Poetry: O Israel in Exile p.2 The Chain of Continuity, (Editorial),

Amala Levine p.3 A Light to the Nations, Rabbi Michael S. Friedman p.4

Channels of Memory, Brigitte Sion p.6 The Sustaining Force of Judaism, Anne Moradpour p.7 Are Jews Still Essential? Martin R. Gold p.8

Intermarriage and Jewish Survival, Rabbi Peter Rubinstein p.10

Words to my Son, Jill Werman Harris p.12 A Continuing Commitment, Peter Lese p.14 The Wicked Son, Eric Levine p.16 Custom and Continuity, Amala Levine p.18 Promise to Israel, Beth Rustin & Lee Stettner p.20

What We Read About When We Read Nathan Englander, Steve Klausner p.22

FA L L 2 0 1 2 T H I S I S S U E : CO N T I N U I T Y

I believe that Jewish survival is our passion; some would even say our obsession. We are a unique people with an extraordinary history and an unparalleled mission. We are a people for all time.

Rabbi Peter J. Rubinstein, Intermarriage and Jewish Survival Pg.10

POETRY

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Judah Halevi (before 1075-after 1141), was born in Muslim Tudela on the borders of Christian Spain. He travelled to the centers of Jewish scholarship in Andalusia, settled in Toledo and eventually in Cordoba. His poetry addresses both secular and sacred matters. His ‘Songs of Zion,’ of which this is one, count among his most famous poems.

O ISRAEL, IN EXILE

O sleeper, whose heart is awake,Burning and raging, now wake and goForth, and walk in the light of My Presence. Rise, and ride on! A star hasCome forth for you, and he who has Lain in the pit will go up to the top ofSinai. Let them not exult, those whoSay, ‘Zion is desolate!’ – for My heartIs in Zion and My eyes are there. IReveal Myself and I conceal Myself,Now I rage, now I consent – but whoHas more compassion than I have forMy children?

Judah Halevi

The Chain of Continuity

EDITORIAL

Amala Levine

You wouldn’t guess, as you find yourself in Central Synagogue’s crowded sanctuary on a Friday night or if you attended last year’s High Holy Day services at Avery Fisher Hall,

that an anxious debate is underway about the possible disappearance of the Jewish people. Thankfully, there are currently no pogroms or extermination camps, and Israel has become a thriving, powerful nation state. What then is this alarmist talk all about? Is it that Jews are losing interest in being Jews? Is it that intermarriage is diluting commitment to the Jewish faith? Are we living in an age too secular, too pressured and materialistic for spiritual matters to have been pushed aside? Has the continuous chain that stretches from Sinai’s distant past to the far corners of the globe today, reached its breaking point? Rabbi Rubinstein, in a passionate and provocative sermon, entered the fray five years ago, eloquently plead-ing for our unconditional commitment to Jewish survival because it matters. We, as a people and as individuals, exist for a purpose—to embody the integrity and “decency of Jewish values… our sensitivity to the disenfranchised and the stranger must endure.” He views intermarriage not as a threat but as a fact to which we ought to respond with welcoming warmth instead of barring the door. At stake is nothing less than our future as Jews. Rabbi Rubinstein has adapted his sermon for this issue of HaShiur to lead the congregation into a con-versation about our continued existence. He is supported by Rabbi Friedman who reminds us of our perpetual moral “duty to repair our broken world… to be a light to the nations.” As we carry out this mission, any doubts about why we would and should remain Jewish are laid to rest; care and compassion are our obligation—they will guarantee our survival as a people. Identifying as Jewish is as much about doing as it is about being. Not everyone has a deep abiding faith. Many identify with the ethical, cultural or ethnic, rather than the religious, aspects of their heritage. Martin Gold highlights the continued tradition of Jewish contribu-tions to culture and the arts—they have a significant and lasting impact on civic life. Brigitte Sion makes clear how ritual weaves us into the fabric of Jewish life. The Jewish calendar is filled with weekly and annual repetitions—Shabbat, Passover, the High Holy Days—vivid reminders how intricately we are enmeshed in a continued collective history. HaShiur’s original fiction illustrates that very point—

memories of a Jewish essence do resurge, even when long suppressed. Something stirs and wakes the soul. Or, when we are displaced and dispossessed, as Anne Moradpour was, escaping from Nazi Berlin with a Kindertransport, we realize that an important part of our life, of “feeling Jewish,” is missing; her moving story shows how traumatic the severing of our roots can be. Much later in life, visiting her extended family in Israel, she understands that the Diaspora itself, despite pain and suffering, constitutes a lesson in continuity—Jews are resilient and tenacious. Shepherding the next generation across the ritual threshold of their bar or bat mitzvot is the special task of clergy and parents. Jill Werman Harris anticipates how her son soon will take his place within the Jewish com-munity, bound by the commonality of a shared ethos and shared history. Handing the Torah from generation to generation in ritual passage at his son’s bar mitzvah, Pe-ter Lese gratefully remembers how his family has found a spiritual home at our synagogue through the decades. Celebrating their daughter’s bat mitzvah in Jerusalem, as Beth Rustin and Lee Stettner did, acknowledges the pivotal place Israel holds in our imagination, our history and our identity as Jews. Leo Tolstoy wrote late in life that Jews are the “embodiment of eternity,” having transmitted the teach-ing of the Torah to all mankind. As the “tree of life” is eternal, so Jews remain its emblem; as long as they cleave to its messages—spiritual, moral, psychological, or historical—their survival as a people is guaranteed.

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4REFLECTIONS

A Light to the Nations Rabbi Michael S. Friedman

When our child asks, “Dad, why do I have to go to Hebrew school?” or when we

ourselves ask, “Do I really want to sit shivah for that long?” we are each asking, essentially, why should I be Jewish? Perhaps the question I’m asking seems difficult to answer. Some of us cannot quite identify why we’ve remained Jewish. If pressed to articulate what Juda-ism means to us, we often speak of family gatherings on holidays and of a general affinity for ethics. Both of those are important, but if our Judaism is synonymous with west-ern liberal humanism and family get-togethers then we might as well close up shop. A thought experiment: if you did stop being Jewish, what would be missing from your life? Perhaps you’d miss the life-affirm-ing ecstasy of dancing a whirling hora at a wedding or bar mitzvah. Perhaps you’d miss the opportu-nity to tell our unique story of the Exodus from Egypt while gathered with family around the seder table. Perhaps you’d miss our tradition’s relentless questions, or our people’s undying resolve to make the world a better place. Perhaps you’d miss walking into our magnificent sanctuary at the end of a long week, hearing the transcendent music, and

linking arms as we recognize joyous moments by singing Shehecheyanu together. One answer to the ques-tion is that we are here because we know that Judaism brings some-thing essential to our lives—some-thing that we can’t get anywhere else, something that animates and drives and comforts us. No matter the struggles or successes, Judaism asserts that at, the end of the day, what we do with our time on earth matters. Judaism constantly prods us, asking, “What did you learn today? How did you grow? Whom did you help?” Moreover, Judaism insists that we are not the end-all, be-all of Creation. Judaism asserts that there is something larger in the universe than ourselves, whether you call that justice, truth, wisdom, Creation, or God.

