The Scribbler on the Roof

God's Blog

1/19/12
Ted Roberts
2101 Aftonbrae Dr.
Huntsville, AL 35803

G-D’S BLOG

I dictated my book of many pages to Moses and it seems to have done little good except to provide amusement to hotel guests and a ceremonial prop in courtrooms. So it’s difficult to see the value in a rulebook for my children. But maybe I was too windy. Perhaps a short treatise in the form of a blog will do the job.

Today is Saturday – a day ordained for rest by no other than Myself. “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. . . you shall not do any work,” I told Moses in Genesis. But you know my rabbis how they wrestle with words. They can build a library from a single word. The operative word is “work”. All I really intended was a surcease of work, labor, working of the muscles, you might say. Over the horizon of time I saw their self-propelled vehicles and horses. They work, their riders don’t. I saw the wonders of electricity, too. Surely, they’ll distinguish the flick of a switch from gathering up kindling, hewing of logs, and using a flint to start a campfire. So I thought. Work is plowing a field, building a wall, carrying mud bricks and stone to erect a wall. The core of my commandment meant you should spend the day meditating on the wonders of the world, which I have bestowed on you. Think upon the magic of a boundless Cosmos, without bottom, top, or sides. And consider the engineering of the many life forms: the internal gratification of goodness, the miracle of birth and subsequent motherhood. Or if you’re in the mood, just sit on your porch and watch the squirrels and Bluejays. I made them, too, you know, with the same care I lavish on your design. (The squirrel was quite a problem. I needed a seed burier, you see. I couldn’t let pecans, acorns, walnuts, etc. compete under their respective mother tree or rot on the soil. (Did you notice that I put wings on the maple seed?) The bushy tail – its survival value? You figure it out. And while you’re at it, ask yourself why I gave you one liver (very vulnerable to too much schnapps, by the way) but two adenoids. And while you’re pondering my universe, ask yourself why Max, a rascal, thrives while Binyomen, a Tsadik, languishes in poverty. My rabbis are not better at answering the latter question than the why the bushy tail question tail of the squirrel. I purposely left you many mysteries to ponder. It stimulates your mental machinery. It was, it is, a game changer as you say down there. I told mankind in my book what I want. In many cases, I purposely omitted the why. That’s for you to answer.

You could not function; produce progeny, make money, feed your family, read the morning paper, or attend to the minutae of the day if you knew the answer to the why question. It is much too heavy for you. Believe me. Later.

Even without such a burden, you struggle to survive on planet Earth. Humanity! They surprise even me. Who would have thought the gift of freewill would result in such evil? Who would have dreamed my flood was so ineffectual? Who would have dreamed that Cain’s evil (I stood aside and watched, temporarily obeying my own ordinance of non intervention) would grow to such levels? Sticks and stones evolving into weaponry with all the energy of my sun.

Astonishing is it not that the flood could not wash the evil from man’s heart. I must admit that I often regret my promise in the rainbow. And we could quibble about the words like my Talmudic rabbis, could we not? I only promised not to impose another flood. I didn’t mention plagues or vermin or divine fire or a dozen other instruments available to me. My words: “Never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of the flood”. Note the omission of other weapons of mass destruction. Besides that, my forbearance was based on a covenant – one that mankind did not keep. Who would have thought such postdiluvial evil survived in the heart of my favorite creature, man?

Canines and felines, eagles and bluebirds, oxen and mules – deprived of freewill – none know hate. Only humankind. Not only do they hate, but have they not developed means that make my flood seem like a rainy day. Maybe it’s time for me to intervene. Maybe it’s time for me to guide their hearts before they destroy my creation.

