A State Like All Others!?
I am sure that many were as excited as I was when the May issue of VeloNews, the premiere cycling magazine, arrived in this week’s mail. Most of this month’s edition is devoted to analyzing the upcoming Giro d’Italia, the 21 day grand tour cycling race. Who is most likely to win? Chris Froome, last year’s Tour de France winner? Tom Dumoulin, last year’s Giro winner? Or, Fabio Aru, the victor in the 2015 Vuelta a Espana?
I am certain that you are likewise poring over the magazine’s details. Does this year’s course favor sprinters or climbers? Who leads the strongest team? Is Team Sky cycling’s New York Yankees? Will Chris Froome even be allowed to compete given his negative doping results? Should I continue?
The most exciting of all the features are of course the details about the course and the tour’s opening three days. There, portrayed on two pages, are the descriptions of the 9.7km time trial in Jerusalem, the second 167km stage traversing the coastal roads from Haifa to Tel Aviv, and the third 229km stage through the Negev desert and traveling from Beersheva to Eilat. This is followed by a travel day. The Giro then continues to Italy with stage four in Sicily where the cyclists will climb Mount Etna.
And then it occurs to me. I discover, amidst what I fear appears to many cycling mumbo jumbo, an essential truth about Zionism and the modern State of Israel. The dream of Israel’s founders was that it would be a state like all other states. It would be a nation like all other nations.
VeloNews reports:
And that was of course Ben-Gurion’s vision. The early Zionists believed that what ailed the Jewish people was its lack of a nation-state. And now, 70 years later, we have it. Israel is a country like all others. It has geographical features and resorts. It has monuments to its heroes and prime ministers.
And yet I am not nearly as enthralled by stage four as I am by three. Sicily exerts little pull on my Jewish soul. Israel serves as a home for the homeless Jewish people.
It serves as refuge for Jews fleeing persecution. If the bonds to the countries we call home become tenuous we can rest assured that one place would open its doors. Israel was founded to be like all other nation states. And yet we believe it to be unlike others.
Israel is a nation like all others but then again it is not. It figures prominently in our dreams.
Zionism was meant to secure our Jewish future by ensuring that all will be able to call at least one place home. Israel aspires to be more than a refuge. It tugs on the Jewish spirit.
I could love Rome, and love visiting there, and I could dream about watching professional cyclists sprint to this year’s finish outside its fabled coliseum, but I will remain forever in love with Jerusalem.
Israel may very well be a country like all others, with problems and imperfections like every other nation state throughout the world but yet I sense it is more. Jews throughout the world attach themselves to its achievements. They lament its failures.
It is like every other country. Then again it is not.
It is our other home.
We rejoice in 70 years of statehood.
I am certain that you are likewise poring over the magazine’s details. Does this year’s course favor sprinters or climbers? Who leads the strongest team? Is Team Sky cycling’s New York Yankees? Will Chris Froome even be allowed to compete given his negative doping results? Should I continue?
The most exciting of all the features are of course the details about the course and the tour’s opening three days. There, portrayed on two pages, are the descriptions of the 9.7km time trial in Jerusalem, the second 167km stage traversing the coastal roads from Haifa to Tel Aviv, and the third 229km stage through the Negev desert and traveling from Beersheva to Eilat. This is followed by a travel day. The Giro then continues to Italy with stage four in Sicily where the cyclists will climb Mount Etna.
And then it occurs to me. I discover, amidst what I fear appears to many cycling mumbo jumbo, an essential truth about Zionism and the modern State of Israel. The dream of Israel’s founders was that it would be a state like all other states. It would be a nation like all other nations.
VeloNews reports:
Stage 3 crosses the Negev Desert, running by several landmarks dedicated to David Ben-Gurion, Israel’s founder and first prime minister. The route then runs through Ramon Crater, a sizable pit in the desert formed by erosion. Its 40-kilometer diameter makes it the largest such geographical feature in the world. A very steep, 1,200-meter climb leads the peloton out and toward the expected sprint finish in Eilat, a seaside resort on the Red Sea.What an ordinary description. Change the details and this this could be a description of a route through any country. VeloNews affirms our earliest dreams for Israel. We want to be like everyone else. We want a country we can call our own.
And that was of course Ben-Gurion’s vision. The early Zionists believed that what ailed the Jewish people was its lack of a nation-state. And now, 70 years later, we have it. Israel is a country like all others. It has geographical features and resorts. It has monuments to its heroes and prime ministers.
And yet I am not nearly as enthralled by stage four as I am by three. Sicily exerts little pull on my Jewish soul. Israel serves as a home for the homeless Jewish people.
It serves as refuge for Jews fleeing persecution. If the bonds to the countries we call home become tenuous we can rest assured that one place would open its doors. Israel was founded to be like all other nation states. And yet we believe it to be unlike others.
Israel is a nation like all others but then again it is not. It figures prominently in our dreams.
Zionism was meant to secure our Jewish future by ensuring that all will be able to call at least one place home. Israel aspires to be more than a refuge. It tugs on the Jewish spirit.
I could love Rome, and love visiting there, and I could dream about watching professional cyclists sprint to this year’s finish outside its fabled coliseum, but I will remain forever in love with Jerusalem.
Israel may very well be a country like all others, with problems and imperfections like every other nation state throughout the world but yet I sense it is more. Jews throughout the world attach themselves to its achievements. They lament its failures.
It is like every other country. Then again it is not.
It is our other home.
We rejoice in 70 years of statehood.
Searching for Myself—on a Bicycle
What follows is my Yom Kippur Morning sermon about what should truly define our lives. Hint: it's not my triathlon medals.
Some good news for this Yom Kippur. Perhaps you have already heard this. This coming May the Giro d’Italia, the famous, although unheard of outside the cycling world, three-week Italian cycling race will begin not in Italy but in Israel. Yes, that’s right, in Israel! In fact the first day of the race will finish outside of Jerusalem’s Old City walls. Day two will travel from Haifa to Tel Aviv and then on the third day the riders will race from Beer Sheva to Eilat. And then the teams will board planes to finish out the remaining eighteen days of racing in Italy. There, the finish will be held in Vatican City. I realize that my enthusiasm and excitement about this may not be shared by everyone except a few people or even anyone, so let me offer some background and perspective—and perhaps some justification for my passion.
First of all a number of recent articles have stated that cycling is the new golf. Just look at the Peloton craze if you want some additional evidence. More and more people are taking this sport up. It seems more in keeping with our fast paced technological era than the slow game of golf. Along with triathlons, cycling’s popularity is growing in leaps and bounds each and every year. You must realize by now that your rabbi is a trendsetter. I was gluten free well before it was a thing. 21 years ago no supermarket had gluten free aisles. Back then most restaurants thought gluten free meant the food could have no sugar. And I have set other trends as well. I was bald well before Michael Jordan started shaving his head. And I of course always thought that being Jewish was cool—that is long before Madonna decided red bendles were fashionable and Jewish mysticism was fascinating. So hang on.
The Giro is like the Tour de France and is a twenty-one day race in which approximately 200 cyclists compete, racing over 2,000 miles and climbing mountains whose roads sometimes first need to be cleared of snow. Most significantly, it is watched by over 750 million people throughout the world. That is far more than our signature American event, the Super Bowl. And after this past weekend, and the accumulating evidence about concussions, we may soon be in search of a new American sport.
In addition to the more familiar Tour de France there is also a grand tour held in Spain every year. And although there is a tradition that these events occasionally begin outside of their home countries, no tour has ever started outside of Europe—until now. To be honest I am still holding my breath about what will be the Big Start in Jerusalem. A number of the teams are sponsored by Gulf States. Articles have already appeared in the European press speaking about “sport washing.” I worry that BDS (Boycott, Divestment & Sanctions) supporters might pressure tour organizers to change their plans, but thankfully I have not read about any such concerted efforts. And I actually subscribe to several cycling magazines. Teams have to start making plans, build their rosters and fashion strategies based on the course. Team Sky could very well be led by Chris Froome who I am sure you know won both this year’s Tour de France and Spain’s grand tour. And the image of him racing on his custom made Pinarello bicycle outside of Jerusalem’s Old City’s walls is almost too exciting for this cycling obsessed rabbi to imagine. Let that image be the counter point to Rosh Hashanah morning’s sermon. And just think; if your rabbi was not such a trendsetter you might not even know about this great news.
