Community Views
Editor's Notebook
We Are All Equal
In The Sight Of God
The Secrets
A Quiet Heart Hears
RABBI WILLIAM GERSHON SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS
ELIZABETH APPLEBAUM ASSOCIATE EDITOR
The great sage
Ben-Zoma is quot-
ed in the Talmud
as saying that the
most important
words in the
Torah are in the
statement that
God fashioned hu-
man beings in His image.
Everything else we do — the
way we live our lives, the way we
treat our spouses and children,
the way we act toward strangers
and the way we regard
ourselves — every-
thing follows from that
one insight.
Juda ism introduced
to the world the idea
that all of humanity is
bound together, that
we are children of the
same eternal parent.
To be created in the di-
vine image teaches
three guiding principles of life:
1) human value is without lim-
it — "to save one life is to save
an entire world"; 2) we are all
equal in God's sight; and 3) at
the same time, we are totally
unique, different reflections of
God.
If a Van Gogh painting can sell
for $8 million, as one once did,
how much is an image of God
worth? Of course, the answer is
obvious: A life is priceless.
Judaism teaches that there is
nothing more precious than life.
William Gershon is associate
rabbi at Congregation Shaarey
Zedek.
That is the underlying reason "Man is not God, nor could he be-
why the Jewish people don't think come God. He can become like
twice about raising $1 billion to God." When we treat others as be-
bring home Jews from the former ing made in the image of God we
Soviet Union to the safety of the live up to the divine potential that
Land of Israel. It is also why the is within each of us. When we re-
UJA will spend a million dollars ject or ignore another image of
to rescue not 100 Jews, not even God, we reject that divinity.
10 Jews, but just one Jew, one
We are so ready to dismiss
life, from harm's way in Ethiopia people, to write them off. If we
or Bosnia or anywhere in the think they have nothing to teach
world.
us, we do not take them serious-
A story: A young artist, a boy ly except insofar as they can be
of 5 or 6, was drawing a picture useful to us.
at his desk. His mother looked. at
It is amazing what one can
learn at a car wash. In
recent months, every
time my car is finished,
I receive from one of the
men a card with his
name imprinted on it. I
used to think this was
nice, but I just had my
car cleaned and the last
thing I wanted was a
new piece of paper I
have to throw out later.
his effort and asked what he was Then, as I thought about it, I
drawing. "A picture of God," he came to realize that the man who
replied "But how do you do that?" gave me the card can feel like a
she asked. "Nobody knows what mentsh about what he does, and
God looks like." To which the boy the card reminds me that he is
says, "They will when I finish the created btzelem e'lohim, just like
picture!"
me, and I need to recognize that
How we act and how we treat spark of divinity that is within
others represents, in a sense, him. -
what God looks like. There is a
Judaism teaches us that we
story told of Abraham Joshua are valuable as people, whether
Heschel. A child once asked him, we are smart or not, wealthy or
"What does God see when He not, good-looking or not, perfect
looks in a mirror?" Heschel or not. Each of us is a valuable
turned to the child and said, person because we are created in
"When God looks into a mirror He God's image. Even on our worst
sees the good deeds of human be- days, we are holy in the eyes of
ings on earth."
God. We are sacred human be-
It was Erich Fromm who said, ings.
❑
Big Trouble For Procrastinators
ERICA MEYER RAUZIN SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS
I
am in big trouble now.
All those things I postponed,
all those appointments I didn't
make, all those chores I put off,
are about to come crashing down
around my ears.
Why?
Because I delayed them with
a single, highly effective phrase
that is about to totally deflate.
Since early October, every time
anybody has asked me to do any-
thing, I've replied, "Sure, but can
I do that after the first of the year?'
Of course, they said.
Guess what, it's here.
Responsibility is about to rear
its ugly little head. All of a sud-
den, every organization from the
PTA to the IRS is going to expect
me to turn into a whirlwind of en-
ergy. Now I know why bears hi-
bernate until spring.
Procrastination is a wonderful
thing. I never had any problem
understanding Scarlett O'Hara's
faith that all sorts of ill winds
could be blown away if one first
decided, "I'll think about it to-
morrow."
My willingness to procrastinate
is helped by a couple of environ-
mental factors around me. The
first is that we have so many pro-
jects and tasks going on that it is
very easy to hide something so well
that it drops totally out of sight—
and, of course, out of mind.
HI want to really forget about
writing an extra article for the
student newspaper, all I have to
do is put the request memo at the
bottom of the stack on my desk.
The only problem with this
dodge is that someone else does
want it. I know the moment will
come when the school librarian,
who is the adviser to the paper,
will call me up and say, "Hi. Do
you suppose I could have that ar-
ticle tomorrow?"