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

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

CHANUKAH AND CHRISTMAS; A STUDY

CHANUKAH AND CHRISTMAS; A STUDY IN ECUMENICISM

Chanukah and Christmas have many similarities: they both fall in December - They both delight the merchant classes - They’re both lighthearted holidays that don’t sufficiently emphasize their religious/historical origins, and both festivals love light. Jews light candles. Christians light up evergreen trees. And finally, they’re both followed by a flood of bankruptcy filings by Christian and Jewish families who have blown the December budget on munificent gifts to kids who will forget their parents’ names, address, and phone number by the time they’re 21. (“City Bank writes monthly about their new credit card, but not a word from Marvin,” says one of my neglected friends.)

Chanukah used to be a skimpy little holiday - more patriotic than religious. Jewish families feasted on fried potato cakes - latkes - a delightful medley of potato, onion, and matzoh meal. De riguer On Chanukah, followed by long periods of togetherness as the family holds hands, suffers from heartburn, and chews Rolaids together.

The Jewish family laps up potato cakes while their Christian neighbor dines on a great, golden goose surrounded by festive delicacies. This menu inequality, and perhaps a disagreement over the arrival date of the Messiah, is all that keeps Christians and Jews from some serious cost cutting with a corporate merger.

In Jewish homes, after the prayers, candle lighting, latke feast and anti-acid therapy regimen, a long winded story teller, like the author, tells the tale of Chanukah: the campaign of liberation waged by the Jews of the 2nd century before Christ.

In the old days, kids enjoyed a frugal Chanukah. They usually received a coin each day of the 8-day celebration. But sometime around the middle of the 20th century, inflamed by their Christian neighbors and their frenzied December generosity, Jews turned Chanukah into an 8-day orgy of gifts. It was a giant step toward economic assimilation and bridge building between the two sister religions. Jews were now ALSO broke in January. Their checks bounced as well as those of their Christian friends. They could even tell better shopping stories due to the 8-day frenzy of exercising their credit cards.

I remember the scene when I was a youthful Chanukah celebrant. My grandmother, enthroned in the softest chair in the living room, handed out holiday coins to a line of grandkids, nephews, and nieces. There was a protocol - like when you were introduced to the Queen. You held out your hand as Grandmother reached into her purse and selected your coin. This was no egalitarian exercise. The coins ranged from quarters to silver dollars. Both behavior and kinship went on the scale. A courteous well cleaned up cousin with clean fingernails could cop a bigger prize than a grandkid who never called grandmother. The ceremony ended with a long slow kiss to grandmother’s cheek. An obligation which smart kids realized affected next year’s disbursement. My cousin, Arlene, as far sighted as the prophet Elijah, was even smart enough to help cut up her Bubbe’s latkes. And that was Chanukah in my day.

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

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

A CHANUKAH CONFESSION

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

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

THE FAINT VOICE OF CHRISTIANITY

THE FAINT VOICE OF CHRISTIANITY

They call us – well they used to call us “The People of the Book”. Naturally, by “Book” they meant what they called the “Old Testament” – what we call the TANACH. Many of us are sensitive to the term “Old Testament” since it implies obsolescence like the old car at the junkyard, while a new Mercedes sits in the driveway. Which was the fastest, sleekest, more efficient car? Obviously, the new one. I’ve heard Jewish friends actually correct their Christian neighbors – “no, not the Old Testament – we call it the TANACH”. I don’t have that sensitivity since old implies “first” and definitely implies that the new is built upon the old, which is beyond dispute when it comes to the two testaments. No minister, priest, or even argumentative Sunday School student would argue that the story of Jesus; his times, his disciples, his creed could exist without the “ Old” Testament foundation. Christianity is well aware of that now. Hard to believe that it took two millennia for that understanding to become universal. Strange, all the years that the church was sponsoring the persecuting of Jews they didn’t recognize this debt or the fact that they were conducting a form of institutional suicide. They were putting the knife to their own throat. I speak, of course, of the old days – not today when Jewish/Christian relationships are as sunny as a Spring morning. Today, the two religions are in equal danger from an Islamic foe with an 8th Century conscience. And most of their leaders understand it. And neither medieval Christian mobs nor 20th Century Nazis yell for Jewish blood. Physically and philosophically it’s plain that the death of Judaism is the death of Christianity. We will lie side by side in the same coffin.