But wait, there is more. This year’s race will honor the memory of the Italian cycling legend, Gino Bartali who won the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948 and the Giro d’Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946. In addition he won the Giro’s mountain stages a record seven times and stood on the winner’s podium over 170 times. In fact he was one of the pioneers in developing the derailer that so many of us depend on to climb hills. He accomplished these feats despite the fact that he could not compete during the most promising years of his career, those spanning World War II.
Yet it was precisely because of what he did during those years that he is being honored. It was during those years that he helped to save hundreds of Jews from the Nazis. Gino Bartali began working for the underground in September 1943 after the Germans occupied much of Italy. During this time over 10,000 Italian Jews were deported to concentration camps. 7,000 died there. His clandestine job was to smuggle false papers to help Jews hiding from the Nazis. And so Bartali rode from Florence to the outskirts of Assisi and back again, with these smuggled papers hidden in his bicycle’s frame. He convinced the Nazi soldiers guarding the road that he was on a 235-mile training ride. When he was stopped he would protest the soldiers’ efforts to examine his bicycle too closely saying that it was perfectly calibrated for maximum speed and that they should not even touch it. He rode this route at least 40 times. On other occasions he also rode to Genoa, which is 145 miles from Florence, where he would pick up money to distribute to Jewish families. (Those are some really long Strava segments.)
Florence was liberated in August 1944 so by my calculations he rode over 10,000 miles in one year’s time. His efforts helped to save some 800 Jews. It was also recently revealed that Bartali hid a Jewish family in his cellar during that painful year of the German occupation. Giorgio, then a young boy, still remembers the day the British entered Florence and he was able to leave Gino Bartali’s basement and walk the city’s streets. “I went out and saw a British soldier with the word ‘Palestine’ and the Star of David embroidered on his shoulders. (The soldier was a member of the British Army’s Jewish Brigade.) I went up to him and started to hum the Hatikvah. He heard me and spoke to me in English. I understood that we were free, thanks to Gino…”
Yad VaShem researched the details of Bartali’s story in order to determine whether the cyclist merited the designation of Hasidei Umot Ha-Olam, Righteous among the Nations, the highest honor given to those non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews. To be honest, some of these more extraordinary details are debated by scholars. Nonetheless, Yad VaShem determined that Bartali deserved the designation of Righteous Among the Nations. His efforts helped to save Jewish lives. Witnesses testified to this fact. In 2013 Yad VaShem planted a tree in his honor among the forest of trees honoring these righteous gentiles. Gino Bartali did not live to see this recognition. He died in 2000. He remained humble and even secretive about his clandestine, and dangerous, wartime efforts. On one occasion, however, he offered a few words about his remarkable deeds. Bartali said, “Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket."
That phrase sticks with me. Some medals are pinned to your soul. I thought of that phrase the moment I returned home this summer after completing my first triathlon, proudly wearing the finisher’s medal around my neck. My daughter Shira said, “Abba, is that a participation trophy around your neck.” One of the wonders of having children is that they keep you honest. They make sure you stay true to your teachings. They remind you of when you veer. She continued, “I remember once hearing a rabbi’s sermon about how we give out too many participation trophies, about how if we get a trophy for everything we do we never learn how to lose with dignity and grace. How failing and then learning from our failures are even more important parts of life than successes and triumphs.” That rabbi was of course me. My triathlon medals are now in the closet along with all of Shira’s and Ari’s medals and trophies. I was grateful for the reminder. It’s just a race, after all.
The V’Ahavta commands us to teach our children. Lesson learned. Teaching briefly forgotten. It states: “V’shinantam l’vanecha.” This is usually translated as “You shall teach them diligently to your children.” But the Hebrew comes from the word “to repeat.” I have often wondered why it would say we are to repeat these words to our children. Repeating things are often my weakest moments of parenting, when I repeat over and over and over again to my children, “Don’t forget to… Don’t forget to…” My children then get annoyed or frustrated and more often than not the advice gets ignored. But they see what we do repeatedly. They see how we spend our time. They see how we speak to others—most especially how we speak to our own parents. It’s hard to demand respect and love if you don’t speak words of kindness to your own parents and if you don’t wrap your own arms around your own mom and dad. Do our children see their parents speak to each other with tenderness? Children carefully listen to the public pronouncements we make. Those are the greatest, if often unintended, lessons we offer. They study our lives. And they see what kind of examples we proffer. That is what they model themselves after. It is far more important what they see us do and say rather than what we tell them to do, no matter how many times we say it.
Ask this on today’s Yom Kippur. Do we lose our temper with our children, with our parents, with family and friends? I have often thought that anger is a strange thing. People frequently get angry with those they are closest to and care the most about rather than getting angry at the injustices they see in the world around them. We lose our temper with spouses, with children, with friends. We read about the injustices, the atrocities, the tragedies, and the natural disasters in the morning’s paper and then go about our day. Puerto Rico is facing a desperate situation. Rise up and get angry. But I have a schedule to keep and a job to do. And so we get angry not at our teetering world but with those we love. Better to scream at a protest rally than yell at someone we love. This past year I have in fact attended a number of rallies, mostly in support of immigrant rights. I was at JFK airport the day the travel ban was first signed and then again, with a few of my students, in the cold and rain at Battery Park attending another similar rally. I have also traveled to Washington DC in support of the State of Israel when it was under attack and as well in past years to the capital again to speak out against the genocide in Darfur.
There is great value and importance in protest. Religion is meant to fix the world not just repair our souls. Judaism calls to us, “Don’t be silent!” We should do more protesting. We must take action. The world is beset by injustices. We are commanded not to turn away, never to be a bystander. Even better we should get in our car and travel to South Huntington during the frigid days of winter and help feed the hungry and cold people (yes, people!) who are waiting along Route 110 to get picked up for a day of work. That is what Gino Bartali’s example reminds us. You should get angry at injustices. You should get out there and help. Let the world’s injustices serve as goads to action. Get angry less with family and friends. Get indignant about the world’s problems. Rise up! Protest! Direct your anger in the proper direction. And go out there and better the world. Those are the kind of medals we need pinned to our souls.
David Brooks recently authored a book in which he drew a distinction between resume values and eulogy values. Eulogy values are the character traits by which we wish to be remembered. Resume values are those that help us get the next job. They are about the career successes. They are about the added line on a biography, “Triathlete,” that my family insisted I could not add until after I completed my first triathlon. They may appear to be how we spend the better part of our days, but they should not be what define us. What medals do you want pinned to your soul? Sure I want first place. Doesn’t everyone? Does it really matter? Will I instead be thought of as honest? Will we be remembered as kind? Do we remember to say, “Thank you,” for the most ordinary of things? Will we be thought of as giving?
Do we wish to be defined by our individual pursuits and achievements or those that involve others and impact the community and world at large? Are we not only generous with our money, giving tzedakah to the many worthy organizations that uplift our lives but also generous with our time? I have been thinking about this a lot lately. As important as it is to give tzedakah, it is comparatively easier than giving our time. We open our checkbooks and send a check to an organization we support or an organization a friend asks to donate to. Do we give more than was asked of us? Do we give a little more than what we can afford? But giving of our time, this is a more challenging demand. We lead busy lives. We adhere to frenetic schedules. And I am not even talking about our kids. We have to get to the gym in the morning. We have to catch the train. We have dinner plans with friends we have not seen in years. How can we fit volunteering into our demanding days? And yet this is what will be remembered. This is what can define us. Is it our jobs that make us who we are or the time spent laboring on a volunteer board? Is it the time devoted to a synagogue, for example, that gives our lives meaning?