Our name, Yisrael, liter-ally means “one who wrestles with God.” Each of us has not only the right but the obligation to eternally argue and grapple with ideas and questions. Where all the certain-ties leave off, Judaism begins. As I study Torah, I am continually amazed at its ability to address our

personal struggles and offer insight. Judaism impels us to look at the world with a critical eye; it asks us to focus on what is eternally true, not ephemeral; it teaches that pos-sessions and popularity are fleeting but that purpose is everything. We should be Jewish because Judaism makes a difference in each of our individual lives. We should also be Jewish because Judaism makes a difference to the world. Against all odds, our people have survived because in every generation there have been Jews who believed that our exis-tence as a people and what we con-tribute to the world matters. Our very existence magnifies the extraor-dinary possibilities of humanity even as we remember its unfathom-able cruelty. Rabbi Jerry Davidson said, “We are am kadosh, a holy people set apart by meaning and mission.”1

We are a people proud to be the outsider, taught to identify with the stranger, widow and orphan. We are a people taught to follow the just, never the multitude. The prophet Isaiah commanded, “You shall be a light to the nations.” To live by this commandment means that we have a responsibility to do more with our lives than simply be happy, wealthy and fit. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel put it succinctly: “We are God’s stake in

Our ancestOrs had little choice in the matter. Ghetto walls and social intolerance confined them. Their identity was not changeable. But today we are blessed to live in a society that exalts personal freedom. Each of us is free to opt out of Jewish life. So why should we bother to opt in?

Judaism asserts that, at the end of the day, what we do with our time on earth matters.

5

human history.”2 Tikkun olam, the Jewish duty to repair our broken world, is rooted in the observation that the world is fundamentally out of order, that everything is not okay. Despite their pervasiveness, corruption, inequal-ity and violence are each a divine injustice—a serious breach in the way God intended things. Our mis-sion is to repair or restore the world to the way God wants it to be. In the words of Rabbi Jonah Pesner, “Our purpose is nothing less than redemption of the world.” That’s a big responsibility, but we’re up to the

challenge. Fortunately the Mishnah reminds us, “[We] are not required to complete the work, but neither are [we] permitted to abandon it.”3

For all these reasons, each of us has chosen to live as another link in a chain that stretches back a hundred generations. Members of the next generation of children will decide on their own whether they care enough to be the next link. And even if our children and grand-children do not live Jewish lives, they’ll probably be nice people, and that may be enough. But we must consider: what difference would

Judaism make in their lives? And what difference would it make if there were no Jews left on earth? I propose that we enter into a community conversation in which we share with one another our reasons for being Jewish. In particular, I believe that those not born Jewish should contribute. You have decided to join us—either offi-cially through conversion or unof-ficially by helping to create a Jewish family. What compelled you to do this? Your answers will educate and inspire us all. The wall of the Anne Frank Haus in Amsterdam bears an ex-cerpt from Anne’s writings: “Who knows, maybe our religion will teach the world and all the people in it about goodness, and that’s the reason, the only reason, we have to suffer. We can never just be Dutch, or just English, or whatever; we will always be Jews as well. And we’ll have to keep on being Jews, but then, we’ll want to be.”4

Each of us has remained Jewish simply because we want to. We should ask ourselves why. What do we find in Jewish life that is so precious, we can’t let it go? And when you have your own answers, share them with people whose Jewishness matters to you. Speak of them in your home and when you’re on your way, when you lie down and when you rise up. Let those answers guide our conversations and let us grow ever stronger.

1. Jerry Davidson, “On Becoming a Rabbi” May 1997.2. Quoted in Time, March 14, 1969.3 Pirke Avot 2:15-16.4. Quote found on wall of Anne Frank Haus.

ESSAY

6

Remembrance is never an intellectual process alone. Rather, it is always followed by an action that fulfills the

obligation to remember. “Shamor vezachor,” “observe and remember” are the first verses of L’cha Dodi, a song that welcomes Shabbat every Friday night. How do we under-stand this double commandment? The rabbis explain that observing a commandment without remem-bering its purpose is as irrelevant as remembering a commandment without performing it. It is only when remembrance is paired with practice that continuity is ensured. This is the reason why our texts and rituals always include both. Let us look at some examples from our lit-urgy, our rituals, and our holidays. The Kiddush or blessing over wine that is recited on Shabbat and holidays mentions the memory of Creation (“zikaron lema’asay bere-ishit”) and the memory of leaving Egypt (“zecher litziyat Mitzrayim”). The obligation to sanctify Shabbat

of these commandments and of their importance in our lives. I could list many more examples. These essen-tial obligations are mentioned in the first paragraph of the Sh’ma. Our life cycle rituals, which are at the core of Jewish continu-ity, also require specific actions that serve the purpose of remembrance: naming a baby after a deceased rela-tive or in honor of someone, reading Torah and having an aliyah for the first time at one’s bar or bat mitz-vah; breaking a glass at a wedding to remember the destroyed Temple in Jerusalem, or placing a stone on a grave. Our holidays— aren’t they all about remembering so that there is continuity? From “remember Amalek,” our archenemy who first tried to destroy the Jewish people and who has an alter ego in Ha-man (boo!) on Purim, to Rosh Hashanah, which is also called Yom Ha’Zikaron, the day of remem-brance, since we recall the Creation of the world. The Passover seder is

with Kiddush goes hand in hand with the remembrance of two milestones in Jewish history: the divine Creation of the world, as told in Genesis, and the libera-tion from slavery and departure from Egypt, as told in Exodus. The weekly sanctification of Shabbat is inseparable from the evocation of past events that continue to inform our lives and our identity daily. Our ritual objects also serve as a tool for continuity: a mezuzah on a doorpost is a physi-cal reminder that we are bound by commandments inside our houses and outside, when we enter our pri-vate space and when we are in the public realm. Tzitzit on a tallit have knots that symbolically amount to the 613 commandments. Affixing a mezuzah, wearing a tallit or don-ning t’ffilin is an acknowledgement

Channels of Memory Brigitte Sion

“Zachor!” “Remember!” constitutes one of the most important teachings in Judaism. In fact, we are constantly reminded to remember, every day, through prayer, text, rituals, and holidays.

Continued on page 15

ESSAY

7

The Sustaining Force of Judaism Anne Moradpour

I was born Hannelore Siegel in Berlin and, growing up during the Nazi years, have vivid mem-ories of anti-Semitism. In 1936,

the Nazis added Sarah to the names of all Jewish females and made us wear the yellow star, the Magen Da-vid , on our outer clothing. I attend-ed kindergarten and first grade in the public school before Jewish chil-dren were excluded. Subsequently, several Jewish day schools sprang up in Berlin. We learned Hebrew, sang Hebrew songs, acted in Jewish plays, and studied Zionism. We were all Jewish, surviving in a city that hated Jews; teachers, students and parents bonded together. My father was president of a small congregation. We celebrated Shabbat and attended Saturday services every week. Of course, we attended Holy Day services as well. My father conducted the best seders—my cousins still remember and talk about them. Judaism was at the center of our lives, even as they became ever more precarious in a hostile environment. In November 1938, I saw the synagogues burning on Kristall-nacht and was present when the SS invaded our home, taking my father away to a concentration camp. Fortunately, after six anxious weeks,

of Jewish home we had had in Berlin. They joined a Conservative synagogue, which I did not like at all and did not attend very often, though I always made sure to be present at High Holy Day services. When I married my late husband, Zo Moradpour, we want-ed to affiliate with a synagogue, visiting many Reform institutions because, being born in Iran, my hus-band knew little Hebrew. We chose Central Synagogue because we liked the service, the beautiful music and the friendliness of the congrega-tion. By then I understood that to me ritual was not as important as continuing to lead a Jewish life. This sense of continuity has been steadily reinforced by attend-

the men who were World War I veterans were released. My father was ordered never to speak about his experiences at the camp. My parents had no choice but to take advantage of the Kinder-transport for us. Suddenly, my sister and I found ourselves in a strange world—in a different country, housed with English Christian fami-lies in northern England. There were no Jewish children in the school we attended and we excused ourselves from daily prayer assembly, where kneeling and praying in a religion not ours was required. I sensed that an important part in my life was missing and signed up for a corre-spondence course with weekly les-sons sent by St. John’s Wood Liberal Synagogue in London. As young as I was, I knew that learning about Judaism and feeling Jewish would keep me strong during those lonely, war-torn years. In 1946, with the war over, my sister and I were able to obtain visas to rejoin my parents. They had managed to emigrate to Sweden in 1939. The following year they ar-rived in America via Siberia. I have always known how fortunate our small family was to be reunited. In New York City, my parents sought to recreate the kind

In May 1939, my sister and I left Berlin, the city of our birth, on a Kindertransport to England. The train was organized and paid for by private individuals and organizations anxious to save Jewish children from the horrors of Nazism. I was eleven years old.