Given this bond, it has often amazed me that the Christian world is so silent about the threat to their own institutions and membership in the Middle East. So different from the reaction of Judaism. So silent. In the old days, before universal anti Semitism reached its current murderous pitch, Jews were accused of loud, boisterous behavior – especially in public. “Waiter, are you gonna bring me a glass of tea or am I going to have to take a cruise to Ceylon, pick the tea leaves, and get back in time for my pastrami sandwich?” There was some truth to the generalization – we were vocal, outspoken, maybe even loud. We spoke up. Especially when we saw injustice. Maybe it was a virtue, not a vice. I wish Christianity was loud, boisterous.

It’s my impression from the 2-column inch articles in the press or internet news sources, that Christianity in Egypt, Syria, and Lebanon – at least these three – is slowly being strangled. Data is hard to obtain, but intuitively I feel this to be true. Where are the Christians of Lebanon? Dead or fled. What about that sacred, ancient cult of Christians called Copts that formally prospered in Egypt? And why is the Christian community so mum as to this stranglehold by Islam? I guess, as a non-Christian I’m learning that they really believe this “turn the other cheek” routine. It certainly seems ineffective when it comes to world opinion. And why does the Pope have laryngitis – so quiet? Contrast that with longtime Jewish reactions. Even such a relatively mild injustice (compared to bombs and bullets) as the Russian repression of its Jewish citizens of the 70’s – there was an explosion of Jewish wrath. Committees, headlines, legislation in the U.S. Congress. Now half of the Lebanese Christian population has been killed or stampeded out of town. And I see. . . I see nothing. If nothing else, it’s an interesting contrast and so dramatically demonstrative of their worldview compared to us Jews.

A simple example comes to mind. The Islamic demands for parts of East Jerusalem. The section that contains the sites holy to Christiandom. Israel overran East Jerusalem during the ’67 war. At that time Jordan controlled these sites with an iron hand. Christian access was limited. But not now under Jewish control. Wouldn’t you think that Christian voices would be raised in a Hallelujah chorus in support of Israel guardianship? Where is the voice of Christianity? Why so faint?

And it’s clear as crystal that the overall Muslim dream is not only a Judeanfrei Middle East, but an empire free of Christianity. This is obvious in the foreign policy of Iran, who would like to reign over this empire. In a way it’s an analogue of the situation where Arabs can live in Israel, but Jews cannot live in Arab land. No Jewish apartments in the suburbs of Jerusalem, which post-negotiations may end up in a new Palestinian state. But 2 million Muslims can live in Israel and more millions in France, Britain. Yes, it’s as clear as Mein Kampf, but we ignore it.

Scribbler on the Roof
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
Buy Ted's collected works at Amazon: or

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

Timing of Torah

TIMING OF TORAH

Here's a basic question that our sages have ignored: Why did HE, the Creator of Torah and the cosmos, wait so long to hand us the Book of Books - the Torah?

Consider the generations from Adam to Abraham to Moses who stumbled through life without that ethical road map called Torah.

Maybe with Torah, Cain would have shaken Abel’s hand over his sweet-smelling sacrifice. Maybe Jacob wouldn’t have deceived old, sightless Isaac. And surely the brothers of Joseph would have cheered at his dreams of glory instead of selling him into slavery.

There’s a legend - not rabbinic, not quite at the Midrashic level - just a legend told by thoughtful kibitzers sitting around the den table - that lights up this question. They tell this story: at creation time, the Angels cast an unanimous vote for the Almighty to lay the Torah at the foot of the Tree of Knowledge. We’re talking about that first week in Eden. “Let’s not wait for Sinai,” they said. "Give it NOW to the 2 new renters of your planet earth."

