Every 15 minutes

 

     Happy New Year! I've fallen out of the habit of actually attending synagogue, but will join my wife as she livestreams services from Central Synagogue in New York. They're musical, meaningful and brief.
     Not as brief, alas, as the services at the Millinery Center Synagogue were. My wife and I strolled past it during our visit to New York in September, and I took the above photo. I was saddened, assuming from the doors and the pried-off announcement boxes that it had fallen into disuse. Although I made a few calls, and found... well, let's save the update for after the item. It does go some unexpected places.
     Back in 2005, I was writing for the New York Daily News and during one of my research trips to the city attended a service. I remember my original draft noted the cautionary signs in the synagogue that said, in essence, "If you talk during services your children will be cursed forever." I found that quaint, but my pieces for the paper were short — half a dozen items on a page — and had to cut it. 

     While I have been to some extraordinary synagogues — a Moorish wonder with minarets in Florence, a delicate sun-baked pastel delight in Bridgetown — most in America are big, drab, boxy affairs, with some modernistic tangle of brass and red glass for an eternal light and about as much sense of timeless faith as an airport lounge.

     Thus I was charmed to encounter the Millinery Center Synagogue, a contender for the smallest temple in New York. A narrow, three story structure, wedged between a croissant shop and a construction site, you could pass it every day and miss it, what with the building almost completely obscured by scaffolding, a huge hot pink billboard and Cantor Tuvia Yamnik selling towels and sheets off a table before the doors.
     Inside, a scarred, stained wooden floor. Big bronze memorial plaques andframed Hebrew prayers on the walls, the way they once did in Eastern Europe.
     The synagogue introduced me to an idea I did not heretofore associate with prayer: brevity. the services are 15 minutes long, and they pack in a dozen a day, fulfilling the basic requirements for observant Jewish working around Times Square. Men in beards and fedoras, or baseball caps and windbreakers, rush in and out. Since they go home at night, the Millinery Synagogue closes on the Sabbath.
     Like so much in Judaism, the Millinery Synagogue is the shadow of something vanished, in this case the Jewish workers of the once-robust hat industry, who founded it in 1935. The synagogue is located at 1025 Sixth Ave., welcomes Jews across the spectrum, though bring a buck or two since it lacks dues-paying members — another rarity — so at the abrupt end of each service they pass the hat, appropriately enough.  

     —Originally published in the New York Daily News, March 13, 2005

     I went online, fully expecting news of the Millinery Center Synagogue closed long ago. Instead I found ... nothing. A Facebook page, not updated for five years, but few phone numbers, including one that led me to Rabbi Isaac Friedman.
     "It is still limping along," he said, noting that he was the assistant rabbi from 2017 t0 2o2o. "When I was there, we had three or four services a day and lots of classes."
     We talked more, and I learned that "limping along" really means "no longer operational."
     "Since COVID it has been closed and somebody has the keys and opens it up when he's around but it's not really active."
     Then Rabbi Friedman made an unexpected pivot.
     "Since it's Rosh Hashanah, I have a high holiday thought for your readers," he said. "On Rosh Hashanah, we tend to talk about a sweet new year. People steer clear of the heavier themes. We talk about Judgement Day on Yom Kippur. We walk about forgiveness. But we don't talk about sin. I want to talk about it. I think that's a mistake, because sunlight is the best disinfectant. The prophet Isaiah gives us a brief point of how we should view talking through our insufficiencies with God. Isaiah says, 'Let's sit down and hash this out.' God says, 'If your sins are blood red, I will make them white as snow."
     Something I wish Tim Walz realized when he was asked at Tuesday's debate about projecting himself into Tiananmen Square on June 4, 1989. He vomited up a mess a verbiage during his generally sub-par performance. What he should have said is, "Like a lot of people, I was pumping myself up and stretching reality. It was a mistake and I'm sorry." Air the sin and be clean. Imagine how THAT would have gone over. When battling liars, bind yourself to the truth.
     "That's the blueprint," continued Friedman. "The purpose of facing our sins is not to feel miserable, but to bring them out into the light. Hopefully we can do something about them, at least make them faceable."
     I find that was useful, and an admirable sermon to deliver off-the-cuff over the phone to a unknown congregation of one. I asked Rabbi Friedman about himself, and he said: "I am one of the many thousands of Americans impacted by the tech layoffs right now, doing some rabbinic work, repairing torahs."
     We here at the EGD family extend our best wishes to him for a sweet, successful new year. I asked Rabbi Friedman to keep in touch, and hope that he will.