A typical passport issued to children on the “Kindertransport”. The passport picture is not of the author.

Continued on page 13

8ESSAY

These detailed rules are de-rived from the Golden Rule, which we first stated as an ethic of reciprocity: “Love

your neighbor as yourself” [Lev. 19:18]; they have been expanded into the International Convention on Civil and Political Rights, and the International Covenant on Econom-

for several reasons. Here, I want to focus on one important reason—the large contribution we make by our very presence, which is unrelated to, but I would argue derived from, our religious practice. Understanding and teach-ing ethics to a world that is often not interested in learning ethics is a chal-

ic, Social and Cultural Rights. But since our principles are now gener-ally considered synonymous with morality, are we Jews still needed? Do we still have a role to play, or should we simply declare victory, become fully absorbed into the gen-eral culture and fade away? To me, we remain essential

Are Jews Still Essential?

In the sInaI dessert, when we became the Jewish People, we accepted the responsibility of understanding and teaching the world a code of ethics and morality, which we believe is God-given. The basic precepts, which we de-veloped and transmitted, are now widely recognized as the proper rules that should govern human conduct—even if they are frequently not followed.

Martin R. Gold

9

same without us. Sometimes, as I sit in my concert seat awaiting the beginning of a classical music performance, whether opera, ballet, chamber music, orchestra, or a recit-al at any of the dozens of halls in the city, I survey the audience (people watching is one of the pleasures of city life). Facially identifying people’s ethnicity is fraught with er-ror, but the large proportion of Jews in the audience is unmistakable. In Israel, the only place in the world where the proportion of Jews is greater than in New York, every small city seems to have its own symphony orchestra and the arts flourish. By contrast, large American cities with small Jewish populations often have difficulty attracting audiences to support cultural institutions. The importance of Jews in supporting the arts was tragically demonstrated in places that lost their Jews. Cities, such as Prague and Vienna, and entire nations, such as Germany and Poland, discovered that much of their cultural base was significantly diminished. Wherever Jews have lived in relative freedom, our contribution to the local secular culture has been significant. When we disappear, culture suffers. This phenomenon is, I believe, a byproduct of a reli-gion that asks us to be “a light unto the nations” [Isaiah 42:6]. Ours is a major contribution to the world, which, in my opinion, quite apart from our religious contributions, makes us essential.

Martin R. Gold is a lawyer. He and his family have been members of Central Syna-gogue for 40 years. Both he and his wife Billie have served on the board of trustees.

well beyond our small numbers in the general population.

• In cities where we have significant numbers, many are doctors, lawyers, scientists, engineers, writers, teachers, actors, musicians, and professionals of all types, as well as business and civic leaders.

• Nobel, Pulitzer and other prizes are awarded regularly to Jews in many fields.

• Jews purchase more books than do other groups, including a large percent-age of all hardcover books sold.

• We fill seats at opera, ballet, classical music concerts, and live theatre.

• We frequent museums, galleries, lectures and classes.

• Many important cultural institutions would be forced to close without our contributions or participation.

In the course of teaching ethics to the world, we also have learnt much ourselves. Many of us delight in the pleasures of the mind, in learning, thinking, and enjoying the arts; we regard music and art as food for the soul. If Jews were to disappear, other people would fill our places as professionals, busi-ness and civic leaders. The world of commerce would continue, but the world of music and art would be diminished. New York City, where Jews represent only about 12% of the population, would not be the

lenging task. It could only be accom-plished by an entire people—and only by a well-educated people. So we, over thousands of years, internalized the necessity of educating our people so we could accomplish our man-dated mission to disseminate God’s ethics to the world. This is the source of our love of scholarship and the life of the mind; it is how we became “the People of the Book.” Over many centuries, our “celebrities” have been our great rabbis, widely renowned among our people for expounding upon Jewish law. But the life of the mind is not limited to Jewish subjects. Par-ticularly since the Enlightenment, Jews have excelled in every form of human endeavor demanding intel-lectual achievement, despite our small numbers. This has been true wherever Jews have lived through-out the world, as long as we have not been subject to restrictions. In an open society such as America, we Jews are free to de-velop our talents as we choose. We encourage our children to read, to study and learn, to understand the world and appreciate the arts. Certainly, our young people enjoy playing and following sports, and they participate in popular culture like everyone else, but our emphasis is sufficiently different from others that our share of contributions and participation in the arts and sciences is truly remarkable. Here are a few examples how Jews enrich the secu-lar world in which we live:

—Faculties at major academic insti-tutions include a percentage of Jews

The importance of Jews in supporting the arts was tragically demonstrated in places that lost their Jews.

Left: A 2,000 year old stone, engraved with a menorah, found in Jerusalem.

10REFLECTIONS

Intermarriage and Jewish Survival

I belIeve that Jewish survival is our passion; some would even say our obsession. We are a unique people with an extraordinary history and an unparalleled mission. We are a people for all time. Intuitively sensitive, aggressively on guard against all hints of malice, we are a people this world needs. Our survival matters.

settle dependent on Jewish density. At Central Synagogue, we have clearly opted to live fully and boldly in heterogeneous communi-ties. By our life styles and choices, we have signaled to our children that we should not retreat behind self-imposed ghetto walls, as some segments of the Jewish community have done to guarantee that their children do not meet non-Jews. We want our children to grow up in multi-racial, multi-ethnic, and multi-religious environments.

The issue of intermarriage has precipitated viciously strident debates within Jew-ish institutional life; it has

even split congregations. What does it mean to us and our Jewish future? The reality of intermarriage is more than a theoretical debate about the seismic impact of love and marriage on Jewish survival. My position on this issue is very clear. I urge Jews to marry Jews. It is better for Jewish con-tinuity and it is more likely to be better for a couple because “Jewish offspring” of intermarried couples will be far more likely to identify as Jews. Marriages between two Jews will more likely make it easier to build a Jewish home, raise Jewish children and remain married. I do not foster or encourage mixed mar-riage. But the tide runs against what I prefer, and so does love. In matters of love there are no guaran-tees. For the most part our children do not set out to marry non-Jews. Living in an open society, young Jews will meet non-Jews at col-lege, in their work places, when they socialize with friends, and at laundromats. Our children gener-ally do not make college choices by analyzing the percentage of Jews on campus, nor will they typically accept a job offer or decide where to

We say to each other that all people are the same except, that is, when it comes to marriage. That is the paradox. We preach openness to all people and then tell our children we don’t want them to marry non-Jews. If a child meets and falls in love with a non-Jew, they feel very much in unfamiliar territory. Often the scenario hap-pens like this: two people in their late twenties have lived some-what similar lives, both raised in urban centers by educated,

Rabbi Peter J. Rubinstein

11

their children as Jews, if the non-Jew is not affirming another faith, if they commit to relevant Jewish learning, connect to a synagogue and want me to be the sole officiant at their wedding, I will be there. If both Jew and non-Jew are fully comfortable with the words of the Jewish wed-ding ceremony, that their marriage is “according to the faith of Moses and Israel” (“k’dat Moshe v’ Yisrael”), I will support their study and be honored to be with them under the chuppah as their rabbi.