They were wary of man. “He’s dangerous,” they advised the Creator. “At first, he’ll use a stick to walk with. Next, he’ll use it to knock fruit out of the trees. Then he’ll sharpen one end of it and throw it at his fellow creatures. You have made him with the reproductive urges of the desert hare, the ferocity of the tiger, and the greed of the honey bee,” they said to the Creator. “The hare is gentle, the tiger is lazy, and the honey bee is small. They cannot harm creation. But man is different. He needs restraints. He needs Torah NOW!”

The Lord replied, “Humanity is not programmed like the animals. I have given man a soul and I’ve given him the blessing and curse of free will. We shall see what we shall see.”

And the Lord looked down on the paradise he had built on earth. And he saw the incredible variation of plants and creatures. And He saw Adam and Eve, the newlyweds, as gentle as the fruit-eating orangutans. And He could almost hear the happy humming of the green earth beneath heaven. All was well. It was the 7th day and the Lord rested. The angels chattered among themselves like the blue jays in Eden’s trees. “He shouldn’t have rested before he made Torah,” said Michael the Archangel.

“Yeah,” said one cherub with fluffy wings. "Wait’ll he gets a load of Cain.”

The next day - one day of heaven is many generations on earth, you know - the Lord inspected his universe. He saw the first act of disobedience in the Garden and He saw Cain’s murderous rage. He saw the generations who displayed all the faults of the lustful desert hare and the greedy honey bee, with none of their virtues. “The earth was corrupt in his sight,” as he was later to note in Genesis Chapter 5, verse 11.

So he sent the flood. “That’ll do it,” He predicted to the angels. “Such power will make man fear me. They will flock to me like the gentle dove nests in the Willow trees. Just watch their moral improvement.”

“They need Torah,” mumbled the angelic court.

“No,” he said. "Not now."

Then came the generations of the Patriarchs; G-d fearing men, but imperfect. With hesitation and a sigh, the Master Builder of the universe peeped between his fingers again at the strange animal with a soul called man. Just in time to see the sons of Jacob betray their father and their brother Joseph. “Now!” said the angels. "Give them Torah."

“No,” said the Lord. “Unlike the animals, did I not give them freedom - even unto sin?” Soon, the descendants of Abraham were slaves in Egypt and their wailing drifted up to heaven itself and the ears of their Creator.
Ah, another opportunity, he thought, to demonstrate my power to this unruly breed. And He delivered his people from the whips and clubs of the Egyptians. Later, He was to tell the whole story in Exodus so the ancestors of the slaves would never forget His mercy.

Strengthened by his outstretched arm, they strode out of Egypt as free men, but no sooner had they struck off their chains than they assumed the characteristics of the hare, the savage tiger, and the acquisitive greedy honeybee. The Lord threw up his hands in despair.
“They need a rule book,” He announced to the heavenly hosts. They modestly nodded. The Lord thundered, “Man needs limits. (This was centuries before gender sensitivity; he meant women, too.)

And the Lord G-d took the ex-slaves to Sinai where He spoke face-to-face to Moses and gave him the Torah like a father gives his son a prayer book on his Bar Mitzvah day. The slaves were now accountable, even as you and I. You might say he opened their moral bank account.

As I said before, it’s only a legend and legends have nowhere near the authenticity of a Midrash. So, ask your Rabbi about it. But if he laughs at your legend, ask him for HIS explanation. Why did The Master of the Universe wait for Sinai?

Scribbler on the Roof
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
Buy Ted's collected works at Amazon: or

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

Say Kaddish Over Your Dead Computer

Ted Roberts
2011 Aftonbrae Dr.
Huntsville, AL 35803

SAY KADDISH OVER YOUR DEAD COMPUTER

She was getting old. You could tell her passion was waning even though she was only 22 years old. Two out of three times when I clicked on her button she wouldn’t turn on. Well, she turned a dusky orange, but not that inviting – “here’s your mail” green that I had come to love. My pals – who all hated her – because she was a species – a MAC – different from their PC “helpmeets” (as Genesis expressed it) just giggled at my attempts to turn her on. “She’s too old – get a new PC.” For some neurotic reason, which is beyond my understanding, they loved to call her a “boat anchor”. Not a door stop, not a mantelpiece decoration carving, not an icon in the Museum of Modern Art, but a boat anchor. Jealousy. That was what it was. Jealousy because they didn’t have a 22 year old antique that no longer pulsed with activity, but still awed the world of electronic art with teal blue and gray voluptuous curves. She stood upright on my desk, but her soul was in Computer Heaven. That, I was sure of.