These organizations, which provide our lives with meaning and definition, are dependent on volunteers. I understand that most of us are hesitant to volunteer for something whose time commitment is ill defined and open-ended. How many meetings does it entail? When are the meetings? What is my expected donation? We want to know how we can fit it into our schedules. We are so busy. We have to check emails, text messages and Facebook. We have to shuttle our children to and from this activity and that. We have to work out. And I did not even mention work commitments. How can we schedule volunteering into such a harried paced existence? You should know this. Synagogues are not wholly dependent on the professionals who serve them. So thank you to our president, and our board, and to all those who volunteered before them, and to the many more who will volunteer after them. We could not do any of this without you. And to everyone, sign up to do one task, one volunteer job, in this coming year.
Ask this simple question, how can we construct lives of meaning without giving of our time to others? The time we devote to others, to our community, to our country define our lives. I know it sounds decidedly old fashioned, but I still believe it to be true. We have to figure out how to make more time for others in our busy lives. This is the good we must do. These are the medals pinned to our souls.
There really should be only one question we are asking ourselves on this Yom Kippur. What do we want pinned to our souls? Do we lead lives of honesty and integrity? Do we wish to live a life defined by hobbies and passions or by values and character? There is nothing wrong of course with being an avid cyclist or tennis player or runner or sailor or yogi or even golfer. But our devotion to sports may need some reexamination. These pursuits should not define who we really are.
Judaism demands that we work to bring a measure of good to our fractured world, that we add blessings to the community at large. This is the essence of our New Year greeting, Shanah Tovah. It is a mistranslation to wish each other “Happy New Year” at this time of year. This would imply that our goal for each other is the achievement of personal happiness and individual fulfillment. That is nice but it is not what we most hope for. It is not what the goal of our lives is meant to be. We wish each other Shanah Tovah, a good year. To be good, to lead a life devoted to goodness is a life-long pursuit. It requires as much training and as much hard work as any cycling race or any triathlon.
What are the medals we want pinned to our souls? Ask that question over and over again and then this coming year will indeed be a Shanah Tovah, a good year. It will be a year filled with doing good.
Some good news for this Yom Kippur. Perhaps you have already heard this. This coming May the Giro d’Italia, the famous, although unheard of outside the cycling world, three-week Italian cycling race will begin not in Italy but in Israel. Yes, that’s right, in Israel! In fact the first day of the race will finish outside of Jerusalem’s Old City walls. Day two will travel from Haifa to Tel Aviv and then on the third day the riders will race from Beer Sheva to Eilat. And then the teams will board planes to finish out the remaining eighteen days of racing in Italy. There, the finish will be held in Vatican City. I realize that my enthusiasm and excitement about this may not be shared by everyone except a few people or even anyone, so let me offer some background and perspective—and perhaps some justification for my passion.
First of all a number of recent articles have stated that cycling is the new golf. Just look at the Peloton craze if you want some additional evidence. More and more people are taking this sport up. It seems more in keeping with our fast paced technological era than the slow game of golf. Along with triathlons, cycling’s popularity is growing in leaps and bounds each and every year. You must realize by now that your rabbi is a trendsetter. I was gluten free well before it was a thing. 21 years ago no supermarket had gluten free aisles. Back then most restaurants thought gluten free meant the food could have no sugar. And I have set other trends as well. I was bald well before Michael Jordan started shaving his head. And I of course always thought that being Jewish was cool—that is long before Madonna decided red bendles were fashionable and Jewish mysticism was fascinating. So hang on.
The Giro is like the Tour de France and is a twenty-one day race in which approximately 200 cyclists compete, racing over 2,000 miles and climbing mountains whose roads sometimes first need to be cleared of snow. Most significantly, it is watched by over 750 million people throughout the world. That is far more than our signature American event, the Super Bowl. And after this past weekend, and the accumulating evidence about concussions, we may soon be in search of a new American sport.
In addition to the more familiar Tour de France there is also a grand tour held in Spain every year. And although there is a tradition that these events occasionally begin outside of their home countries, no tour has ever started outside of Europe—until now. To be honest I am still holding my breath about what will be the Big Start in Jerusalem. A number of the teams are sponsored by Gulf States. Articles have already appeared in the European press speaking about “sport washing.” I worry that BDS (Boycott, Divestment & Sanctions) supporters might pressure tour organizers to change their plans, but thankfully I have not read about any such concerted efforts. And I actually subscribe to several cycling magazines. Teams have to start making plans, build their rosters and fashion strategies based on the course. Team Sky could very well be led by Chris Froome who I am sure you know won both this year’s Tour de France and Spain’s grand tour. And the image of him racing on his custom made Pinarello bicycle outside of Jerusalem’s Old City’s walls is almost too exciting for this cycling obsessed rabbi to imagine. Let that image be the counter point to Rosh Hashanah morning’s sermon. And just think; if your rabbi was not such a trendsetter you might not even know about this great news.
But wait, there is more. This year’s race will honor the memory of the Italian cycling legend, Gino Bartali who won the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948 and the Giro d’Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946. In addition he won the Giro’s mountain stages a record seven times and stood on the winner’s podium over 170 times. In fact he was one of the pioneers in developing the derailer that so many of us depend on to climb hills. He accomplished these feats despite the fact that he could not compete during the most promising years of his career, those spanning World War II.
Yet it was precisely because of what he did during those years that he is being honored. It was during those years that he helped to save hundreds of Jews from the Nazis. Gino Bartali began working for the underground in September 1943 after the Germans occupied much of Italy. During this time over 10,000 Italian Jews were deported to concentration camps. 7,000 died there. His clandestine job was to smuggle false papers to help Jews hiding from the Nazis. And so Bartali rode from Florence to the outskirts of Assisi and back again, with these smuggled papers hidden in his bicycle’s frame. He convinced the Nazi soldiers guarding the road that he was on a 235-mile training ride. When he was stopped he would protest the soldiers’ efforts to examine his bicycle too closely saying that it was perfectly calibrated for maximum speed and that they should not even touch it. He rode this route at least 40 times. On other occasions he also rode to Genoa, which is 145 miles from Florence, where he would pick up money to distribute to Jewish families. (Those are some really long Strava segments.)
Florence was liberated in August 1944 so by my calculations he rode over 10,000 miles in one year’s time. His efforts helped to save some 800 Jews. It was also recently revealed that Bartali hid a Jewish family in his cellar during that painful year of the German occupation. Giorgio, then a young boy, still remembers the day the British entered Florence and he was able to leave Gino Bartali’s basement and walk the city’s streets. “I went out and saw a British soldier with the word ‘Palestine’ and the Star of David embroidered on his shoulders. (The soldier was a member of the British Army’s Jewish Brigade.) I went up to him and started to hum the Hatikvah. He heard me and spoke to me in English. I understood that we were free, thanks to Gino…”
Yad VaShem researched the details of Bartali’s story in order to determine whether the cyclist merited the designation of Hasidei Umot Ha-Olam, Righteous among the Nations, the highest honor given to those non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews. To be honest, some of these more extraordinary details are debated by scholars. Nonetheless, Yad VaShem determined that Bartali deserved the designation of Righteous Among the Nations. His efforts helped to save Jewish lives. Witnesses testified to this fact. In 2013 Yad VaShem planted a tree in his honor among the forest of trees honoring these righteous gentiles. Gino Bartali did not live to see this recognition. He died in 2000. He remained humble and even secretive about his clandestine, and dangerous, wartime efforts. On one occasion, however, he offered a few words about his remarkable deeds. Bartali said, “Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket."