I love being Jewish. I love Judaism. I want everyone to find Judaism as an expression of their religious soul. But the discovery of, and love for, Judaism demands integrity at its core and it should not be forced upon people. It should not be the price someone pays to make a fiancé happy or soothe the ire of future parents-in-law. On the contrary, I prefer that non-Jews see the best models of Jewish behavior in us. Let them appreciate in us the honor that we bring to Jewish tradition and how our commitments make us and our community stronger. Let them emu-late the decency of Jewish values in us. Let them admire in us how traditional Jewish home celebrations strengthen the fabric of family life. Some in our congregation decided to convert to Judaism after marriage and did so with incredible decency, principle and judgment.

professionally successful parents. They both went to the same pres-tigious university, though they didn’t meet until some years after graduation. Their backgrounds are indistinguishable,except that one was raised as a Jew and one raised Presbyterian. As youngsters they both had religious training, attend-ed supplemental religious school and grew up with an element of re-ligious observance in their parents’ homes. When I ask them how they would define themselves religiously, the one raised a Jew, in the blink of an eye, affirms, “I’m Jewish.” When I ask the young woman how she re-ligiously defines herself her answer is: “I was raised a Presbyterian.” She provides information about her background but neither defines herself presently as a Presbyterian or a Christian. When I plumb deeper and ask this Jewish/non-Jewish couple what defines religion for each of them, the Jew talks about identity, family, history and tradition. The non-Jew talks about God, faith and spirituality. The Jew defines himself by identity. The non-Jew sees reli-gion as a matter of faith. Jews and non-Jews think differently about religion. For many Jews, peoplehood trumps faith, Jewishness trumps Judaism, our identity trumps our beliefs. It is all very perplexing to someone who assumes that religion actually has to do with faith in God. No wonder that when the non-Jewish partner of a mixed religious couple is schlepped by their Jewish fiancé to a rabbi, it is so confusing and a bit frightening. But, as is my practice, if that couple decides that they will raise

By our life styles and choices, we have signaled to our children that we should not retreat behind self-imposed ghetto walls.

But they found their own way. We have a history of Jews marrying out of our people as far back as the stories of the Hebrew Bible. Joseph’s wife As-nat was an Egyptian woman, not an Israelite. She was the Egyptian mother of Ephraim and Manasseh with whose names we bless our children to this day. Moses, whose faith we refer to in the marriage ceremony, was married to Tziporra, the daughter of a Midianite priest. King Solomon married foreign women. Ruth, the Moabite, joined our people only after her husband’s death and be-came the great, great-grandmother of King David. We believe that our faith and our people are unique. We believe that our sensitivity to the disenfranchised and the stranger must endure. We believe that our history tells an exceptional story of our people’s collected wisdom. Our survival has purpose. We do have a mission. We need to do what we can to bring all our children and their spouses, Jew and non-Jew, along on that mission and into the framework of Jewish life. I am passionately obsessed by Jewish survival. I believe that our future will be enhanced by bringing close our people’s non-Jewish spouses and embracing those who choose to join us. Let us be grateful to those who have chosen to become part of our destiny and our family; let us throw open our doors to all who would choose to enter; and let us open our arms to embrace the non-Jews among us. They are precious, courageous, and they are part of our future and our destiny.

12ESSAY

Words to my Son

I was OverflOwIng with joy in 1999 when I learned I was pregnant with my first child. I had never been so sure of anything as I was that I wanted to be a mother.

I joined the ranks of every other mother to be, delighted and excited in an almost military state of readiness for the on-

slaught of necessary paraphernalia like blankets, booties and bottles . . . and Anita Diamant’s book, How to Be A Jewish Parent. Oh, you didn’t get that one? I did, because I wanted to articulate and convey to my child a meaningful understanding of the significance and importance of the continuity of being Jewish. I knew that the only way to do this was for me to understand the basics—some-thing I didn’t have growing up. My parents instilled in my brother and me all the right values: hard work, focus on educa-tion and empathy, just to name a few, but they were more oriented toward civil rights and social justice rather than a Jewish perspective. My maternal grandfather was a civil rights attorney, a consultant to the Scottsboro case and a lawyer who was very active defending black-listed victims of McCarthyism. While vehemently anti-religious, his principles were deeply rooted in a world-view and morality that have been passed down through gen-erations. For my son (and now my daughter) I wanted the same world-view but I also wanted to be able to intelligently and specifically tie that ethos to Judaism. I understood that my hus-band and I had a daunting assign-

ment: to mold the mind and soul of another human being. Judaism teaches us that the purpose of hav-ing children is to raise them to be self-reliant, compassionate and ethi-cal adults. How can we achieve this? We can rely on lessons learned in childhood and important adult life experiences. We can choose an edu-cation, and thus peers and educa-tors, that will emphasize a particular value system. Importantly, we can teach by example and show by our behavior what we value most. We can show that we treasure not only Jewish identity and values but also their continuity as such.

Now my son is preparing to become a bar mitzvah next year. As a parent, the desire to impart a sense of succession is stronger than ever. I’m trying to figure out how to make sure that both, the religious ritual as well as the cultural celebra-tion of becoming a bar mitzvah, are opportunities to make that happen. But I don’t think the acts themselves are enough. At the lunch following the temple ceremony, I plan to tell my son that Jewish history is long, meaningful and relevant. I want to explain to him that in the past, when Jews were persecuted, with-out a homeland, without wealth or power, we found security in fam-ily and community. Other peoples may have mastered authority and territory, but the Jewish people mastered familial and community relationships. We nurtured ethical and secure children who, as adults, shaped vital and vibrant commu-

Jill Werman Harris

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Jill Werman Harris is the author of Remembrances and Celebrations: A Book of Eulogies, Elegies, Letters, and Epitaphs published by Pantheon. She is currently pursuing graduate studies in bioethics at Albert Einstein College of Medi-cine. She and her husband Lloyd have two children, Jonathan and Sophie.

uniquely is. During his lifetime, his inherent strengths will sustain him, and those aspects of his potential that don’t come as easily will chal-lenge him. I know that by showing him and articulating what I value most, the sustaining traits of com-passion, honesty, tenacity, flexibility, and optimism can also be expressed in his commitment to continue his Jewish life— not defined by what someone else thinks that means, but rather by what is meaningful to him. I have often told my son that he should cherish his sixth sense. He will know what is right or wrong for him, which has nothing to do with appearances, manners or what other people or society want for him. Now, at the age of 12, he is beginning to understand that how he perceives, judges and thinks, as well as his social skills and charac-ter development, are uniquely his own, but they also are grounded in 5,000 years of Jewish history. More importantly, he knows that treating people honorably, an innate sense of right and wrong, critical thinking, and an ability to evaluate everyday ethical dilemmas are not uniquely Jewish, but rather that the Jewish narrative, its specific stories and amazing history, reverberates in his life. He is beginning to recognize that the triumph of spirit and mind over seemingly hopeless odds is an arc worth continuing.

nities. No matter what the Jewish people faced, whether Crusaders or Cossacks, we could never be pried away from one another.