At that point, I will need to
muster sufficient wit not to reply,
"What article?" And, n be forced
to write it overnight; that's me,
the Fed Ex of procrastination.
This does not only apply to
writing. This applies to getting
things fixed. I find I can tolerate
a long stretch of living with a
slightly broken machine.
So what if the refrigerator door
needs an extra kick when you
close it? The machine cools the
food, doesn't it?
This bad habit means that
every appliance in our house has
a small, untended quirk that will
probably continue to be untend-
ed until the machine quits func-
tioning entirely. The toaster light
doesn't go on, but it still toasts.
I just hope nobody wants me to
do anything else. I don't believe I
could handle adding one more
task to my agenda.
"Sure," I'll say. "Let's do it af-
ter Pesach."
❑
It's inevitable
that whenever I
write a contro-
versial article,
which is often, I
get hate calls.
"It's obvious
you're not a Zion-
ist!" someone
screamed after I
wrote about the unfortunate
lives of Herzl's children.
"You're the one who wrote
that? What were you thinking?"
is another all-purpose, popular
response.
Of course, these are better
than no reaction at all. It's a
strange feeling to write a pleas-
ant little piece, nothing con-
troversial, and then hear not a
word — especially from the
subject. (Although I actually
have had people come up to me
and say, "You know that sto-
ry you wrote about me two
years ago? I always meant to
tell you it was really nice.")
What do I care whether I get
response to what I write? It
goes to the very heart of being
a journalist, a heart that lis-
tens to and lives the experi-
ences of each subject.
Except for when I was quite
young, and like most girls had
dreams of being a ballerina, I
always wanted to be a reporter.
Part of it is simply the writing,
which I love. But another inte-
gral aspect is the unusual re-
lationship between a journalist
and subject.
For a matter of moments —
perhaps several hours, perhaps
less — I have the opportunity
to ask anything, see every-
thing, learn all I can about
someone else's experience.
Many stories I approach as
though I were a method actor.
I like to live it; I want the de-
tails. If I interview a ranger, I
want to find out his favorite
time to be alone in the forest
and then do it myself. I go out
at sunset and hold my cheek to
the rough bark of the trees, and
smell the thick scent of pine,
and look into the deep blue of
the evening sky. I want to learn
the best ways of fire fighting
and the names of animals that
thrive in the forest.
I always laugh when I see
that portrait of a journalist
throwing his microphone in
someone's face and yelling, "So,
your whole family was just
murdered by terrorists. How
does that make you feel?" I
laugh because it's true. We do
that.
But for me, it's not just a
matter of getting a story on
deadline. It's trying to under-
stand the incomprehensible.
Maybe, just maybe, this person
will say to me, "How does it feel
to have a family murdered by
terrorists? It feels like rm dead,
but I still have to be alive. It
feels like I've been set on fire in
my heart." Then I will begin to
understand. Then I will write
it down so that others, the read-
ers, will understand, too.
I'm not a big talker, and I've
found that listening is one of
the most vital skills a reporter
can have. When a journalist
who can really listen meets up
with someone who has some-
thing important to say, a re-
markable relationship is
formed.
The subject will tell a re-
porter details his own family
doesn't know. He will remem-
ber things he had forgotten
years ago, speak of taboo sub-
jects or of incidents that caused
him immeasurable grief. He
will hold up the most private
part of his being, his soul, in
the most public of forums, a
newspaper.
The journalist, in turn, will
see into a world he could nev-
er even have imagined. He will
hear, as I have, of those who
saw their parents murdered in
the Nazi death camps, of physi-
cians on the verge of major
medical discoveries, of long-lost
family members found 40 years
after they were believed dead;
and of parents whose children
have died.
"For you, this is just a story,"
a woman told me after she
agreed, but only following
much pleading on my part, to
tell me of her experiences in
the Holocaust. "For me, this is
my life."
But it was not just a story for
me. It was a privilege — both
to hear and then to write. I
think of her often.
I think, too, of the blonde
man, who has since died of
AIDS. He had only a matter of
weeks to live when we spoke,
yet he was gracious enough to
call after the article appeared
and tell me he thought it was
terrific.
I think of the war veteran
who told me he could feel the
souls of the lost, the men who
had given their lives in war.
I think of the parents whose
lives were forever shattered by
the death of their son, of how
when I accidentally brushed
my pen against their expensive
couch the husband said, "It
doesn't matter," because noth-
ing, nothing in the world mat-
tered anymore.
No, it is not my life, but
these stories do become a part
of me. They get into my very
bones, and flow in and out of
my heart just as certainly as
blood.
❑