Now to the computer store for the autopsy. Meaning – could we extract the thousands of stories – tens of thousands of words that when put in artful sequence, compose my life, my soul, my work. Strangely, as soon as I arrived at the MAC store, Miss blue and teal – upon plugging her power cord into the wall – sprung into action. What allure did the MAC Store circuitry have that my office didn’t? I lit up like the computer. “It works, it works,” as I danced a cadenza between the aisles. The light goes green – my emails fill up the page. I grab the patient ready to take her home. My doctors – there are three at the MAC store – defer. “Why did it start now,” I shriek, “and remain unconscious when, at home, I plugged and replugged it per instructions from the three MAC physicians?” It wasn’t unplugged long enough was the explanation. In other words, if I had only waited time enough, I’d be in my comfy office soothing my MAC by brushing her big, blue forehead and no risk of losing my life’s work.

As I was dancing, the computer went black as the cave where Elijah hid on Mt. Carmel. Remember, he was hiding there because Jezebel sent a hit squad of Baalites – worshipers of Baal – out to get him.

I quit dancing. I reminded the store owner that he had already suckered me for two previous computers and why would a name brand computer quit after 22 years. He scowled and gave me a 15-minute lecture on the longevity of computers. I knew in my heart he had some valid points, but managed to squeeze out a few tears. “Only 22 years,” I sobbed and I gave him a 15-minute lecture on Kaddish and sitting shiva for 22 year old friends. I could tell he didn’t get it. Then I remember – how could I forget – that over 1400 stories, commentaries had lived in the heart of the deceased. I cry some more.

We finally arrived at a price for a new, friendly computer. And his promise - with his right hand on the victim - that my 1400 stories would be resuscitated. My old friend was toast. The new one, he stressed, was just like my old pal. Just push the button and go through my usual procedure. Nothing, he stressed, had changed (except the price, naturally). Samo, samo. I, who had believed until a few years ago that storks brought babies, believed this Bubbameiser, too. I took my new friend to the office – went through my usual procedures and got a display that called me and my mother (may she rest in peace) a dirty name and said something else that I can’t repeat in a computer language, mumbling about an alias.

I was on the phone immediately listening to some instructions I half understood. But it worked – with the aid of an army of technician friends. The script for this three-act drama was repetitious. I laid on the floor moaning, “Oy, my 1400 stories”. Their line was equally short, though they didn’t understand the “Oy”. “Teddy, it’ll be OK.” And it was. Thanks to them.
Scribbler on the Roof
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
Buy Ted's collected works at Amazon: or

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

WE’RE NOT GREAT AT EVERYTHING,

WE’RE NOT GREAT AT EVERYTHING, YA KNOW

I know, I boast too often about Jewish achievements - philanthropy, the arts, science. Jewish names are sprinkled through the list of winners. But Mr. fixits are not. When the water pipe from my house to the street breaks, I want a Jones, not a Greenberg. And how many Jews understand what we used to call a carburetor? (I think they adjust them from an IPod now.) Why are we so deficient in these kinds of skills? You few hardy Jewish craftsmen, pardon me. I’m generalizing from me and my family, but I think I’m correct. I’d bet a bunch and give odds 2 to 1 that Albert Einstein, Phillip Roth, and Jonas Salk could not stop my upstairs toilet from its two hours of running after a healthy flush. I’ll throw in Spinoza and Maimonides. (I’ll have to lower the odds to 3 to 2.) Two hours of misery and tension. I’m afraid to leave the house. What if it never stops running? Can you imagine my water bill?