So too, in the late 19th and 20th centuries, the Jewish migration from Eastern and Southern Europe to the United States was not a move-ment of individuals but of families. The social critic Irving Howe wrote, “It was the ferocious loyalty of the Jews to the idea of the family as they knew it, the family both as locus of experience and as fulfillment of their obligation to perpetuate their line that enabled them to survive [the immigration experience].” In other words, Jewish values and principles, including the conviction of their continuity, were the glue that kept these relationships strong and enduring. The historic Jewish family, my forebears, my son’s and yours, has shown great resilience to external pressures. I want my son to understand that the Jewish experience merits continuation, not because I say so—or rather, not only because I say so; after all I am a Jewish mother!—but because he himself should assess the value of the history of our people. I hope he will perceive it as both familiar and inspiring. At the important juncture of becoming a bar mitzvah, I want him to fully engage in this incredible tradition. I want to celebrate my son as well as the custom itself. I want to acknowledge that I do not expect him to be anyone other than who he

Jewish values and principles were the glue that kept these relationships strong and enduring.

ing classes at Central Synagogue exploring Jewish history and tradi-tions, joining in discussions about Jewish life and reading Reform Judaism and the Jewish Week. I cel-ebrate holidays with several mem-bers of the congregation and with my extended family. My childhood experiences have taught me that what happens to one Jew, happens to us all.

Last summer I visited family in Is-rael and was amazed and energized by what I saw and heard in the Holy Land. The thrill of being in a Jewish land was almost overwhelming. Reconnecting with family mem-bers, many of whom had traveled long roads to England, America and Israel, moved me closer to my origins. The Diaspora itself became a lesson in the continuity of the Jew-ish people. My volunteer work at Central Synagogue in various areas, working with several rabbis and many congregants, has made my ties to Jewish life ever so much closer. Watching boys and girls become bar and bat mitzvah is to witness the continued growth of the Jewish community. They have stud-ied diligently and learnt much, and I hope they will continue to grow to become living proof of the sustain-ing power of Judaism at all times.

Anne Moradpour, a former kindergarten teacher and business woman, coordinates the Shamashim program and pulpit guests at Central Synagogue. Together with her late husband Zo, she joined the synagogue in 1968.

I sensed that an importantpart of my life was missing...

THE SUSTAINING FORCE... continued from p. 7

14ESSAY

A Continuing Commitment Peter Lese

My family has enjoyed a long tradition at Central Synagogue, starting with my grandmother’s

family, the Steinheimers, who were members of what was then known as Congregation Hawath Chesed Shaar Hashomayim in the early 1900s. Their vision for a preemi-nent Reform Jewish synagogue in Manhattan was consistent with their desire to become assimilated Americans, but also to preserve their Jewish heritage without many of the rigors imposed by Orthodox or Conservative communities.

My father became a bar mitzvah here; he was a trustee and strong supporter of the congrega-tion. He particularly wanted to see the religious school grow and

when my sOn Jason became a bar mitzvah in November 2007, I proudly stood on the bimah with my father, William Lese, as he passed the Torah to me, and I, in turn, handed it to Jason. This tradition of passing the Torah symbolizes the trans-mission of Jewish law from generation to generation.

beautiful interior with its Moorish architecture. I enjoyed listening to sermons by Rabbi Seligson, and then Rabbi Zimmerman. I loved it then, too. The vision the Steinheimers had for Central Synagogue has been realized, as Central Synagogue has become a highly respected institu-tion with an esteemed clergy, an outstanding religious school and a reputation that places it among the great religious organizations of the United States. Because of this reputation, we are hearing speak-ers like President Bill Clinton and Thomas Friedman who come to the synagogue to show their support for the liberal Jewish community it represents. As I write this, I am think-ing about the recent speech given by Bill Clinton at Central Synagogue on the state of Israel. It made me proud when the former president of the United States turned to Peter Rubinstein and acknowledged his

develop into an excellent Jewish learning center, and I am so glad he lived to see his grandchildren attend and benefit from the superb programs and teachers. Their excel-lent instruction has stimulated my children, and both have continued to study there after becoming bar mitzvah. Jason has been confirmed, and Stephen will be as well. For Jason, the religious school is, in part, a social experience that acquires deeper meaning because of its reli-gious and cultural context. Whether traveling to Prague or Berlin, or learning about Jewish life and tradi-tions in a classroom setting, for him it has been the structure of Jewish community that gives these activi-ties their special meaning. My earliest memories of Central Synagogue date back to the 1970s, attending Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur services. Sitting next to my parents and my brother, I would read from the prayer book along with the rabbi and look at the

Sitting next to my parents and my brother, I would read from the prayer book along with the rabbi...

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“well deserved” reputation as one of the country’s preeminent Reform rabbis. It speaks for Rabbi Rubin-stein, Cantor Buchdahl and the other clergy members, the trustees and members that Central Syna-gogue has risen to such stature. What does it mean to make Central Synagogue part of your family tradition? It means you value Central Synagogue as an institution and as a place to pray, chant and sing with your family and friends. It means that being Jewish is not just a faith, but also a way of sharing your common values with others and, hopefully, making a dif-ference in the lives of others. The tradition means you treat Central Synagogue as some-thing dear to your family, that you want your children to experience the joys and comforts of attending Friday night services, listening to the shofar on Rosh HaShanah or the cello on Yom Kippur, and hearing Peter Rubinstein’s sermons and Cantor Buchdahl’s inspiring sing-ing. It means standing on the bimah as your son or daughter becomes a bar or bat mitzvah and passing the Torah from generation to genera-tion. I am deeply grateful to be a member of Central Synagogue. It has been a tradition in our family now for many generations, and we hope that tradition will continue to inspire in our children and future generations a love of Jewish reli-gion, culture and values.

Peter Lese is an attorney at Warshaw Burstein Cohen Schlesinger & Kuh LLP, specializing in trusts and estates. He lives in Manhattan with his wife Laura and their sons Jason and Stephen. He enjoys skiing, biking and hiking.

obviously, there are the ways we remember our dead. The mourning process is incremental, from shiva (seven days after burial) to sh’loshim (thirty days after burial) to yahrzeit (annual anniversary of death). Remembrance is scaled so as not to take over the survivors’ present and future. There is a time to mourn and a time to live, a time to laugh and a time to cry, as Ecclesiastes says. Mourning rituals are also associated with memory and conti-nuity: the memorial candle has to be lit, the clothes have to be torn, the mourner’s Kaddish has to be said, and the mourning period is meant to be an opportunity to remember the deceased, without completely taking over one’s life. Lighting yahrzeit candles, mentioning the name of the dead on the anniversary of death, attending Yizkor (memori-al) services and visiting gravestones in cemeteries are actions that are inseparable from remembering. To perform these actions is an act of remembrance; otherwise, the mere performance without memory, or the remembrance of a ritual without its performance, weakens Jewish survival. It is the combination that fosters continuity. It is the remembrance of the past and the reenactment of this past through rituals, words, prayers, and actions that gets transmitted ledor vador, from generation to generation, and thus ensures continuity.

Dr. Brigitte Sion is director of learning and engagement at Central Synagogue. She has written extensively on memorial sites that commemorate genocide and mass murder in Germany, Argentina, Cambodia, and the Netherlands.

meant to be more than the narration of our liberation from slavery. In fact, it is literally a reenactment of the Exodus from Egypt. The Hagga-dah understands “we were slaves in Egypt” and “this is the bread of

affliction” in quite literal terms. We are not simply reading a story, we are living it again, bitterness, tears, mortar, unleavened bread, locusts and all. Seven weeks later, when we celebrate Shavuot, we are again literally standing at Sinai as we are given Torah. The commandment of remembrance is a reenacted perfor-mance that is more than a story. Finally, and perhaps most

It is only when remem-brance is paired with practice that continuity is ensured.