Happy Jewish New Year! OK, not exactly 'happy,' but ...

Shofar (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

      My first impulse was, "Ixnay on the whole Jewish New Year thing." I don't normally mention Rosh Hashanah anyway. 

     After all, there's Israel's wars in Gaza and now Lebanon, plus, just on Tuesday, Iran launching missiles against Israel, and rising anti-Semitism everywhere including Donald Trump preemptively blaming Jews if he loses the upcoming election.

     So maybe talk of apples and honey and a sweet new year — while forgiving ourselves for any past mistakes, say, involving occupied territories, which might have unfortunately occurred in the past 12 months— would only be asking for trouble.
     But difficult times are exactly the moment when you should stand up, manifest yourself, and be counted.
     Last year, I only mentioned the holiday in passing, feeling obligated to point out that Trump was threatening Jews: "He marked Rosh Hashanah by warning 'liberal Jews' who voted 'to destroy America & Israel' when they booted him out of office in 2020 to get in line. Or else."
     That aside, the last column devoted to the holiday was fall of 2020, when COVID had jolted society; I took a moment to share the obvious:
     "The Chosen People are not newcomers at celebrating holidays during hard times. As grim as the COVID pandemic has been, it doesn't hold a candle to Babylonian captivity or Roman persecution, the Inquisition or the Holocaust."
     Before that, 2014.
     "Anti-Semitism on the rise in Europe," I noted. "Jewish stores burn, Jews are killed in the street, Jewish centers attacked. Maybe not that much on historical terms, or compared to the massive horrors currently being inflicted in, oh, Syria, or South Sudan."
     The reason for this outbreak in 2014 might sound familiar today.
     "Why now? That’s easy, no expert needed. The war in Gaza. Its leaders, the terror group Hamas, fired rockets into Israel, and Israel blasted them back, killing lots of civilians, to the shock of the world, which then let the beast of anti-Semitism off its chain."
     Before we go any further, let's play Guess the Jewish New Year. It isn't as if we use it to sign our checks.
     I squinted and thought ... umm ... 5732? Checking Prof. Google ... whoops 5785, off by 53 years. Quite a lot really. Though I was 11 in 5732; no wonder it stuck in my head. Religion was a bigger deal, then.
 

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Not so smart.

 

    Donald Trump constantly proclaims himself to be smart, in fact a genius. Actual smart people rarely do that. First, it isn't smart, but an invitation to disagreement. Second, there are problems being smart. It isn't all whipping off the correct answer and collecting glittering prizes. People tend to hate you. You can feel cut off from the world, particularly now, when we are witnessing an apotheosis of dumbness, a Grand Festiva del Idiocy, infecting half the country and seems poised to take over half the world. 

     Third, no matter how smart a person can be, generally, you are still capable of making spectacularly stupid mistakes.

     For example:

     The birds are eating me out of house and home. So I reach the bottom of the galvanized garbage can normally filled with seeds and hurry to the nearby Ace Hardware to get more.
    Confronted by the choice above, I paused, considering. To the left, two 20 pound bags of seed for $20. Or a 40 pound bag for $25.99. Hmm. That was easy. I muscled the big 40 pound bag into my little red cart and headed for the check out.
      The two Ace clerks looked  the bag. Then at me. Then each other. 

      "Umm," said one. "You save money if you get two 20 pound bags instead."