But no one is always cursed. Blessings and curses - sometimes hard to distinguish - both come from the Creator of humans and demons and angels.

Take the other day for example. My lawn mower loses its motorized soul - it won’t go.
Outside Walmart, sparkling in the sun is a fleet of push mowers. “I’ll take that one,” I tell the salesman. He says, “Follow me,” and walks me into the store to a huge stack of boxes - a skyscraper of boxes. I rebel. “I don’t wanta box, I wanta lawn mower”, I wail.

He explains the lawn mower is in the box. How can that be, I’m thinking. The box isn’t as big as the lawn mower. This guy is also a clairvoyant ‘cause the next thing he says is, “You gotta assemble it”. He knows I’m worrying about putting this puzzle together. He evidently knows I’m Jewish. We sell or write things or eat things - we don’t assemble things.

No way would he sell me that shiny red sparkling assembled machine that caught my eye. So, I took home the box. And I put it together. It wasn’t a lawn mower, it was a wheelchair. It had four small wheels, an uncomfortable place to sit and a handle for someone to push you. I wrestled with it an other two hours - this time it clearly was a carpet cleaner. I had now devoted two hours to several useful devices, but not a lawn mower. Maybe a motorcycle. I gave up. Whatta mess. I was going to have to load t his stack of tin back into the miniature box - probably bringing on a hernia in the process. Then the embarrassment at the store. “I’m Jewish, I can’t assemble this thing, but we did cure Polio, you know.”

I retire to the couch with a great book called Maimonides, Spinoza, and You. The doorbell rings. A seedy-looking guy asks if he can have my old lawn mower, which I’ve put out on the street. It looked like a bicycle that detonated an IED in Afghanistan. First, I look up to Heaven from whence this saint came. Then I recall all the Midrashim about the Tzadik (and even Elijah) disguised in rags, so their glory wouldn’t show, who visited the pious, like me. I hesitate. “Know anything about lawn mowers?” I gently ask.

“Oh yeah, a little,” the perfect humble answer from a divine visitant.

I show him my wheel chair/carpet cleaner combination. I explain its supposed to cut grass. I explain when I pull the rope handle, it won’t start. “Oh, you got it backwards - the handle goes on the other side - you’re pulling the cord from opposite of the housing.”

He flips the handle over to the right side - now it looks like a mower - pulls the cord directly from the housing, and the roar of a 4.5 horsepower Braggs and Stratton engine fills the empty air of my backyard. He is a Tzadik or maybe a fix-it type unknown to Jewry. And I know who sent him. And I know why. Because I generously gave away my old lawn mower.

And you should have seen his happiness in loading my shattered old pile of junk into his pickup. He actually had faith that he could turn it into a machine that once again would cut grass. He was as ecstatically happy as Noah when he discovered his ark floated like a feather - didn’t sink like a stone. And I was so overwhelmed by my heavenly visitation that I shouted, “Shalom and be well,” to the departing pickup.

Scribbler on the Roof
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
Buy Ted's collected works at Amazon: or

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

SO MANY RULES! My granddaughter,

SO MANY RULES!

My granddaughter, Sarah, who is as observant as Hillel’s wife, is visiting next week. Entertaining her - so she’ll return with glee - is not as easy as it used to be. Twenty years ago all it took was a frisky cat, a backyard with a climbable tree, a mini-playground at the corner. That did fine 20 years ago. But now we need real entertainment - the kind you gotta pay for. But no problem - the cat is deceased so we’ve saved many years of expenditures for expensive cat food with urinary tract supplements. We’re loaded. So, I plan on some tickets to hear a well-known Chantreus (that’s a fancy French word I like to use - makes the tickets seem more expensive) do her stuff at the local auditorium.

But my wise and lovely wife holds up a warning finger. “No, no, Eric (that’s Sarah’s hubby) is as observant as Sarah - he can’t watch a a lady singer. It’s a halachic violation.”