That phrase sticks with me. Some medals are pinned to your soul. I thought of that phrase the moment I returned home this summer after completing my first triathlon, proudly wearing the finisher’s medal around my neck. My daughter Shira said, “Abba, is that a participation trophy around your neck.” One of the wonders of having children is that they keep you honest. They make sure you stay true to your teachings. They remind you of when you veer. She continued, “I remember once hearing a rabbi’s sermon about how we give out too many participation trophies, about how if we get a trophy for everything we do we never learn how to lose with dignity and grace. How failing and then learning from our failures are even more important parts of life than successes and triumphs.” That rabbi was of course me. My triathlon medals are now in the closet along with all of Shira’s and Ari’s medals and trophies. I was grateful for the reminder. It’s just a race, after all.
The V’Ahavta commands us to teach our children. Lesson learned. Teaching briefly forgotten. It states: “V’shinantam l’vanecha.” This is usually translated as “You shall teach them diligently to your children.” But the Hebrew comes from the word “to repeat.” I have often wondered why it would say we are to repeat these words to our children. Repeating things are often my weakest moments of parenting, when I repeat over and over and over again to my children, “Don’t forget to… Don’t forget to…” My children then get annoyed or frustrated and more often than not the advice gets ignored. But they see what we do repeatedly. They see how we spend our time. They see how we speak to others—most especially how we speak to our own parents. It’s hard to demand respect and love if you don’t speak words of kindness to your own parents and if you don’t wrap your own arms around your own mom and dad. Do our children see their parents speak to each other with tenderness? Children carefully listen to the public pronouncements we make. Those are the greatest, if often unintended, lessons we offer. They study our lives. And they see what kind of examples we proffer. That is what they model themselves after. It is far more important what they see us do and say rather than what we tell them to do, no matter how many times we say it.
Ask this on today’s Yom Kippur. Do we lose our temper with our children, with our parents, with family and friends? I have often thought that anger is a strange thing. People frequently get angry with those they are closest to and care the most about rather than getting angry at the injustices they see in the world around them. We lose our temper with spouses, with children, with friends. We read about the injustices, the atrocities, the tragedies, and the natural disasters in the morning’s paper and then go about our day. Puerto Rico is facing a desperate situation. Rise up and get angry. But I have a schedule to keep and a job to do. And so we get angry not at our teetering world but with those we love. Better to scream at a protest rally than yell at someone we love. This past year I have in fact attended a number of rallies, mostly in support of immigrant rights. I was at JFK airport the day the travel ban was first signed and then again, with a few of my students, in the cold and rain at Battery Park attending another similar rally. I have also traveled to Washington DC in support of the State of Israel when it was under attack and as well in past years to the capital again to speak out against the genocide in Darfur.
There is great value and importance in protest. Religion is meant to fix the world not just repair our souls. Judaism calls to us, “Don’t be silent!” We should do more protesting. We must take action. The world is beset by injustices. We are commanded not to turn away, never to be a bystander. Even better we should get in our car and travel to South Huntington during the frigid days of winter and help feed the hungry and cold people (yes, people!) who are waiting along Route 110 to get picked up for a day of work. That is what Gino Bartali’s example reminds us. You should get angry at injustices. You should get out there and help. Let the world’s injustices serve as goads to action. Get angry less with family and friends. Get indignant about the world’s problems. Rise up! Protest! Direct your anger in the proper direction. And go out there and better the world. Those are the kind of medals we need pinned to our souls.
David Brooks recently authored a book in which he drew a distinction between resume values and eulogy values. Eulogy values are the character traits by which we wish to be remembered. Resume values are those that help us get the next job. They are about the career successes. They are about the added line on a biography, “Triathlete,” that my family insisted I could not add until after I completed my first triathlon. They may appear to be how we spend the better part of our days, but they should not be what define us. What medals do you want pinned to your soul? Sure I want first place. Doesn’t everyone? Does it really matter? Will I instead be thought of as honest? Will we be remembered as kind? Do we remember to say, “Thank you,” for the most ordinary of things? Will we be thought of as giving?
Do we wish to be defined by our individual pursuits and achievements or those that involve others and impact the community and world at large? Are we not only generous with our money, giving tzedakah to the many worthy organizations that uplift our lives but also generous with our time? I have been thinking about this a lot lately. As important as it is to give tzedakah, it is comparatively easier than giving our time. We open our checkbooks and send a check to an organization we support or an organization a friend asks to donate to. Do we give more than was asked of us? Do we give a little more than what we can afford? But giving of our time, this is a more challenging demand. We lead busy lives. We adhere to frenetic schedules. And I am not even talking about our kids. We have to get to the gym in the morning. We have to catch the train. We have dinner plans with friends we have not seen in years. How can we fit volunteering into our demanding days? And yet this is what will be remembered. This is what can define us. Is it our jobs that make us who we are or the time spent laboring on a volunteer board? Is it the time devoted to a synagogue, for example, that gives our lives meaning?
These organizations, which provide our lives with meaning and definition, are dependent on volunteers. I understand that most of us are hesitant to volunteer for something whose time commitment is ill defined and open-ended. How many meetings does it entail? When are the meetings? What is my expected donation? We want to know how we can fit it into our schedules. We are so busy. We have to check emails, text messages and Facebook. We have to shuttle our children to and from this activity and that. We have to work out. And I did not even mention work commitments. How can we schedule volunteering into such a harried paced existence? You should know this. Synagogues are not wholly dependent on the professionals who serve them. So thank you to our president, and our board, and to all those who volunteered before them, and to the many more who will volunteer after them. We could not do any of this without you. And to everyone, sign up to do one task, one volunteer job, in this coming year.
Ask this simple question, how can we construct lives of meaning without giving of our time to others? The time we devote to others, to our community, to our country define our lives. I know it sounds decidedly old fashioned, but I still believe it to be true. We have to figure out how to make more time for others in our busy lives. This is the good we must do. These are the medals pinned to our souls.
There really should be only one question we are asking ourselves on this Yom Kippur. What do we want pinned to our souls? Do we lead lives of honesty and integrity? Do we wish to live a life defined by hobbies and passions or by values and character? There is nothing wrong of course with being an avid cyclist or tennis player or runner or sailor or yogi or even golfer. But our devotion to sports may need some reexamination. These pursuits should not define who we really are.
Judaism demands that we work to bring a measure of good to our fractured world, that we add blessings to the community at large. This is the essence of our New Year greeting, Shanah Tovah. It is a mistranslation to wish each other “Happy New Year” at this time of year. This would imply that our goal for each other is the achievement of personal happiness and individual fulfillment. That is nice but it is not what we most hope for. It is not what the goal of our lives is meant to be. We wish each other Shanah Tovah, a good year. To be good, to lead a life devoted to goodness is a life-long pursuit. It requires as much training and as much hard work as any cycling race or any triathlon.
What are the medals we want pinned to our souls? Ask that question over and over again and then this coming year will indeed be a Shanah Tovah, a good year. It will be a year filled with doing good.
What My Bike Accident Taught Me
I am an avid cyclist. Perhaps too much, some would say. Over the years I have ridden some 20,000 miles, much of it on Long Island’s roads. I am very familiar with the roads in and around my home. I know where there are rough roads. I know where there are potholes and most especially speed bumps.
And yet today, I crashed on a familiar road and a well-known speed bump. I am fortunately ok, despite a great many scratches and a few too many bruises. Friends offered reassurance, comradery and even some humor, “It happens to everyone. As long as nothing is broken, you will heal quickly. Is your bike ok?” Family offered love and “Thank God’s.”
After a crash, or an accident, or any mishap one reviews the events and plays the scene over and over and over again. Why did this happen?...
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
And yet today, I crashed on a familiar road and a well-known speed bump. I am fortunately ok, despite a great many scratches and a few too many bruises. Friends offered reassurance, comradery and even some humor, “It happens to everyone. As long as nothing is broken, you will heal quickly. Is your bike ok?” Family offered love and “Thank God’s.”
After a crash, or an accident, or any mishap one reviews the events and plays the scene over and over and over again. Why did this happen?...
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
Why Cycling? Why Faith!
Why cycling?