     I started to object, then did the math again. Ahhhh. Quite a lot more, really. Six dollars. And what galled me is I had thought about it, had considered the figures.

     I thanked them, profusely. I went home and fed the birds. And considered it a healthy reminder. No matter how smart you are, usually, there are lapses. Sometimes you are wrong and the clerks at the Ace Hardware are right.

Hey, Sox fans, 'Don't count the time lost'

     My mother is 88. She faithfully reads the Sun-Times (hi mom!), flips through the books I bring and sits in her chair next to my dad, who's 92.

     She does not own the Chicago White Sox — that would be another 88-year-old, Jerry Reinsdorf. Now that the historically awful 2024 season mercifully ended Sunday, it's time to assess the twisted, smoking wreckage. To ask: Why was the team so lousy?
     I bring up my mom as evidence that I am not biased against the sainted old. Ricky Gervais observes how hypocritical it is to sneer at old people, in their diminished state, given how desperate we all are to join them. I know I'm dancing as fast as I can.
     So I am reluctant to say the White Sox were unprecedentedly lousy because their owner was born in 1936. That's ageism. It is entirely possible to be old and on the ball. There must be other 88-year-old double octet seniors who rock their jobs. There is ... um ... looking for anyone ... Wall Street investor Carl Icahn, also 88.
     Though his company has lost $20 billion since 2022, .; 75% percent of its value. Maybe not the best example.
     And my mother, God bless her, well, — sharp as a tack, of course — though I think she'd agree, not up to stewarding a professional baseball team.
     In his defense, Reinsdorf must have managers and staffers, coaches and assistants. Whom he hired.
     So who's at fault?
     No need to guess. There is the crack Sun-Times sports section. Let's see ... Rick Morrissey puts the blame squarely on Reinsdorf.
     "I've said in the past that Reinsdorf doesn’t care anymore," he writes. "That was wrong. He cares about sticking it to people. It’s really the only explanation for his behavior."
     I don't have a dog in this race. I don't follow the Sox. If you put a gun to my head and demanded I name a single player on Sunday's roster, I'd be a dead man.

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Old candlesticks for sale

 

  

     Anyone born a Jew is considered a Jew forever, no matter how little regard they have for their own religion or how few rituals they practice. Our enemies see to that. I suppose a few drop out to embrace other religions, but their original Jewish skepticism adds an asterisk to any conversion. 
     No particular practice is required. In fact, I would be hard-pressed to put my finger on what  a defining core Jewish ritual would be — there are so many: services, prayers, study, charity. I suppose if I had to pick one, I would choose lighting the Sabbath candles, the Friday night ushering in of the Sabbath day of rest. Resting is a very Jewish concept — who do you think was pushing for a 5-day-work week?
     There is something central about Sabbath candlesticks. A concept of Sabbath, home, family, tradition that can be passed on. Part of that essential trio: candlelight, challah and wine. Displayed in our living room are our grandparents' brass candlesticks — or who knows, great-grandparents, it's not like they have a label. I hope to someday give them to our kids, though aren't 100 percent sure either boy will want them. Should have thought of that when I was manifesting my conflicted, weak tea view of faith all those years. Whoops. Sorry. Though I couldn't have ginned up an exaggerated belief just to find an eventual home for candlesticks.

     I'm not alone. Assimilation is thinning the ranks of Jews with an efficiency that Hitler couldn't dream of. Most American Jews intermarry. More than a third of Jews told a Pew Research poll that it is unimportant to them whether their grandchildren are Jewish or not. 

     I knew that already. But somehow, seeing these cast off silver candlesticks, in a jewelry store on Lexington Avenue and 80th St on our recent visit to New York, stopped me short. The abandoned objects of Jewish families that petered out and had no one to give them to. It was like seeing huddled orphans through the slats of a truck, for one second, before the truck pulled away.  The tangible evidence, the piles of eyeglasses, the cast-off baggage, jettisoning the faith that got their forebears through 2,500 years. That strikes me as unfortunate, maybe even careless. Faith is funny. It's something you don't need at all, until you do, very much. 