CHANNELS OF MEMORY... continued from p. 6

16

The Wicked Son

FICTION

drove the surviving Jews from the village, with little choice than to join the trail of Jewish outcasts seeking refuge in Vienna. After a harrowing journey, the Shmulik family man-aged to find rooms in a crowded tenement building in Leopoldstadt, a district of the city largely popu-lated by Jews. Avram Meir opened up to the richness of the city like a flower to the sun. He marveled at its im-posing buildings, sumptuous stores, grand boulevards, and the magnifi-cent gardens with their spouting fountains. The sheer elegance of people in their fine clothes and their refined manner painfully contrasted

He was named after his late grandfather, the revered Galician Rabbi, famed for his vast knowledge of

Jewish law. It must have been in the child’s blood because, at the early age of three, he could already recite the entire tractate Baba Bathrah from memory. True to his calling as ritual slaughterer, Yankel Shmulik was scrupulously observant, but his was an arid faith, providing a stern and austere upbringing for his five children. It was a house filled with silence. The pogrom that overtook Lwow, soon after the war ended,

avram meIr was born before the outbreak of World War I, the second son of Yankel Shmulik, the shochet of a small village on the outskirts of Lwow in Poland.

Eric Levine

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Continued on page 24

tried to suppress. Living in such a privileged but tormented way encouraged a cynical maturity that required an outlet. In 1928, at the age of 16, he enrolled at Goettingen University where his athletic skills and social standing gave him instant access to the most exclusive frater-nity, which would have been closed to him had his past been known. Despite his sporting skills and his passion for fencing, he was more at home in the libraries and lecture halls. His prodigious grasp of logic and jurisprudence marked him as an exceptional student. The professor of philosophy took a particular interest in him, exposing him to the German idealist think-ers, especially Kant and Fichte. The professor invited him to attend a commemorative lecture he was giv-ing in Berlin on Fichte’s work, with special focus on his Love of Truth. Arriving in Berlin ahead of time, Franz decided to take a walk around one of his favorite parts of the city, close to the university. When it began to rain, he took shel-ter in an old bookstore he had not noticed before. The owner was sit-ting behind a desk reading a faded manuscript. In glancing through the shelves he noticed a worn, leather-bound volume that for some reason he decided to take from the shelf. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he opened the book to find its cover page in Hebrew. It read, Moreh L’ Cherut, “A Guide to Freedom”, written by Rav Avram Meir Shmu-lik, published in Lwow, Poland in the year 1876. With trembling hands, he set the book down on the nearest table. It opened to the chapter,

lucky escape, or more likely to the recent loss of his only son, on the spur of the moment, he decided to take the young Jew under his wing. “So you shall be,” he re-plied, thinking to himself: “What a fine Catholic we’ll make of him.” Early next morning, Avram Meir left his home and family, with-out word of where he was going.

The nobleman was true to his word. Tutors were engaged, tailors organized, music lessons arranged, and instruction in fencing, horseback riding and other sporting pursuits scheduled, with no expense spared. Renamed Franz, Avram Meir ab-sorbed the new culture as quickly as he had previously gained his remark-able knowledge of Talmud. Instruction for his con-version followed quite naturally, leading to his baptism in St. Ste-phen’s Cathedral. And with that final step, the Count indicated his intention to adopt Franz and name him heir to the Hagen estates. So as scion to one of the noblest Austrian families, Franz was able to mix with his aristocratic peers on equal terms. As surely as he had adopted their religion, he became fervent in denouncing the God and people he had betrayed. The sight of those Ost Juden, with their hanging fringes and dangling side-curls, made him cringe. But deep down, his vicious anti-Semitism concealed a buried shame. Surrounded by luxury, there were still times when Franz was haunted by memories he

with his own bedraggled appear-ance and that of the other Eastern European Jews, wrapped in their poverty. He felt the contrast with dismay and saw the glamour with excitement. Studying at yeshiva by day, he would escape at night to wander the city and to observe the people, places and the buzz of activity. He visited the Graben and Mariahilf Strasse, fascinated by the strolling gentry, dandies with their prancing walk, beautiful women in their fine clothes—and tricksters preying on them all. He watched them alight from their chauffeur-driven cars, followed them to stylish restaurants, theaters, night-clubs, even to bordel-los. He absorbed how men fawned and flirted, held their cigars aloft, and imperiously addressed their servants. Late one night, about to give way to fatigue, he noticed a man crouching in the shadows outside a prominent club, his pistol aimed at a nobleman who was on the point of leaving. Shouting to raise the alarm, Avram Meir flung himself on the assailant, knocked the gun from his hand and threw him to the ground. A crowd gath-ered, police were called and the man taken away. Still shaken, the noble-man took some gold ducats from his waistcoat pocket and thrust them at Avram Meir: “Here, Jew boy,” he said. “You saved my life.” “I don’t want to be a Jew boy!” Avram Meir shouted back angrily, glaring at the coins in the man’s outstretched hand. “I want to be a nobleman!” The intensity of the shabbily dressed boy caught the nobleman off guard. Perhaps reacting to his

"I don't want to be a Jew boy!”

In part this remarkable continu-ity is due to the “portability” of Judaism—as the People of the Book, the Torah is at the center

of religious experience and, fortu-itously, it also contains all laws that regulate Jewish life, wherever it may be. For thousands of years, Torah, Talmud and rabbinical leaders have guided Jews in the Diaspora and guaranteed their continuity. Though Jews remained a halachic people as they dispersed through differ-ent parts of the world, individual groups also developed their own regional customs and traditions, minhagim. Ashkenazic and Sep-hardic customs differ not only from each other but also within them-selves, depending on location and time, while Hasidim follow their own minhagim. Rabbi Moses Isserles (1520-1572) collected a large num-ber of Ashkenazic minhagim that he added as commentary to the Shul-chan Aruch, “The Set Table,” Joseph Karo’s monumental Code of Jewish Law, published in 1563, that largely reflected Sephardic interpretation of law and customs. It is not unheard of for popular usage to have influenced or reshaped halachic practice. It was understood early on that people are emotionally attached to the min-

ESSAY

Customs and Continuity

The destruction of the First and, particularly, of the Second Temple brought seismic changes to the Jewish people. Expelled from their ancient homeland, Jews became exiles, scattered across the globe for millennia, in a constant rhythm of settling, persecution, expulsion, and resettling. Yet throughout, they retained an unwavering sense of identity—religious, ethnic and cultural that has enabled their survival as a distinct people.

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hagim they are used to from child-hood. Philo of Alexandria recog-nized, “Customs are unwritten laws, the decisions approved by men of old, not inscribed on monuments or leaves of paper, which the moth de-stroys, but on the souls of those who are partners in the same society.” Books of customs were widely popular and published from the late 15th to the late 19th century. A Yiddish edition printed in Venice in 1593 was found by Scott-Martin Kosofsky in 1990. This Minhogim-bukh proclaims on its title page that it “contains all the customs in Ashkenaz for the entire year and includes customs from Italy, Poland, Bohemia, Moravia… Laws ex-plained well, so you will know how to live like a good person…”1 Maimonides advises, “Man should try to understand why he is asked to observe precepts and customs.” Therefore a collection of explanations like The Jewish Book of Why is highly useful since it pro-vides the reasoning behind cus-toms.2 Published in 1981 by Alfred J. Kolatch, the book shows how Jewish law has changed with pass-ing generations, how it has evolved and as such it reveals the continu-ity and ingenuity of the Jewish people as they face the challenges of geographic and regional adjust-ment. Without compromising their Jewish identity or the religious core of Judaism, they adapt and, despite pogroms and the Holocaust, survive as a people. Annual communal ritual celebrations like Passover and the High Holy Days have played a significant role in assuring the con-