There is nothing quite like riding on a perfect summer morning, along a beautiful stretch of road, most especially along the Long Island Sound’s shoreline. The temperature is a comfortable 70 degrees. The morning breeze offers a cooling balm. On some mornings, the wind can be felt at your back, pushing you along the road (although that inevitably means that there is a headwind on the return journey). The legs feel strong and the cadence of the pedal stroke does not waver. There is nothing left to do but breathe in the air and sense the rhythm of God’s creation.
Why faith?
There is nothing quite like the perspective it offers, the balance it provides....
There is nothing quite like riding on a perfect summer morning, along a beautiful stretch of road, most especially along the Long Island Sound’s shoreline. The temperature is a comfortable 70 degrees. The morning breeze offers a cooling balm. On some mornings, the wind can be felt at your back, pushing you along the road (although that inevitably means that there is a headwind on the return journey). The legs feel strong and the cadence of the pedal stroke does not waver. There is nothing left to do but breathe in the air and sense the rhythm of God’s creation.
Why faith?
There is nothing quite like the perspective it offers, the balance it provides....
Darkened Skies, Blue Skies
Below is my article that appeared today on ReformJudaism.org: Darkened Skies, Blue Skies: A September 11th Reflection.
It was a beautiful August morning, the temperature a comfortable 70 degrees. I was riding on my favorite flat, a road that extends for miles along the shoreline. My legs felt strong, and despite the gusting head wind, I was setting a fast pace. The dune grass blew in the breeze, the waves lapped at the expanse of sand, and when I looked up at the blue sky, I found it absent of clouds.
It was a perfect day. I could focus on my riding. I could contemplate the beauty of the moment.
And then it happened.
The perfect sky – nearly as deep and blue as a September day – reminded me not of the grandeur of God’s creation, but of a morning nearly 14 years earlier. Without warning, the perfect moment was gone, stolen. I was taken back to an earlier day’s blue sky, one that ended in darkness and clouds of smoke and ash. Memories of that terror-stricken day filled my thoughts.
Fourteen years ago, on what began as a glorious fall morning, I was driving to my office. I looked to the sky, appreciating the extraordinary day. There were no clouds, only the clear blue sky. I silently offered praise to God for this beautiful creation – and then I turned on the radio, only to hear reports of the first plane striking the North Tower. Soon I was headed home, driving east on the Long Island Expressway, the west-bound lanes eerily empty save the occasional emergency vehicle careening toward the city.
I lost no family members or friends that day, and thankfully not even one member of the synagogue I served, and yet I remain wounded. Fourteen years later, time has moved forward. Eight-year-olds have become 22-year-olds, college graduates on the brink of careers and the rest of their lives.
Time has moved backward, too. Years later, moments are too often stolen. Terror still finds its way into my soul. The sky stands as a silent reminder of that day. A perfect blue sky and a favorite morning bike ride turn into the drive back to our house after collecting my children from school, and my feeble attempts to explain to them – an 8-year-old and 5-year-old – what happened to our city. As I drove my children home that day, I knew the world they were born into had been forever changed. Fourteen years later, I still do not know exactly how.
Yizkor. We remember.
I cannot escape the memories. Years later, tears interrupt mundane activities, tinging them with longing. I eye my mother’s favorite Passover candy in the supermarket. I recall my father’s long-ago advice about driving. I am haunted by melancholy as the skies remind me of yesterday, silently asking: Are they still near?
Judaism counsels that even at a wedding – the most joyous of occasions – we break a glass in remembrance of the ancient tragedy of the Temple’s destruction. In the midst of great happiness, we pause, if only briefly, to remember the event that forever transformed us from a people whose lives revolved around one Temple to a people dispersed and oriented toward many temples, from a people devoted to sacrifices to one devoted to prayer, Torah study, and acts of lovingkindness. Although the memory of that searing day is distant, its import is clear.
By contrast, although the memory of September 11th is clear, its meaning remains unimaginable. We have not yet figured out what this day might mean, for us or for future generations. We do not yet know if we should – or even if we can – break a glass in remembrance.
Nonetheless, we have come to understand this: The best of moments are still unexpectedly stolen and transformed into moments of sadness and pain. Blue skies can be darkened by memories, and ordinary moments can return us to tears of yesterday.
And yet on my return home, I am still pedaling. The wind, however, is now at my back, and the joy of riding into the future has found its way back into my heart.
Riding in Circles
The following is the sermon delivered at Friday evening Shabbat services.
When we were younger all of us took our required math
classes. Some of us enjoyed these. Many did not.
In those classes we learned about the basics of adding and subtracting,
multiplying and in my most advanced class, division. Later we learned geometry and there I first
found out about this magical number called Pi.
Pi is a curious number. It is a
mathematical constant of 3.14159 and so on.
In recent years it has been calculated out to 10 trillion digits. In theory it goes on into infinity without
ever repeating. It is the ratio of a
circle’s circumference to its diameter.
It is in a word the constant around which a circle revolves.
Like a circle the Torah is perfect and so I am given to
wondering, what is its Pi. What is the
verse around which the Torah spins? Is
it its opening verse: Bereshit bara Elohim—In the beginning God created heaven
and earth? Without a beginning that
immediately establishes God’s relationship with the world there could be no
Torah. But you can’t spin around a
beginning or ending for that matter. Is
it instead the command to observe Shabbat: Zakhor et yom hashabbat—Remember the
Sabbath day? Can there be a more central
command to Jewish life than Shabbat?
Perhaps instead the verse: Vahavata l’r’echa kamocha—love your neighbor
as yourself? Some have pointed out that
when the Torah is unrolled to that verse of Leviticus 19:18 the scroll is perfectly
balanced. This verse stands at the exact
center of the Torah. It certainly could
be argued that if we observed this command day in and day out we would do more
to elevate our lives and the lives of those around us.
Still I remain unsatisfied that these verses could be the
Torah’s constant, that these could represent the circle of the Torah’s Pi. This week in Parashat Beshalach, we read not only the Song of the
Sea, containing the words of Mi Chamocha, but the following as well: So God led
the people roundabout by way of the wilderness.
And I have come to believe that these words are in fact the linchpin for
the remainder of the Torah’s story. God
intentionally led the people on what would become a forty year journey. I know that we have read the commentaries
suggesting that it was not God’s intention at the outset. It was instead the Israelites’ sins that
caused a few month journey to turn into one of forty years. We recall as well the teaching that only
those who were born as free people in the wilderness could become a free nation
in their own land. Slaves cannot really
know freedom. And so the slaves must die
so that a new, free people can be formed.
In fact this forty year long journey was always God’s
intention all along. That is clear from
this week’s parsha. The famous Jewish
philosopher, Franz Rosenzweig, suggests this as well. He writes that God purposely misdirects us. We only discover our freedom when pointed in
the wrong direction. I think that God
just kept leading us in circles until we learned enough to realize the dream of
entering the Promised Land. Have you
ever considered the fact that our central book, the Torah, concludes without
this dream being realized? It ends at
the edge of the land, at the border of a dream.
And then what do we do? We circle
back to the beginning: Bereshit bara Elohim.
One of the geniuses of our tradition is having faith in the
messianic redemption, but also always believing that the messiah’s arrival
stands at a great distance. This notion
is codified by the rabbis when they wrote (and I share this in honor of the
upcoming Tu B’Shevat): If the messiah comes and you are planting a tree, first
finish planting, and then go to greet the messiah. (Avot deRabbi Natan) When the messiah gets too close we tend to
forget about the here and now. There are
plenty examples from our history (Shabtai Zevi is the most notorious) but the
lessons are the same. If you believe
that this guy is the messiah then you stop trying to fix things yourself and
say instead, “He will take care of it.”
You forget to plant the tree. So
we sing and pray for the messiah’s arrival but continue to take care of things
ourselves. The dream is held at a
distance. The Promised Land is across
the way, off in the distance. We circle
back and begin the journey again.
As many of you know, I am an avid cyclist. Others might suggest, obsessed but to the
aficionado, avid is the preferred name.
