Blame Me for Saturday's Snow and Other Observations

Most of you in the Northeast are probably pretty tired of all the snow this season. I can’t say I’m happy about it but I have to reluctantly acknowledge some responsibility for this weekend’s dumping. You see, snow seems to fall wherever I am when I celebrate the anniversary of my bar mitzvah. 

Even before this February of perpetual snow I could have told you February 21 would be a snow day. February 21 commemorates the Jewish calendar date of my bar mitzvah 53 years ago. The Saturday in Brooklyn in 1962 that I became a man I awoke to snow, maybe three to six inches deep. When I decided to celebrate my bar mitzvah 30 years later in White Plains it snowed 20 inches. 

I had not planned to celebrate my bar mitzvah this year but my brother Bernie intervened. He turns 70 on Tuesday; late last year he decided to commemorate the 57th anniversary of his bar mitzvah on Saturday, February 21. Naturally, Gilda and I traveled down to his home in Rockville, MD, to share the moment, which you might recall from the second paragraph, was actually the true anniversary of my coming of age. Bernie’s real date is next Saturday, but as to why he chose to push up the celebration that’s a story for another time. 

Anyway, snow fell in the Northeast, a dusting in most places except six to 10 inches across the DC metro, where I was, effectively shutting down the region. For those who favor long-term planning for future years, keep in mind my bar mitzvah falls on the portion of the Torah reading titled Terumah (Exodus 25-27). 

Some observations that have been on my mind lately:

New York drivers are becoming more lawless and dangerous. Based on my six times a week drive to and from Manhattan I can report more motorists are going through red lights and more are making left turns from the right lane …

News stations were agog Sunday and Monday with reports the Islamic extremist  group Al Shabaab of Somalia is encouraging attacks on American shopping centers, particularly the Mall of America in Minnesota, similar to what its adherents did at an enclosed mall in Nairobi, Kenya, in 2013. 

Security, naturally, has been heightened, but I wonder if Al Shabaab will pick its targets based on the concealed weapons laws of each state? NRA members no doubt are locking and loading in anticipation of defending the homeland ...

The debate over gay marriage rights elicited a petition against homosexual unions by the Alabama Policy Institute, a group dedicated to “free markets, limited government and strong families,” and the Alabama Citizens Action Program, which promotes an “ethical, moral and responsible lifestyle based on biblical standards.” 

Biblical standards? Does that mean polygamy is okay? Or the public stoning of adulterers? Or arranged marriages only? Or not eating pork? 

Do those groups realize biblical standards often parallel sharia law? 

Sinat Chinam

Today, according to the Jewish calendar, is the 17th of Tammuz, historically significant because 1,941 years ago the Roman army breached the walls of Jerusalem, effectively presaging the end of the Jewish revolt and Jewish government in Israel for nearly 2,000 years. Three weeks later the siege of the city concluded with the destruction of the Second Temple, on the ninth of Ab, Tisha B’Av.

The 17th of Tammuz is considered a minor fast day by observant Jews. Minor meaning the fast lasts from sunrise to sunset, unlike the fast of a major day, such as the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur) or Tisha B’Av, which lasts sunset to sunset. Most Jews, I’d confidently venture to say, don’t know much about the 17th of Tammuz, aren’t aware it is today, and, even if they did, wouldn’t pay it much heed. I, myself, only became cognizant of this year’s commemoration because of a reference to it by one of our rabbis this past Saturday (for those curious, no, I am not fasting).

I bring this bit of Jewish religious lore to your attention because of its applicability to modern times. You see, the fall of the Jewish revolt in 70 CE, according to our sages, was not so much a triumph of Roman military superiority but rather the result of infighting among Jewish sects, not to the level of a brutal civil war, but sufficient to command God’s attention and determination to punish his chosen people. The sages characterized the misbehavior endemic to the sects of first century Judea as a sin of “baseless hatred,” known in Hebrew as sinat chinam.

Increasingly, I find the actions of leaders in both Israel and the United States today rife with sinat chinam.