advances a more mystical interpre-tation. It states that the shofar was blown to confuse Satan and thus prevent him from bringing any charges against Jews before God on the Day of Judgment.” The Book of Jewish Customs quotes Maimonides: “Although the blowing of the shofar is a scriptural decree, there is an allusion in it, as if the shofar were saying, ‘Awake, sleepers, from your sleep! Arise, slumberers, from your slumber! Scrutinize your deeds! Repent with contrition! Remember your creator! Peer into your souls, improve your ways and deeds.’” Although the Rosh Ha-Shanah meal shared by family or community is not as legislatively prescribed as the Passover seder, it is full of varied symbolic traditions. Round challot, rather than the usual braided ones, take center place, symbolizing the cyclical and eternal nature of life. Some may be topped with ladders, to indicate hope of ascending the ladder of life into a successful year, others may be crowned by a bird, to speed prayers towards heaven. “The custom of eating sweets on Rosh HaShanah is more than 1,500 years old,” explains The Book of Jewish Why, “It expresses

tinuity of the Jewish people. Over centuries, families and congrega-tions have developed many customs and traditions that are specific to their time and outlook within the framework of prescribed practices, such as the blowing of the shofar on Rosh HaShanah. The Jewish Book of Why explains: “Originally the shofar was blown to herald the beginning of each month (the New Moon). On those occasions short blasts were sounded. But on the New Moon of the seventh month (Tishri) long alarm blasts were sounded. The Bible (Lev: 23:14) states the reason for the long blasts by explaining that the New Moon of the seventh month marked the beginning of a special period of holy convocation.In later times other reasons were advanced for the blowing of the shofar. To Philo it was a reminder of the giving of the Torah. The Talmud

Continued on page 21

The Editor

Left: Marc Chagall, Lithograph, 1940

20

ISRAEL

I spent two glorious months experiencing the country and fell in love with its beauty, history and spirituality. I vowed I would return soon. I kept that vow upon graduating from busi-

ness school. This time I stayed for six weeks before settling into what became a career in investment banking in New York. But I promised myself I would one day return with my wife and children, which, to a single man about to embark on a career, seemed like an eternity away. My dream became reality approximately twenty years later.” beth: “I went to Israel for the first time in 1994 on a business trip. It meant a few days of meetings with government officials and business leaders in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. I arrived on a Saturday to spend a day sightseeing in Jerusalem. While I could now claim to have been to Israel, my visit was too brief to leave more than a fleeting impression. We first discussed the idea of going to Israel as a family in 2009. Our two daughters, Diana and Abby, were by then twelve and nine respectively, and had turned into capable overseas travelers. With Diana’s bat mitzvah scheduled for June 2010, we believed that experiencing Israel and learning about its significance to Jews would give another level of meaning to Diana as she took that next step into Jewish adulthood. Then a friend who returned from his son’s bar mitz-vah in Jerusalem (having had one in New York at which we were present) urged us to have Diana become a bat mitzvah in Israel in addition to the one planned for New York, stressing how special the event had been for him, his son and their entire family. We broached the topic with our daughter,

Promise to Israel

lee: “I took my first trip to Israel in 1987, right before attend-ing business school. It was dur-ing the Intifada and my mother cried when I left Newark Airport; she was so worried, but I was determined to go.

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to go once again, made us think. Israel did not have to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for our children. Families routinely revisit the same ski destination every year—why shouldn’t we return to our roots? Why shouldn’t we go back? So this past March, we made the journey again—this time with five other families, Rabbi and Kerry Rubinstein, Cantor Buchdahl, and Daniel Nadelmann. The itiner-ary afforded us more time to experi-ence the urban vibrancy of Tel Aviv, allowed us to visit an IDF army base and witness firsthand the pride and obligation that young men and women demonstrate in serving their country. We also met with several renowned historians who spoke to us about such topics as the Holo-caust and Middle East arms policy. Though we revisited several sites from our first trip, we saw them with the same level of awe and enthu-siasm as we felt in 2010, if not more. We now knew that Israel would be a place to which we would continue to return. When, on our final day in Jerusalem, our younger daughter asked if we could come back next year and “just hang out in Jerusalem for a few days,” it made me think of our annual Passover promise, “Next year in Jerusalem.” We cannot guar-antee that it will be next year, but we certainly intend to return in the not-too-distant future. With every subsequent visit, the link to our Jew-ish roots grows deeper.

Beth Rustin is a managing director and co-founder of Jamesbeck Global Partners, an executive search firm; Lee Stettner is a managing director with JP Morgan. They have two daughters, Diana (15) and Abigail (12). Beth currently serves on the board of Central Synagogue.

and while she would be required to learn an entirely new Torah portion, she loved the idea and committed to this new challenge whole heartedly. In March 2010, we set off together for our first visit to Israel with members of Central Syna-gogue. We did not know any of the other seven families present, nor did we have a personal relation-ship with Rabbi Rubinstein and his wife, Kerry. But after nine days of touring this beautiful, rich country together as well as witnessing the bat mitzvah of our daughter and the bar mitzvah of one of our young men at the South Wall, this group connected for life. We returned to New York feeling more attached to our faith and the Central Synagogue community; seeing our fellow travelers at services or on the High Holidays has deeply enriched us all. The experience of watching Diana read Torah at one of the most holy sites in Judaism dating back to the Second Temple Period was inde-scribable and now, when we think of Diana’s bat mitzvah, we remem-ber her ceremony in Israel to be one of the highlights.

We had begun planning our next trips to other countries in the world, when the prospect of return-ing to Israel with Central Synagogue opened up in the summer of 2011. Our first reaction was, “we were just there,” but then a chance discus-sion with another congregant who had visited Israel with her family more recently and who planned

Beth Rustin & Lee Stettner

We knew that Israel would be a place to which we would continue to return.

of mitzvot that are the obligations of all Jews. The story of Jonah is univer-sally read on Yom Kippur, a ritual that binds together Jewish com-munities in a common bond, just as the story itself represents God as the God of all nations. This concept of universality is characteristic of the entire High Holy Day liturgy. The other theme of the story of Jonah, how humans may mend their evil ways through repentance, points to individual responsibility and initiative. This conjunction of the universal, what is always true and accepted, and of the particular—interpretations and customs that change over time—is one of the secrets of Jewish continuity.

the hope that sweetness will enter the lives of all Jews in the coming year. The first piece of chal-lah is dipped in honey… Honey cake, (lekach = portion) is a traditional Eastern Euro-pean holiday food served in the hope that every-one will be blessed with a ‘goodly portion.’” Pomegranates are opened because of their abundance of seeds, some say 613, reflecting the number

1. Kosofsky, Scott-Martin, The Book of Customs, (New York: Harpaer Collins, 2004)2. Kolatch, Alfred J., The Jewish Book of Why, (Middle Village, NY: Jonathan David Publishers, 1981)

CUSTOMS ... continued from p. 19

BOOK REVIEW

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Nathan Englander is not only the latest interpreter of Judaism’s most endur-ing narrative in the form

of The New American Haggadah but he is also the author of a very Jew-ish, yet universal collection of short stories, What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank. Although the title of his new collection is impos-sibly long, the quality of the writing makes it a quick and satisfying read. His stories are at once entertaining, provocative, unsettling and surpris-ing—often in the same paragraph. Eight short stories range from bawdy humor to serious ques-tions of life and death. Through them all runs a strong narrative thread steeped in Jewish tradition. At the same time, the existential issues of the protagonists are overwhelmingly human. Every tale sets up one or more conflicts, a series of battles between us and the ubiquitous them— Jew vs. Gentile, bookstore vs. Internet, the freedoms and temptations of secular culture vs. orthodoxy and halacha. As we become more familiar with England-er’s characters and their struggles, we may find ourselves reminded of Philip Roth, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Rod Serling, Howard Jacobson (The Finkler Question, and even O. Henry. Fear not: these are mere echoes rever-berating from a literary voice that is, at heart, a convincing original. The title story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About

South Florida kitchen, they smoke marijuana and discuss everything from the Israeli occupation of the West Bank to intermarriage as a modern Holocaust. Eventually they play what they call the Anne Frank Game. The rules require them to ponder whether, should there be a Second Holocaust, any of their

Anne Frank,” alludes to Robert Coover’s “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” In this case, the four main characters—a re-ligious American couple who have made aliyah and a secular couple they have reconnected with on Facebook—would rather talk about anything but love. In a spacious

What We Read About When We Read Nathan EnglanderThe author of one of this year’s most acclaimed literary works, Jewish or otherwise, is an ideal choice for this issue of HaShiur.