Every ride is a new journey. While
I always circle back home, I almost never ride the same route. Sometimes I look for a new road to explore.
Other times I just don’t want to climb Mill Hill. Then there are days when I realize that
climbing Mill Hill will be worth the tail wind I will gain riding out of
Bayville. How many times have I raced on
Berry Hill on my way back towards Huntington and never even noticed Temple
Lane? How many miles are required to
discover a new, potential home? How many
years of journeying and wandering are necessary?
Part of the problem is our goal-oriented society. A life without goals appears meandering and
aimless. The sentiment is that without a
predetermined destination we are lost.
But it is possible to explore without ever being lost. When I ride I don’t carry maps. I know that if I am riding west the Sound is always
on my right. And how do you know that
the Sound is on your right when it is not within sight? By the
temperature. As you approach the water
the air cools and even though the Sound is outside of view, you can feel it’s
near and so you can ride, and explore and wander without ever really being
lost. The direction can only be a
feeling.
You can’t learn and grow if everything is about a goal. The destination, the goal, is not the purpose
of a journey. School is supposed to be
about discovery and not about test scores and grades. If the message of our tradition were all
about goals, then Torah would conclude with the Book of Joshua and not
Deuteronomy. The lesson of the Torah is
revealed in this week’s verse. In
journeys we discover our Torah. In
wandering we find our lessons. When you
wander you discover things that are unintended.
It is there that we write stories.
Think of the stories from vacations and travels. Rarely do we retell them as follows:
Everything went according to plan. We
followed our itinerary to the letter.
Our plane took off on time. Our
driver picked us up at the appointed hour.
More often, it is recounted like this: we were walking and exploring and
we happened into this restaurant because we were tired and hungry and we
discovered this gem. We were the only
foreigners there. The food was
delicious. We talked to the chef. Now we go back there every time we visit.
Life-long friends can be made when there is a mistake in
your seat assignment. Would we remain in
the seat or berate the flight attendant about the error? Leon Wieseltier once observed, Serendipity is
how the spirit is renewed. Wandering is
how truths are discovered and lessons learned.
It could be as simple as a new route for a bike ride or as profound as a
new friend. Lessons are gained on
journeys.
This week we discover the guiding verse of our most sacred book. It is not as others would suggest. It is instead about the journey and wandering. The key Hebrew word is Vayesev. It is translated in most Bibles as leading roundabout. God turns the people around and around and around. We could almost say that God spins us around in circles. The verb shares the same root as one word for circle.
This week we discover the guiding verse of our most sacred book. It is not as others would suggest. It is instead about the journey and wandering. The key Hebrew word is Vayesev. It is translated in most Bibles as leading roundabout. God turns the people around and around and around. We could almost say that God spins us around in circles. The verb shares the same root as one word for circle.
People always think that a journey is a straight line. It is not.
It is instead a circle. But even
a circle has a constant. That is a
lesson learned long ago in math class. There
is a certain principle within each and every circle. The Torah is the same. And God led the people roundabout. We continue on the journey. Who knows what lessons might be learned. The Torah never concludes. We take a mere breath in between reading its
last word and its first. The Torah is
drawn in circles.
Have faith in the journey. Even though we might wander in circles there remains a constant with infinite meaning. Relish the wandering. At times we might only be able to sense the destination. Other times the goal appears mysterious. Understand this: we always circle back home.
Have faith in the journey. Even though we might wander in circles there remains a constant with infinite meaning. Relish the wandering. At times we might only be able to sense the destination. Other times the goal appears mysterious. Understand this: we always circle back home.
Lance, Minus Seven
We just finished reading Noah and its story of the flood. The portion begins: "Noah was a righteous man; he was blameless in his age..." The central, and unanswerable, question about Noah is: was he righteous just in comparison to his terrible generation or would he have been called righteous in any generation?
Yesterday we learned that Lance Armstrong will be stripped of his seven Tour de France victories. No one will be awarded the victories in his place. Too many others were implicated in the doping scandals. All potential victors are tainted.
My children know that it is never justification that everyone is doing it. If it is wrong, it is wrong. If it is right, it is right. Right and wrong must stand on their own, not on the shoulders of others. Our actions must stand for all generations. The fact that so many other cyclists were doping is no justification for Lance's actions. Doping provides an unfair advantage. Worse might be Lance's self righteous denials. "What am I on? I'm on my bike, busting my ass six hours a day. What are you on?" he said in Nike commercials. Now we find out that such statements were false. The evidence against Lance appears overwhelming. He cheated! He bullied! All for the sake of winning. He was indeed on more than his bike.
Still he inspired so many, especially cancer survivors. Robert Lipsyte, for instance, writes in The New Republic: "Don’t cry for Lance Armstrong. That bully can take care of himself. Watch out for the righteous, wrong-headed anti-dopers, distracting us from the more immediate and perilous concerns of orchestrated violence. And follow instructions: Pedal hard. Take responsibility for yourself and be brave." I still like that advice. I wish however that Lance really led, even if it would have been from the rear of the peloton, and that he actually lived by his own words that he was only pedaling really hard.
My children know that it is never justification that everyone is doing it. If it is wrong, it is wrong. If it is right, it is right. Right and wrong must stand on their own, not on the shoulders of others. Our actions must stand for all generations. The fact that so many other cyclists were doping is no justification for Lance's actions. Doping provides an unfair advantage. Worse might be Lance's self righteous denials. "What am I on? I'm on my bike, busting my ass six hours a day. What are you on?" he said in Nike commercials. Now we find out that such statements were false. The evidence against Lance appears overwhelming. He cheated! He bullied! All for the sake of winning. He was indeed on more than his bike.
Still he inspired so many, especially cancer survivors. Robert Lipsyte, for instance, writes in The New Republic: "Don’t cry for Lance Armstrong. That bully can take care of himself. Watch out for the righteous, wrong-headed anti-dopers, distracting us from the more immediate and perilous concerns of orchestrated violence. And follow instructions: Pedal hard. Take responsibility for yourself and be brave." I still like that advice. I wish however that Lance really led, even if it would have been from the rear of the peloton, and that he actually lived by his own words that he was only pedaling really hard.
Will the greatest lessons of the Tour be these races that now have no victors, that ended up actually being about the thrill of cycling and what the Tour's founders believed all along, the superiority of two wheels over four. Winning really isn't everything. Going faster is not always the best medicine.
Note to self: try remembering that when you want to take the lead on the next group ride. Instead just enjoy the ride and the company and perhaps even the scenery.
Say It Ain't So, Lance
Lance Armstrong's Decision Not To Fight Doping Charges : The New Yorker
Martin Schoeller writes:
Martin Schoeller writes:
That is why I am so deeply appalled by his announcement yesterday that he would no longer fight the charges against him. He said he was tired of the fight. Tired? Really? Armstrong made it clear on several occasions he would fight to the death. (My favorite Lance quote about pain, clearly applicable to the accusations, is, “Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.”)
Yes, quitting lasts forever. And he did not even have the decency to admit his guilt. Oddly, two of my colleagues—both of whom had ridiculed me mercilessly for supporting Lance—wrote to me today to say that they actually felt sorry for the guy.
I do not. Lance Armstrong stood for something. He was a man who, despite the hatred, the envy, and the odds, would never quit, would never concede. He was the great American—a man of principle who also won. Now, I am afraid, he is nothing.I am not surprised about the news. I remain so disappointed.
Yom HaShoah
In our never-ending pursuit of health and fitness we enter cycling races, triathlons and masters swim meets. Even our weekend golf games become fierce competitions as we bet on the winners of each hole. For many, and in particular middle-aged men, even the healthiest of exercise regimens can turn into such competitions. Marathons have become so popular that gaining a spot in New York City’s has become increasingly difficult. Participation in triathlons has increased ten fold, surpassing two million competitors this past year.
Training for such endurance sports, or perfecting one’s golf game, or playing just about any sport these days, requires time, commitment and investment. Despite my well-known passion for cycling and its events, I sometimes forget the primary purpose of my life. Simply put that purpose is to bring a measure of goodness to an increasingly fractured world.
