From the Rabbi
Rabbi Robert L. Wolkoff
Previous Messages
“A Shul With A Pool”
When our shul’s next-door neighbors built a pool in their backyard, I toyed with the idea in my mind, that if our synagogue wanted to expand, we could become a modern day “shul with a pool.” Sounds so cool.
The phenomenon became popular in America in the early 20th century. In his book Shul with a Pool: The Synagogue-Center in American Jewish History, David Kaufman credits the synagogue-center idea to Henry Berkowitz (1857-1924), a member of the first graduating class of Hebrew Union College in 1883. The principal problem Berkowitz and other early HUC graduates of the day faced was a serious drop in synagogue attendance, Kaufman wrote. “Our Jewish congregations have gradually surrendered their influence to the social clubs,” he bemoaned. An auxiliary umbrella organization, formed in the late 19th century to oversee non-religious activities within congregations, marked the first attempt to develop a religious-social synthesis in America. The idea caught on, Kaufman said. “In less than a generation, Cleveland’s temple, under the leadership of Rabbi Moses Gries, would become the first congregation in America to build its own gymnasium — Americanizing and Judaizing its members at the same time.”
Where is the shul with a pool idea today? SWAP, as I decided to call it, is an acronym that alludes to its original spirit — an exchange between the shul and the pool, between the religious and the secular, a sort of separation between Church and State within the shul. In essence, pretty much every synagogue today (perhaps excluding Ultra-Orthodox) is a variation of a shul with a pool. Synagogues designate separate spaces for prayer, study, and socializing. Maybe we forgot to distinguish between religious and secular, and that people can have a choice. Perhaps we can have different memberships. How would a futuristic affiliation to this type of synagogue look?
It would be interesting to contemplate the future model of a SWAP, but in the end, what matters is the pool of people, a pool of loving kindness, the pool as a symbol of good people coming together to develop bonding relationships, to maintain and grow them. Like the Pool of Bethesda in ancient Jerusalem and its inspiration, Bethesda Fountain in Central Park is surrounded by a beautiful, circular pool — meant for healing the city. In the end, it’s about the infinite business of creating a community, going round and round, year by year. It’s the warmth of those who want to have a spiritual pool, a mikvah of healing water to all who gather around it.
Our Journal honoree this year is a definitive example of such warmth and hospitality. Amiability radiates throughout Roberta’s numerous activities in the shul community, and her acts of kindness and charity beyond. May all her merits help us balance our communal merits before God.
As we approach the month of Elul and another new year, I want to thank the members of Congregation Tifereth Israel for granting me a vote of confidence to continue to serve as your rabbi. I hope to carry on this fruitful relationship for many years to come.
May we have a happy and sweet new year of 5783.
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
“Miracle on 4th Street”
It was Thursday, June 30, a beautiful summer evening, an opportunity to launch the kayak at the beach located at the end of Fourth Street. At 7 p.m., my dog Chaya and I were on the water. My phone rang. I saw it was a congregant calling, so I took the phone out of my waterproof pouch, and we conversed while I rowed. As I was speaking, I noticed that Chaya was extremely interested in something in the water, more than usual. Perhaps it was the many oyster cages that are cleaning the water. Toward the end of my phone conversation, I saw that Chaya’s gaze in the water was becoming more fixated. And then, at one instant, she plopped in, head first.
“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” I hollered into the phone while trying to shove it into the swim-secure pouch. I didn’t have time to secure it completely. Nevertheless, I tossed the bag to my friend, Father Roy, who was in his kayak, with his dog. I ripped the air pod from my ear, tossed it into my kayak, and jumped into the water.
As I jumped, my kayak capsized and my toss missed Father Roy’s kayak. The bag sank like a stone. It is supposed to float, but because I had stuffed it with my wallet, phone, car key, and all the rest of the keys to my life, it was too heavy. The water was about nine feet deep. I grabbed Chaya and swam to shore with her while Father Roy was in the water, attempting to find the pouch.