Steve Klausner

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Certifiable masterpieces of contem-porary short-story art.”—Michael Chabon “It takes an exceptional combina-tion of moral humility and moral assurance to integrate fine-grained comedy and large-scale tragedy as daringly as Nathan Englander does.”—Jonathan Franzen “Nathan Englander is one of those rare writers who, like Faulkner, manages to make his seemingly obsessive, insular concerns all the more universal for their specificity.”—Richard Russo

About the AuthorNathan Englander is the author of The Ministry of Special Cases and For the Relief of Unbearable Urges, which earned him a PEN/Malamud Award, the American Academy of Arts and Letters Sue Kauffman Prize, and lavish critical praise. His stories have been published in The Atlantic Monthly, The New Yorker, and The Best American Short Stories. He is the translator of the Hebrew and Aramaic texts in The New American Haggadah.

Nathan Englander, What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank: Stories (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2011) Available in print and electronic editions

Steve Klausner is an advertising copy writer, an award-winning screenwriter and a long-time member if Central Synagogue.

Berkshires summer, the residents of a senior citizens recreational camp suspect that one of their number is a former guard at the concentration camp where they were interned. The camp director, a young rabbi, does his best to calm their paranoia with mixed and often sidesplitting results. “Camp Sundown” is an apt title for what proves to be a dark exercise in black humor. Englander, the secular product of an Orthodox upbringing, looks back, forward and sideways as he offers up his fresh and fearless take on the Jewish experience. It is we, the readers, who will be richly rewarded.

America’s Leading Writers Praise a Storyteller’s Storyteller

“Englander’s new collection of stories tells the tangled truth of life in prose that, as ever, surprises the reader with its gnarled beauty . . .

Christian friends would hide them? “How We Avenged the Blums” will delight any reader who has dreamed of giving a childhood tormentor a good comeuppance. It is also very, very funny. “Peep Show” takes place in a seedy porn parlor near the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Its squalid viewing booth becomes a grand stage for the guilt and neuroses of an unlikely patron, one Allen Fein, Esquire, née Ari Feinberg of suburban New Jersey. There are also two grim morality tales, each rooted in mod-ern Jewish history. “Sister Hills” takes place over several generations among the devout residents of a Go-lan Heights settlement. As the settle-ment grows from a remote outpost to a bustling suburb, its inhabitants debate such serious questions as what is just and what is merely fair, what constitutes a binding contract, and what comprises religious law. When even the local beit din is un-able to arrive at a conclusive answer, the two adversaries play their own harrowing game of moral poker. “Fresh Fruit for Young Widows” transports the reader from a contemporary Jerusalem souk to a Polish village immediately after World War II. The narrator, the proprietor of a fruit and vegetable stand, spins the tale of a young man, the sole survivor of a Jewish fam-ily murdered in the camps. When the youth is welcomed home by the family who had occupied the house he lived in before the Nazi terror, he soon faces a new peril. With a deft touch, Englander sketches a chilling portrait of survival and revenge. For this reviewer, the quirkiest story is “Camp Sundown.” Over the course of a bug-infested

Nathan Englander

Eight short stories range from bawdy humor to serious questions of life and death.

LEADERSHIP

President David B. EdelsonVice-Presidents Samuel Lindenbaum Carol Ostrow Abigail Pogrebin Stephanie Stiefel Treasurer Seth Berger Secretary Peter Jakes

Board of Trustees Ellen CogutJanet H. FellemanJeremy FieldingJeffrey GoldsteinJohn A. GoliebMichael GouldMarni GutkinJay MandelbaumJuliana MayShelly MitchellClaudia MorseValerie PeltierFrederic PosesBeth RustinPhillip M. SatowMindy SchneiderWendy SiegelMoses SilvermanEmily SteinmanKent SwigMarc WeingartenJeffrey WilksJonathan Youngwood

Honorary TrusteesLester BreidenbachDr. J. Lester Gabrilove

Honorary PresidentsKenneth H. HeitnerMartin I. KleinHoward F. SharfsteinMichael J. WeinbergerAlfred D. Youngwood

ClergyRabbi Peter J. RubinsteinCantor Angela Warnick BuchdahlRabbi Michael S. FriedmanRabbi Maurice A. SalthCantor Julia R.C. KatzCantor Emeritus Richard Botton

Senior StaffSenior Director Livia D. Thompson, FTADirector of Development Daniel A. NadelmannDirector of Learning & Engagement Dr. Brigitte Sion

HASHIUR A Journal of Ideas is published twice a year by Central Synagogue 123 East 55th Street, New York, NY 10022-3502

Editorial Committee: Rabbi Maurice A. Salth, Amala and Eric Levine, Steve Klausner, Danielle Freni, Rudi Wolff

Editor: Amala LevineDesigner and Picture Editor: Rudi WolffProduction Editor: Danielle Freni

PICTURE CREDITS

Cover: A fragment from the Dead Sea Scrolls, Courtesy, The Israel Museump. 2 Auguste Rodin, Child of the Age (detail), bronze, 1889 p. 3 Arch of Titus, Rome, Public Domainp. 5 Venetian Ghetto, medieval Woodcut, (detail)p. 6 R. Wolff, letterforms based on Ismar David’s “Ashkenazi”p. 7 Courtesy, U.S. Holocaust Museump. 8 Courtesy, Israel Antiquities Authorityp. 10 Armor & Psyche, A. Canova, 1793, The Louvrep. 12 Photographer unknownp. 14 Collage, R. Wolff, p. 15 Tallit, I. Navinsky, design for State Theatre, Moscow 1925p. 16 Photographer unknownp. 18 Marc Chagall, Lithograph 1966p. 20 Photograph, R. Wolffp. 22 “Peep Show”, 1940, Photographer unknown

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The Wicked Son, continued from page 13

“The Wicked Son.” He drew up a chair and began to read, tears clouding his eyes. As he read on, it was as if his grandfather was speak-ing directly to him. Every Jew, the book explained, has two inclinations, a yezer ha’tov, a good inclination, and a yezer ha’rah, an evil inclination. No Jew is totally bad or totally good. The essential purpose is to overcome evil temptations in order to preserve the vestiges of good that lie deep within. Success will bring liberation. In the Haggadah we are told to blunt the teeth of the wicked son. What that means is that we must remove the decayed tooth in order to rid the body of its poison. Fame and fortune can poison if they are bought at the cost of the soul. Far better to pursue acts of loving kindness than chase after vanity. The Haggadah also teaches that every generation must tell the story of Jewish liberation, for that is the only way we can survive and retain our identity. That is the truth of who we are. Avram Meir bought his grandfather’s book and left the bookstore. The rain had stopped.

Eric Levine is a transnational corporate lawyer and a founding principal of Millennia Capital Partners, an investment advisory firm.