Fun with maps

 

    Who doesn't love maps? I went to the Newberry Library Friday morning to see the Mike Royko exhibit — I felt obligated — then I slid over to the new Indigenous Chicago exhibit in the main gallery space. We think of Chicago as a relatively new city, founded in 1833. But it was a community long before, for people who until recently didn't register on our civic consciousness as much as they should. There it is, above, on a 1718 French map, labeled "Les Checagou." Notice that the future Lake Michigan above it, called Lac des Illinois at the time, a reminder that our state is named for a confederation of Native-American tribes, known at the time as the Illiniwek or the Illini. I believe sometimes we forget that.
      Talk about continuity. To get to the library, I took the No. 22 bus up Dearborn. And if you look closely at the 1833 map below, there aren't many streets in the little grid of Chicago, but there's Dearborn, right next to Clark Street, right where it belongs. 

    The bulk of the show is about Native-American communities in Chicago, and it might say something bad that I gravitated toward the brightly colored maps and not the photographs of people. Drawn to the shiny object. But you have to be who you are.

    The Royko show closes Saturday — it's small, and I can't say it contained any surprises, but I couldn't miss it. The Indigenous Chicago show runs until Jan. 4. It might not be for everyone. The school group that was visiting when. I was there seemed to be staring off into space more than at the exhibits. But it behooves us to remember the people who were here before us — and who are here right now, still. Part of the show emphasizes that, despite enormous hardships, indigenous Chicagoans are right where they've always been, in Chicago, carrying on their traditions as best they can.

     

Immigrants: hardworking, Samaritans, not the enemy

Venezuelan family at Sullivan High School Thanksgiving Dinner 2023

     People are more or less the same. Whether they wake up in a mansion or a hovel, a condo or a shelter, they worry about making a living, raising their children. The details vary.
     That shared humanity doesn't sit well with some folks. They get rattled by exterior aspects — skin color, language, ritual, clothing — so they want to try to squash those whose existence upsets them.
     This is where the lying comes in. Since the target groups are not in fact demonstratively worse than anyone else, crimes must be imagined and assigned to them, and any actual crime committed by an individual must be conflated into a general group attribute.
     On Monday, I invited readers to share their direct personal stories about immigrants, bad and good, worried I'd be in for some horrific tales, which I'd then have to print. There were none. Those who believe immigrants are bad didn't share anything severe. Someone's father's home was burgled; they didn't like seeing people they assumed were immigrants gathered on the street. Otherwise, they regurgitated what Fox News force-fed them the day before. I shared a taste on Wednesday.
     Today, I want to turn the floor over to those who believe immigrants help this country. What impressed me first was the range of respondents.
     "I served 12 years as Mayor of Grand Rapids, MI.," writes George Heartwell. "During that time (2004-2016) we welcomed many immigrants from all over the world, but primarily from Central America. A study was commissioned by the Dyer-Ives Foundation that showed that immigrants to Grand Rapids were 1) more likely than native born to start a business; 2) purchase a home; and 3) get involved in civic organizations, than were native born Americans. I say, bring on the immigrants!"
     "Hi Neil, I am a truck driver," writes Howard Grimberg. "I go to many warehouses in the area. I know of fairly recent immigrants that work there. They all work hard and do a good job loading and unloading my truck. I agree they are a benefit to this area."
     Weigh those two real observations against, "They're eating the dogs."
     Have you been to a hospital? A nursing home? Immigrants carry the weight of the American health care system on their shoulders. My parents' caregivers are from Ghana.
     Martin Stewart can relate. He writes:
     "I welcome immigrants because of the time an immigrant(s) helped me. Almost 2½ years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. Throughout this journey, including my chemotherapy and care, Hispanic, Asian, and members of other incredible ethnic groups of doctors, PAs (physician assistants), nurses, techs and other highly talented individuals helped ease me down the road. I wouldn’t be where I am today, enjoying life, without them!"

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