On the days that I forget this command I remember the story of Gino Bartali, an Italian cycling legend. One might think that I admire him for his extraordinary cycling accomplishments. He won the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948 and the Giro d’Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946. In addition he won the Giro’s mountain stages a record seven times and stood on the winner’s podium over 170 times. He accomplished these feats despite the fact that he could not compete during the most promising years of his career.
Yet it was precisely because of what he did during those years, during the years of World War II, that he is my hero. It was during those years that he helped to save hundreds of Jews from the Nazis. Yad VaShem is still researching the details of his story in order to determine whether Bartali merits the designation of Righteous among the Nations, the highest honor given to those non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews. I first learned of Gino’s story from a fellow cyclist. Here are the details of that story.
On the days that I forget this command I remember the story of Gino Bartali, an Italian cycling legend. One might think that I admire him for his extraordinary cycling accomplishments. He won the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948 and the Giro d’Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946. In addition he won the Giro’s mountain stages a record seven times and stood on the winner’s podium over 170 times. He accomplished these feats despite the fact that he could not compete during the most promising years of his career.
Yet it was precisely because of what he did during those years, during the years of World War II, that he is my hero. It was during those years that he helped to save hundreds of Jews from the Nazis. Yad VaShem is still researching the details of his story in order to determine whether Bartali merits the designation of Righteous among the Nations, the highest honor given to those non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews. I first learned of Gino’s story from a fellow cyclist. Here are the details of that story.
Gino Bartali began working for the underground in September 1943 after the Germans occupied much of Italy. During this time over 10,000 Italian Jews were deported to concentration camps. 7,000 died there. His clandestine job was to smuggle documents to a convent that produced false papers for persecuted Jews. And so Bartali rode from his home to the convent, from Florence to the outskirts of Assisi and back again, with these smuggled papers hidden in the frame of his bicycle. He convinced the soldiers guarding the road that he was on a 235-mile training ride. He rode this route at least 40 times. On other occasions he also rode to Genoa (145 miles from Florence), where he would pick up money to distribute to Jewish families.
Florence was liberated in August 1944 so in one year’s time he rode over 10,000 miles. His efforts helped to save some 800 Jews. Only yesterday it was also revealed that Bartali hid a Jewish family in his cellar during that painful year of the German occupation.
Giorgio, then a young boy, still remembers the day the British entered Florence and he was able to leave Gino Bartali’s basement and walk the city’s streets. “I went out and saw a British soldier with the word ‘Palestine’ and the Star of David embroidered on his shoulders. [The soldier was a member of the British Army’s Jewish Brigade.] I went up to him and started to hum the Hatikvah. He heard me and spoke to me in English. I understood that we were free, thanks to Gino…”
Bartali remained humble and even secretive about his clandestine, and dangerous, wartime efforts. On one occasion, however, he offered a few words about his remarkable deeds. Bartali said, “Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket."
Let that be a temper to my competitive spirit and my efforts to ride faster and farther. We must always remember that refining the soul is always better, and far more important, than polishing any trophy.
One of the greatest and most successful professional cyclists understood this. Let his example be my inspiration!
Florence was liberated in August 1944 so in one year’s time he rode over 10,000 miles. His efforts helped to save some 800 Jews. Only yesterday it was also revealed that Bartali hid a Jewish family in his cellar during that painful year of the German occupation.
Giorgio, then a young boy, still remembers the day the British entered Florence and he was able to leave Gino Bartali’s basement and walk the city’s streets. “I went out and saw a British soldier with the word ‘Palestine’ and the Star of David embroidered on his shoulders. [The soldier was a member of the British Army’s Jewish Brigade.] I went up to him and started to hum the Hatikvah. He heard me and spoke to me in English. I understood that we were free, thanks to Gino…”
Bartali remained humble and even secretive about his clandestine, and dangerous, wartime efforts. On one occasion, however, he offered a few words about his remarkable deeds. Bartali said, “Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket."
Let that be a temper to my competitive spirit and my efforts to ride faster and farther. We must always remember that refining the soul is always better, and far more important, than polishing any trophy.
One of the greatest and most successful professional cyclists understood this. Let his example be my inspiration!
Addendum
One might wonder how the details of Bartali's heroics came to light. Here is that convoluted story.
Despite the fact that he was secretive about his wartime efforts, he did share a number of details with his son Andrea. As they would ride their bicycles together Bartali would sometimes point out where he had hid in a ravine, but always insisted that his clandestine efforts never be revealed. It was his son, who after his father’s death in May 2000, began sharing what he knew. Even he did not know all of the remarkable details. The son only broke his pledge of silence because of an unusual circumstance. Paola Alberati, an Italian professional cyclist and political science student, met Bartali’s mechanic, Ivo Faltoni, who was one of the only people who knew of Bartali’s clandestine wartime efforts. I imagine that the mechanic helped him hide the documents in his bicycle frame. And so Faltoni began researching the details of the Italian cyclist’s heroics. The political science student uncovered police records detailing their suspicions about Bartali and revealing the dangers that he faced. Newspaper stories followed and witnesses emerged. One Jewish survivor said to Andrea, “I wouldn’t have been born if your father hadn’t helped and
protected my parents.” And that is why we are only now learning of Gino Bartali's greatest achievements.
Some Medals are Pinned to Your Soul
Bartali Honoured For Saving Jews During The Holocaust | Cyclingnews.com
A fellow cyclist shared this article about Gino Bartali, the Italian champion cyclist and winner of the Giro d'Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946 and the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948. Apparently Yad VaShem is researching whether he also deserves recognition as one of the Righteous of the Nations, those who worked to save Jews from the World War II Nazi death machine. His long rides were not the apparent training rides that others thought them to be but instead efforts to smuggle documents to Jews seeking to escape. These documents were hidden in his bicycle. It is also reported that at least on one such occasion he led Jews across the Alps himself. Explaining it as part of his training he pulled a wagon behind his bicycle with a secret compartment holding Jewish refugees. His efforts helped to save the lives of 800 Jews. His only public comment about these efforts was the statement: "Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket." He died in May 2000.
Let that be a temper to my competitive spirit and my efforts to ride faster and farther.
And the next time I get up out of my saddle and try to muscle up a climb I should remember to use the derailleur instead and shift to an easier gear. It is the derailleur that Bartali also helped to pioneer.
I must remember that refining the soul is always better, and far more important, than polishing any trophy.
A fellow cyclist shared this article about Gino Bartali, the Italian champion cyclist and winner of the Giro d'Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946 and the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948. Apparently Yad VaShem is researching whether he also deserves recognition as one of the Righteous of the Nations, those who worked to save Jews from the World War II Nazi death machine. His long rides were not the apparent training rides that others thought them to be but instead efforts to smuggle documents to Jews seeking to escape. These documents were hidden in his bicycle. It is also reported that at least on one such occasion he led Jews across the Alps himself. Explaining it as part of his training he pulled a wagon behind his bicycle with a secret compartment holding Jewish refugees. His efforts helped to save the lives of 800 Jews. His only public comment about these efforts was the statement: "Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket." He died in May 2000.
Let that be a temper to my competitive spirit and my efforts to ride faster and farther.
And the next time I get up out of my saddle and try to muscle up a climb I should remember to use the derailleur instead and shift to an easier gear. It is the derailleur that Bartali also helped to pioneer.
I must remember that refining the soul is always better, and far more important, than polishing any trophy.
September 11
It was a beautiful August morning. The temperature was a comfortable 70 degrees. I was riding along Asharoken Avenue towards Eatons Neck. My legs felt strong and I was setting a fast pace, despite the gusting head wind. The dune grass blew in the breeze. The waves on the Sound lapped at the expanse of sand. I was riding on my favorite flat, a road that extends for miles along the shoreline. I looked up and saw a blue sky, absent of clouds. It was a perfect morning. I could focus on my riding. I could contemplate the beauty of this moment.