Oh, I forgot. Those rules - so restrictive: long sleeves, long skirts, hair covering, no touching in public, and shirt fronts that must cover the collarbone (and you thought shapely legs were sexy). Kosher and Sabbath abiding. Even more. And now this new one about lady singers which I shall add to my inventory of Judaica. Hmmm, never knew that. A little personal disclosure here - my own code of Halachic restrictions is not nearly so stringent. I’m a little easier on myself, but let’s not go into details.

Somehow, though, my granddaughter’s way of life pleases me. But this last mentioned prohibition. A puzzler it is. So, the husband could have never enjoyed a performance of Rise Stevens belting out Carmen or Beverly Sills or Maria Callas tugging at your heart strings with Traviata? How could it hurt, I’m thinking. And this restriction is only mitzvah 482. I haven’t even cited the hundreds of other commandments, including the fact that you must not neuter an animal - a violation on my part that saved me a fortune in cat food. Neutering means no kittens to feed.

We can’t neuter a cat - but the fearsome Nepalese tribesman of the early 20th Century used to bring a fat cow to a picnic and slice off steaks from the living animal as they dined and played games in the Himalayan meadows. That I don’t do. (Have you noticed that we Jews have fewer pets than our Christian neighbors? Dogs, cats, even hamsters are not kosher, but we don't intend to saute them for supper so what’s the problem?)

So many rules. And some of them seemingly trivial. Many of them have to do with what the Rabbis called Separateness. We are a nation of priests, the Book tells us. And we must not “mingle” with the Canaanites lest we follow other gods. Those rules are a barb wired fence between us and them. That’s one rationale. Another I suspect transcends logic: it is HIS wish as expressed in the Humash, as interpreted by the Talmudic Oral Law. And that’s reason enough. Then there’s the virtue of the discipline they impose; discipline to me equals civilization.

Many of the edicts deal with lust. We Jews know about love and its kissing-cousin lust. We know what it can do to and for a marriage. And the same goes for a society. And you don’t have to be a PhD Sociologist - just a TV watcher - to look around and notice the seams of the American family ready to pop. The institution of marriage we used to call it. It’s an institution OK, maybe like the Loony Bin. As an institution, it’s doing about as well as telling stories around the campfire or taffy pulling. The human heart has a terrible hunger and self-discipline is not a red-hot 21st century virtue.

So, though the world snickers, it’s a valid sociological statistic that the rule followers have less divorces, less rapists, murderers, drunks, addicts - finish the list yourself. So many rules - but rules impose discipline and discipline equals civilization and a gentler world. Could that be the explanation? Maybe I shouldn’t have neutered the cat.

Scribbler on the Roof
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
Buy Ted's collected works at Amazon: or

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

SHAVUOUS

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, 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 Teluskin’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.
Sure, Orthodox 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 matso 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. And 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 the seven times the bride, Israel, circles the groom - our Creator - signifying our covenant. The seven year the land must lie fallow. Even today 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
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
Buy Ted's collected works at Amazon: or

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

The Grouch and Pesach

THE GROUCH AND PESACH

The Grouch, the meanest man in the world, hated Pesach. It was just too inspiring. True, it only came once a year. But it lasted for eight full days. The only holiday that the Grouch hated more was Shabbos. There were 52 of them every year. But thankfully, he reflected, not all Jews obediently lived up to the Talmudic letter of the law when it came to Shabbos.

So first the Grouch - a man of unlimited malevolent resources - would focus his hate like a burning laser on Pesach. The thing about Pesach that really grabbed him was its attraction to all Jews. Even rotten Jews, even Jews who belonged to the YMCA instead of a synagogue (“who can afford to join everything - you gotta draw a line somewhere”), even Jews who worked on Shabbos, never went to synagogue, voted Republican, drove pick-up trucks and put ketchup on pickled tongue sandwiches - these Jews observed Pesach! Don't feel so bad, advised the Grouch’s staff. It’s not a religious thing - not a mitzvah they’re observing. It’s just a super huge, gluttonous feed. But, the Grouch was not consoled. Nope. “They talked about the deliverance, didn't they? Or at least they thought about it. That’s Good? And they eat matzoh - that’s not a mitzvah? Chapter 12, verse 18 of Exodus says, ‘In the first month on the 14th day at even, ye shall eat unleavened bread’. And they DO it! “

“I hate that!!” screeched the Grouch and his eyes rolled around in his head so fast that blue and red sparks came out of his ears. “And to make it worse, kids love it. A kid at the Seder table ends up as an adult at the Seder table. Some of ‘em even join a synagogue.”