We dropped the dogs at my house, and returned to the beach to continue the search. It was getting dark. We tried to reconstruct our path through the water. We asked a young man near the beach if he had seen our pathway, and also if he knew anyone who could dive, perhaps a local person who deals with the oysters. We had already called the police, but they said they couldn’t help us. Neither could the fire department or a couple of diving places that did not see our predicament as a priority.
The young man apologized, said he was unfamiliar with the area, was here for the summer, going door-to-door to offer chemical-free pesticide service. And then he said, “I’ll help you find it.” By this time, it was too late to get back into the water. A storm was gathering, and the highest tide of the season had been predicted. Aiden, the young man, offered to come back the next day to help us. We exchanged phone numbers. This was encouraging. And even though it was dark out, my heart was starting to brighten up.
Like many stories in the Zohar, the main text of Kabbalah, when protagonists run into mysterious strangers — usually an old man with a donkey or holding a staff — they may at first impression seem unhelpful, but them turn out to be wise and prophetic.
The next day, one of the diving companies agreed to join us at 4 p.m., to spend one hour searching. That would cut it close to Shabbat but what choice did I have? Also, Father Roy would have to come back to Greenport to point out the exact spot, which he felt he could identify. Shortly before 4, the diving company canceled; we were low on the priority list. We had called the police, fire department, and other rescue diving companies, but when those avenues failed, we decided to depend on ourselves. We bought two diving masks and snorkels.
At that exact moment, the phone rang. It was Aiden. He was on his way to us, ready to dive in the water to help. On my way to the kayak, I ran into one of the members of CTI, who had a friend staying for the weekend. When they heard where I was going and what I wanted to do, they immediately offered to help, too. Now, I was starting to feel like Dorothy on her way to the Wizard, collecting friends along the way.
We spent two hours diving. I was looking at the small bay that was starting to look more vast by the minute. Finding this one little bag in the middle of that expanse was looking like mission impossible. But I kept praying — Yaga’ta umatzata ta’amin — seek and you shall find. I was thinking of Moses who, according to a midrash, invoked the magic words Aleh Shor — “Rise bull” — in order to lift up the hidden, mummified body of Joseph from the waters of the Nile in order to take it with them in their exodus. I didn’t have magic words, but I was hoping my prayers would come through. Many times in my life, it was that extra effort that had proved fruitful. But after two hours, we were going to raise the white flag. We returned to the dock and started to dry off. We had really tried. I thanked the “benevolent strangers” and conveyed my immense gratitude.
Suddenly, as a by-the-way, Aiden asked, “Did you happen to have an air pod?”
“What?” Father Roy and I did a double take and asked, in shock, “You found an air pod bud?”
“Yes,” he said, “and here it is.”
We all jumped up. “The bag should be where you found the air pod,” we said. We took our positions again — the divers in the water, me guiding the kayak. We knew we were in the right place, and we remembered that the pouch was heavy.
This situation reminded me of the story of Mizmor L’Assaf in the Talmud (BT Kiddushin 31b in Rashi), which talks about a poor woman whose cheap clay jar fell into the well while she was drawing water. While she was crying over her jar, the king’s maidservant came with a jar of gold. She, too, dropped the vessel into the well. At that time, the poor woman started singing. She said, “Until now, I didn’t think anyone would go down into the well to retrieve my cheap clay jar. However, now I know that surely someone will go down to get the king’s golden vessel. So they’ll bring up mine too.”
In the Greenport Bay, we found the clay jar; now it was time to find the gold. What seemed to be insignificant was now our roadmap.
A few moments later, I saw Aiden coming out of the water with his arm stretched straight up into the air, like the Statue of Liberty. Instead of the fiery torch, he was holding my soaking wet blue pouch. We were elated. We shouted as though we had won the Super Bowl. The water had washed everything. A redemptive rebirth. Was it by a chance? By prayer? By persistence? It was, for us, a miracle from heaven.
