taken over the deceased’s reclining throne was a total stranger, they confronted him.  “Were you a friend of my father’s?” asked Mrs. Green. 
“You might say that,” lightly replied the well dressed stranger as he reached in his pocket to present his business card.

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This confrontation took place as the Kadish resounded in the dining room.  It’s chant, praising the power of He who gifted us with life, filled the house.  “Praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One.”  The constrast was too much for the bereaved daughter.

“The nerve of you,” hissed Mrs. Green.  She and Mr. Green acted as though they had rehearsed the scene.  Indignantly, one on each side,they grabbed the suave visitor.  Then, as the mourners stared in disbelief, Mr. Green pulled him by his green tie while Marilyn Green, behind the intruder, pushed with both hands.  They hustled him into the hall coat closet and locked the door.  “The Moloch Hamoves,” she explained to the house full of guests.   “Let him go back where he came from, he knows the way.”

But evidently, it took a couple of hours to extract himself from the Green’s coat closet because for two hours on the 19th of September, 2006 - between 2:30 and 4:30 - not one person in the entire world departed.

AN ECUMENICAL MITZVAH

10/2/07
Ted Roberts
2101 Aftonbrae Dr.
Huntsville, AL 35803

AN ECUMENICAL MITZVAH

There was and is an old song called Little Things Mean a Lot. It was the signature song of a blond chartreuse who would put Bathsheva to shame, both vocally and aesthetically - Patti Page. She still seduces sentimental hearts.

The title is appropriate to an arcane ethical question that pops up every Summer Sunday of my life. Don’t laugh yet. It’s about cutting the grass. OK - to the point. I prefer to cut my grass on Sunday - but my neighbor is an law abiding Christian - the real McCoy. A man of charity and faith and loving kindness. Though he’s never said a word, I know my Sunday activities bother him. Of course, Sunday is his holy day, not mine. Consider, on Christmas I don’t have the tree and on Chanukah he doesn’t light candles and he doesn’t fry up latkes. But this grass cutting? It’s different. First and primary it’s so public.

My Jewish friends criticize my sensitivity. Saturday is your day - Sunday is his day. But I answer with a great, homegrown platitude that would confound a rabbinical audience: Our rabbis say that to save a single life is to save the world. Everybody knows that one. Well, with the same logic I might say one single Mitzah begins the self perpetuating mechanism of world-wide Tikuun Olam. And a single breeze spreads seeds that beautify the face of the world

The silencing of your lawn mower in deference to others is certainly a mitzvah - an ecumenical mitzvah, at that.

WAITING

9/18/07
Ted Roberts
2101 Aftonbrae Dr.
Huntsville, AL 35803

WAITING

They tell the story of Israel, the kite flyer, who lived a mile or two down the road from the village. 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 Pinochle and eschewed beer and 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 kites.

When Cheder was out they flocked around Israel. Every afternoon except on the Sabbath they paraded down the road. They either brought their own kites or they flew his. And strangely enough, windy or not, the kites soared.

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.”

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; the corruption, the politzei, disease and drought which wiped out your crop. Were formidible opponents. And as the visiting Rabbi pointed out every Shabbos morning the village people weren’t ethically perfect. The 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 as men have always coped; with a little inspiration from their faith, and sometimes with a little inspiration from the evil half of the heart. Tzadiks were as rare as lilies in the garbage dump.

Like all of Hashem’s creatures, from the hungry blackbird to the bandit’s victim, they loudly complained, but kept hope alive in their hearts. Just wait, they said to console each other; “Someday the Mosiach will come. Hunger, disease, and injustice will be faint memories.” They wait. So does He.