His staff was silent, fearing to even breathe loudly. When the Grouch got into his grouchy groove he was a terror. Once in such a mood he had turned one of his impish staff into a green M&M and tossed him to a fellow staffer for a snack.

“You know why kids love Pesach?” he bellowed at his trembling staff. “Tell you why - they get their parents attention! They tell ‘em stories. Great stories about the perilous adventurous trek from Egypt - about the feats of the Deliverer - about the covenant. THAT’S ABSOLUTELY THE LAST THING WE WANT KIDS TO HEAR. DO WE WANT THEM TO BE GREAT JEWS?” He roared the last sentence to irritable imps and gnomes who covered their faces with their hands and huddled under their chairs in the Grouch’s auditorium.

But the Grouch had a plan and he outlined it as his staff climbed back up in their chairs. They anticipated a plot even better than the one which had reduced synagogue attendance by 65%. Satanically clever, he simply added 3 lengthy prayers, all recited while standing at attention. His minions buzzed with excitement. And remember the time he had cornered the matzoh ball market the week before Pesach and Jews all over the U.S. were eating chicken soup with turnips! Turnips yet! He claimed a hundred divorces in Brooklyn alone and who knows how many Grouchy Seders. His staff roared with laughter at his pun.

OK, here’s my plan, stated the malevolent master strategist, we conduct an expedition to the Holy Land. A boatload of archaeologists, biblical scholars, PR specialists. Months of digging and pushing big rocks around. Finally, a Grouch bulletin from world-wide Headquarters. It announces that Grouch Corp had discovered the oldest versions of the ancient books of Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy. Big discovery - just like the Dead Sea Scrolls. Then maybe, a month or two pause to let the news sink in.

Now, Grouch Bulletin 2. Stop the Jewish presses! Attention all Rabbis! Listen up biblical scholars! Nowhere in these texts have the renowned scholars of the Grouch Corp found a mitzvah to observe the Exodus event. Oh, the deliverance, sure that’s in the book, it’s just that we are not commanded to make a tzimmus over it. That command was a 6th century addition by an unknown kibitzer with time on his hands, who loved matzo balls. One neophyte gnome in the audience giggled at the tzimmus line and was transformed into a gizzard in boiling chicken soup!

What a delightful reversal, thought the meanest man on the earth. Twenty three hundred humiliating years of celebrating a non-holiday, 2300 years of lower colon matzoh blockage. All for naught. Wonderful.

His minions cheered their approval and the Grouch swung into action. But as he laid out his plan - as his nefarious scheme took conceptual shape - deep in the cave of time, Elijah listened. Elijah, who awaits the Messiah whom he must herald and in his spare time keeps an eye on the Grouch. Elijah in the eternal dark without a window or even a small screen TV. Elijah whose only diversion is - guess what? Pesach. When millions of Jews welcome him with joy and the deepest admiration at their Seder table.

The prophet gently lifted his index finger. The cave trembled as though ripped by an 8.5 Richter scale earthquake and aeons away in the world of the Grouch a sandy particle in the carotid artery of the meanest man in the world obediently moved into place. He fell unconscious. And when he revived an hour later he had a new target. He had completely forgotten Pesach. “Candy - it must be stopped. Kids love it too much.” Elijah’s specialty was razzle dazzle, you know.

Scribbler on the Roof
Website: http://www.wonderwordworks.com
Blogsite: http://www.scribblerontheroof.typepad.com
Buy Ted's collected works at Amazon: or

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