In Israel, coalition governments have given religious-right parties power beyond their numbers. In wielding their influence, these ultra-orthodox parties have or have tried to impose religious practices anathema to a majority of Jews living within Israel and the Diaspora. Their ideas include proposals to amend regulations governing conversions, marriages, and the definition of who is a Jew. Rather than instill universal support for Israel, these devilish designs have fractured Jewish solidarity.

Here in America, we are experiencing a profound period of intellectual intolerance. Nasty does not come close to describing the tenor of political discourse. The lack of respect both for the person and for the office held by the opposition is palpable.

We are, in short, wallowing in the sin of baseless hatred. You don’t have to be Jewish to acknowledge sinat chinam; Christians believe in it, as well: http://www.hebrew4christians.com/Holidays/Summer_Holidays/Tishah_B_Av/Sinat_Chinam/sinat_chinam.html.

There are too few democracies in the world. It would be tragic if sinat chinam led to their reduced ability to contribute to another Jewish concept, tikkun olam (repairing the world, often through social action, community service and social justice).

Days to Remember

In a rare convergence of the Gregorian and Jewish calendars, today marks the 29th birthday of our daughter Ellie and the 12th anniversary of my father’s passing. I don’t expect to be around the next time December 16 coincides with the 9th of Tevet. That will be in 2056, when I would be 107 years old.

After dropping Gilda off at the train station, I went to our temple for the morning service (how interesting that when spoken it could easily be misconstrued to be the “mourning” service). This being a Thursday, a brief segment of Saturday’s upcoming Torah portion was read. It described the pending death of the patriarch Yakov (Jacob) in the land of Egypt where he had traveled from Canaan because of famine. My father’s Hebrew name was Yakov, as well. He, too, left his native land, Poland in his case, because of adversity, Nazi oppression.

Like the biblical Yakov, my father twice moved from his original home and country to prosper in new surroundings. Yakov fled Canaan after deceiving his father Isaac into blessing him. He went to his uncle Laban’s home where he worked and reared a family before life there became unbearable. He returned to Canaan and eventually emigrated to Egypt. My father left Ottynia, a small town in Galicia, now part of Ukraine, when he was 16 to become a businessman in the Free City of Danzig (now called Gdansk) before emigrating in 1939, roughly half a year before Hitler invaded Poland.

The Torah reading begins by stating, “The days of Yakov, the years of his life, were a hundred forty and seven years.” But the Hebrew phrase “the years of his life” (“shenai chayav”) can be read to have another meaning, much the way “the morning/mourning service” could be heard in different contexts. The second interpretation of the sentence could be, “the days of Yakov, his two lives, were a hundred forty and seven years.”

It could be said Yakov lived two lives, one in Canaan, one in other lands; one before his beloved wife Rachel died and her first son Joseph is seemingly lost to him, one after he is reunited with Joseph; one before the famine, one life after, in Egypt.

My father lived two lives, one in Poland, one in the United States; one before his family was killed in the Holocaust, one after he was reunited with the only member of his immediate family to survive, his brother, Willy; one in business and another in social action for charitable and civic associations; one in full embrace of family and life’s graces and benefits, the other mired in the darkness of dementia that dimmed the last few of his near 88 years.

Like so many of his contemporaries, my father did not dwell on the past. He rarely spoke about conditions in Ottynia and Danzig. He focused on the present and future.

I had intended to write more about my father and his granddaughter, Ellie, but in the middle of this exercise stopped to read an email from a friend serendipitously about this week’s Torah reading. It contained the following message from a rabbinic commentary:

“What is the connection between grandchildren and peace? Surely this, that those who think about grandchildren care about the future, and those who think about the future make peace. It is those who constantly think of the past, of slights and humiliations and revenge, (who) make war.”

My father started off as a great grandfather. But age, infirmity and distance stripped him of his inclination and ability to interact meaningfully with his seven grandchildren. For now, Gilda and I have one grandchild. Finley will be visiting this weekend with his parents. Ellie will join us. It will be a most wonderful, cherished time.