And the miracle did not end there. As it turned out, all was intact — wet, but intact. Moreover, the urban legend to bury the phone in rice for three days in order to dry it turned out to be true. After three days, my iPhone arose from the dead.
Aiden came to synagogue with me that evening. No, he isn’t Jewish — that would have been yet another miracle. But I wanted him to see the synagogue, and for people in the synagogue to meet him. Those present at the shul thanked Aiden for helping their rabbi. (The police did call back a couple of days later, promising to look into recording the emergency numbers of divers.)
So, what is the message here? Who saved the day? It wasn’t the respondents you might have expected. It was the willingness of a young lad from Oregon, here for a summer job. In response to my praise, he said, “I’m just a soul trying to do good in this world.” His attitude was a reward — enough to remember that human nature and spirit, when coming together with others, can turn any mission to possible.
As we approach the month of Av, the month of the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem, let’s remember that this time can also be a time of rebuilding out of brokenness with simple love for a fellow human being. Isn’t that the real story?
Blessings for the month of Menachem Av.
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
“This Land is My Land”
Exactly ten years ago, on July 1, 2012, I began my tenure at CTI. A few days later, on July 4, I moved into the Rabbi’s house. I was feeling somewhat like Abraham, our ancient father, who moved to the land of Canaan and maintained his double status as a ger and a toshav—an alien and a resident. Like Abraham, all Jews — perhaps all people — can ask themselves at some point, “When is this land my land?”
For Jews in particular, the Age of Enlightenment in the 18th century raised again the question of citizenship status. In 1790, President George Washington declared in an official letter that Jews in America shared full equal rights. A year later, revolutionary France emancipated its Jewish population.
In his song from the 1940’s, Woody Guthrie wrote, “This land is your land, this land is my land, from California to the New York island… this land was made for you and me.” It is, in a way, a prayer for Utopian reality, where all people feel they belong.
This land is my land also means taking care of the land, so the land can take care of us. For centuries, Jews yearned for their own land. In the meantime, they had to be content dwelling in foreign lands. But now, they had to meet head-on the opportunities and challenges a modern society had to offer. At what point can we say, this is my land? Can we ever become indigenous to the land, still maintaining both ideas of ger and toshav.
In the Book of Numbers, 10 out of the 12 men that Moses sent to scout the land in Canaan could not see themselves dwelling there. They perceived only the ger, not the toshav. They couldn’t see that land as their land even when it was given to them. Another generation had to pass before they would feel as toshav. People with high upward mobility can move and change lands more easily. But being part of the land means not fleeing when things get tough. If it’s your land, stay and protect it. “The meek shall inherit the earth,” not only those who can’t leave it physically, but also those who stick to it in their hearts can declare this their land.
Over the centuries, this debate has manifested itself through our prayers. For example, the question of omitting Tachanun (supplications) on certain non-Jewish holidays, such as the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. Both holidays are happy occasions that are shared among all Americans; therefore, no supplications are uttered, as we do in some of the Jewish holidays that are more secular or universal in nature. Purim, Hanukkah and Tu B’Shvat are among them. The Conservative Movement’s Siddur Sim Shalom (for weekdays, p. 44) is the most expansive among Conservative sources on this topic, noting “…and festive days on the civil calendar.” Saul Lieberman, for many years professor of Talmud at the Jewish Theological Seminary, said that Tachanun should not be recited on Independence Day or Thanksgiving, the former being a secular holiday, and the latter a holiday that has religious antecedents even though it is no longer associated with a specific non-Jewish religion and is observed largely secularly today.
Perhaps the key lies in a mixture of religious sentiment. keeping our identity as ger through celebrating the Jewish holidays, and at the same time rejoicing with secular rulers on their happy occasions, as toshav — citizens. The excitement that made Jews celebrate Franz Joseph’s birthday pre-WWI, pray for the British royal family today, or recite the Prayer for our Country here in America is the expression by Jews for the good of what was becoming their land, too.
Happy Fourth of July 5782.
Rabbi Gadi Capela
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