It was almost as if it was an early fall morning. The blue sky was nearly as deep and blue as that of a September day. And then it happened. The perfect blue sky reminded me not of the grandeur of God’s creation but instead of a morning nearly ten years earlier, the morning of September 11. The perfect moment was stolen. Memories of that terror stricken day filled my thoughts. I was taken back to another day, one that began with blue skies and the grandeur of God’s tapestry, but ended in darkness and clouds of smoke and ash.
Ten years ago, on what began as a perfect fall morning, I was driving to my office. I looked to the sky and thought to myself, what an extraordinary day. There were no clouds, only the deep blue sky of an early fall day. I silently offered praise to God for this beautiful creation. And then I turned on the radio to hear reports of the first plane striking the North Tower. Soon I would be driving East on the LIE after collecting my children from school, looking at the empty West bound lanes, save the occasional emergency vehicle careening towards the city, as signs flashed “New York City Closed.”
I lost no family member or friend on that day, not even a member of the synagogue I still proudly serve; yet I remain wounded. Ten years later time moves forward. Eight year olds become eighteen year olds heading to their first semester in college. And time moves backward. Even the sky stands as a silent reminder of that day. Ten years later moments are too often stolen. Terror still finds its way into my soul. A perfect blue sky and a favorite morning bike ride turns into the drive back to our house ten years earlier and my feeble attempts to explain to my then eight year old and five year old what happened to our city. As I drove my children home I knew that the world they were born into had been forever changed. Ten years later I still did not know how.
Every sky would be tinged with that day, every moment would be tempered. Judaism counsels that even at the happiest of occasions, a wedding, we break a glass before adjourning for hours of dancing and celebration. It is taught that we do this in remembrance of the ancient tragedy of the Temple’s destruction. In the midst of great happiness we pause, if only briefly, to remember the tragedy that changed our people forever. With that cataclysmic act we were transformed from a people whose lives revolved around one Temple to a people spread out and oriented towards many temples. Thousands of years later we know what that destruction fashioned. It helped to create a people devoted to prayer rather than sacrifices, Torah study rather than pilgrimages, ordinary acts of lovingkindness rather than priestly rites. Thousands of years later the memory of that searing day is distant, but its import is clear.
Ten years later the memory of September 11 is clear, but its meaning is still unimaginable. Ten years later we do not know yet if we should, or even can, break a glass. We have not yet figured out what this day might mean. But we have come to understand the following. The best of moments are still unexpectedly stolen and transformed into moments of sadness and pain. Ten years later even blue skies can become darkened by memories.
Nonetheless on my return, still riding on Asharoken Avenue, the wind was now at my back and the joy of riding into the future found its way back into my heart.
Tzav Sermon
Finally, back on schedule. Here is this week's sermon.
The nurturing of our own Jewish souls is in our hands. And we have to tend to these fires with our own hands. So finally, Spring is here. Let’s ride!
In this week’s portion we learn that the altar fire had to be constantly maintained. I imagine that this was an enormously difficult task for the priests. The olah sacrifice in particular had to be burned up entirely on the altar. That is why its root meaning comes from the word to go up. That is a very powerful fire indeed.
Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook saw in this altar fire an analogy to the Jewish heart. Just like this ancient fire had to be kept burning, so too must we keep the Jewish flame burning in our hearts. But today there are no priests to tend to this fire. With the destruction of the Temple and the resulting democratization of Judaism this task fell to each of us. It is each of our responsibilities. Each of us must nurture our own spiritual fire. I can’t do this for you. But just because I can’t do this for you, does not mean that you have to do this by yourself.
An analogy to sports. My two favorite sports are swimming and biking. I seem to be drawn to the pursuit of going faster and farther. My new goal, by the way, is open water swims. Many people mistakenly think that swimming and biking are solitary sports. They are in the sense that you have to swim yourself and pedal for yourself. But there is also a community of people who support each other.
When you are doing laps, you cheer each other on during breaks. When you are biking the sense of community is even stronger. I have met people on the trail when mountain biking. You talk for a while and then ride together, and pull each other along. When road biking you pull each other along even more.
On pro teams there are strategies that are all about the team succeeding and helping the lead rider win the race. If there is a crosswind, someone rides to block the wind. If a headwind another rides in front so the lead rider can follow him. Another is charged with attacking the mountains to tire the opposing teams. Even competitors help each other out. A competitor might hold your bike so that you can take off your jacket (or even so that you can go to the bathroom while riding.)
This year’s Tour deFrance controversy was actually not so much about doping or Lance Armstrong’s poor showing, but that Cantador passed Schleck when his bike suffered mechanical problems. This was breaking with biking etiquette and its strong notion of community. You are not supposed to take advantage of another rider’s bike failure.
I have to say the most fun thing to do when road biking is drafting. When you draft and ride within inches of another’s rear wheel, you use 30-40% less energy! You still have to pedal yourself. And this is exactly my point, and why I think I love biking and swimming. You have to do the hard work yourself. You can only succeed if you work hard yourself. Others can help you and even support you, but they can’t do the job for you.
Most people seem to like team sports where each person has a specialty. This one is a keeper, the other a striker. This one is a shooting guard, another the power forward. You can be on a winning team but not do any of the hard work. This is how people start to think about life in general. I believe that this is the wrong model, especially when thinking about our Jewish lives. It suggests that Judaism or being Jewishly literate is a specialty. It suggests that it is the same as it was in the Bible, in the days of the priest.
That is not how it is anymore. There are no Jewish specialists. All of us are supposed to be our own Jewish specialists. We each have to tend to our own fires. We each have to nurture our own Jewish souls. Of course you should not start off by riding 100 miles (unless you are on my JCB biking email list).
So here is where you can start nurturing your Jewish souls. Read a Jewish book. Say a blessing. Soon you will be able to thank God for the blooming of flowers. Use the words of our tradition to thank God for spring. Do a Jewish act. Light candles. Eat hamentashen (food is good for the soul too). Encourage more people to join us for services—and attend more frequently. Here we pray together, but separately. We should note that no one can sing like our cantor, but she is still only the prayer leader. She does not pray for you. Our prayers join hers.
Give tzedakah. Do gemilut hasadim. Here are a few of those acts of lovingkindness. Visit the sick. Comfort the mourners. Dance with bride and groom. And promise me this. Please don’t ever think that doing Jewish things is just about what we are doing here. It is so much more than prayer. It is much more than our synagogue. Our Judaism has to be carried with us from here to every place we visit and touch.
Back to riding. I can of course ride in front of you and you can even draft off me. I won’t mind. It does not make my pedaling any harder, only yours easier. Besides I will enjoy the company. Hopefully you will as well. But you have to, you must, do the pedaling yourself. You have to do the hard work yourself, each and every minute, of each and every hour, of each and every day.
Biking to Blessings
Recently I have been thinking about the beauty of Long Island. I have heard the skeptics. I recognize that many people do not think our home is a particularly beautiful place. That is most likely because they spend most of their time negotiating traffic on the LIE. No matter how you might justify it, traffic is not beautiful. But if you venture to Northern Boulevard or even farther north to the rockly coastline of the shore you will find the beauty of this island. As far as I am concerned the best way to appreciate the beauty and majesty of this place is on a bike. This past weekend I took my new bike out for a long ride and made my way back and forth from Target Rock to Eatons Neck. I made my way up the hill to the entrance of Caumsett State Park and rode around one of the most exquisite parks on Long Island. When you venture away from the noise and tumult of the LIE you can see the lines that God drew in the rocks along the Sound. When you go slow enough you can breath in the moist, salty air of the Long Island Sound and hear the sound of God's voice echoing in the gentle lapping of the sea's waves. The choice is yours. You can curse the traffic or recite the blessings for nature. You have to allow yourself time to slow down. Cars are meant to go too fast to recite blessings. A bike travels at the right speed. On a bike the blessings roll more easily off your lips.