10 | SEPTEMBER 22 • 2022
essay
The Fast I Have Chosen
E
lliott Shevin wrote up an
incident that occurred
at our synagogue a few
years ago, when he was shul
president. His account was
never published.
It occurs to
me that, as we
prepare for the
Days of Awe this
year, we should
know this story:
The Fast I Desire
Apparently, Dennis under-
stood one thing about Judaism:
on a Saturday morning, a
building with Hebrew writing
on the outside would likely be
occupied. Perhaps he could find
help here.
So, the hour just before
the service on Yom Kippur
morning found him standing
in the space our small con-
gregation rented from a local
school. A middle-aged man,
he was dressed casually: a San
Francisco Forty-Niners jacket,
a baseball cap, slacks. Nothing
unusual, but a sharp contrast to
our suits and ties.
It was early, and only Moshe
and I were there. As Moshe was
nearer, Dennis addressed him:
“
Are you the rabbi?”
“No, the rabbi isn’t here.
”
“Perhaps I can help,
” I volun-
teered.
With no other option, our
visitor accepted, on the condi-
tion that we speak in private.
We found a room and a pair of
chairs, we exchanged introduc-
tions, and he shared his story.
He was a veteran, he
explained. He had served in
various postings in Central
America in the mid-1980s.
Perhaps he’
d seen combat
there, as he had said he suffered
from PTSD. Servicemen and
women who had risked the last
full measure of devotion, only
to leave the military even less
prepared for civilian life than
when they had entered, had
been no more than anecdotes
before. Now one of them sat
before me.
His immediate concern was
keeping a roof over his head,
and those of his wife and two
daughters. They had been living
in Battle Creek — had I heard
of that place? — but recently
moved to Detroit. They’
d spent
a month in a motel room on the
charity of the owner, but that
arrangement had ended. They
now occupied an apartment
about three miles to the south.
He worked odd jobs to make
ends meet, as his full pension
from the VA didn’t suffice. The
dirt under his fingernails, he
said, came from a recent stint
cleaning a driveway.
He seemed to perceive his
presence as incongruous,
and this weighed upon him.
Assurances and justifications
formed the bulk of his mono-
logue. He repeatedly apologized
for his appearance, spoke of his
unease at being a Black man in
a white neighborhood (unaware
of the half-dozen Black house-
holds just a block away), reas-
sured me that his missing upper
incisor had been pulled by a
dentist and not lost in a fight.
Indeed, the only reason one
might doubt his sincerity was
his continuous assertions of it.
What he sought was obvious,
but as he never mentioned it
explicitly and spoke almost
nonstop, he left no opening to
explain why, on this particular
morning, an observant Jewish
congregation wouldn’t be able
to help him.
Before long, our elder rabbi,
who could hardly miss the odd
sight of this stranger engaging
his synagogue president, joined
us. Dennis redirected his appeal
to him, eventually explaining
his need: a small sum to make
the rent on the apartment. “I get
paid in a couple of days. I can
come back on Tuesday and pay
you back…
” and he named a
figure half again as large as what
he was asking.
“You needn’t do that. And we
do want to help you,
” explained
the rabbi. “But — and you may
have a hard time believing
this — this is a holiday for us,
and none of us is carrying any
money.
” He turned his empty
pocket inside out to emphasize
the point.
“Perhaps some of the people
who come later…?”
“No, they won’t have any
money either.
”
“Do you have any at home?
We could ride to your house….
”
“No, we don’t ride today.
”
We passed a while in silent
thought before I volunteered, “If
you’ll excuse us, perhaps we can
think of something.
” The rabbi
and I stepped into the hallway,
agreed on a plan and returned
to our visitor.
“It happens that there is some
money on the premises. Please
follow me.
”
I led him to the cabinet that
holds our prayer books and
indicated a silver-plated con-
tainer. “That is our charity box.
I can’t handle it myself, but
you’re welcome to whatever is
inside.
”
He emptied the box and
asked if we would count the
contents. “You’ll have to do
that for yourself,
” I explained.
By this time, our younger rabbi
had appeared. We found a room
where the tally showed that
Dennis was now just $10 shy of
his goal. With thanks, he pre-
pared to walk the three miles to
the apartment, perhaps to close
the shortfall along the way.
By now it was time for
prayers to begin. On holidays,
by rabbinic ordinance, we don’t
conduct business transactions,
leading our younger rabbi to
ponder, “I’m not sure we did the
right thing.
”
On this morning, as on every
Yom Kippur, the prophetic
reading from Isaiah provided an
answer:
Is such the fast I desire,
A day for men to starve their
bodies?
Is it bowing the head like a bul-
rush
And lying in sackcloth and ashes?
Do you call that a fast,
A day when the Lord is favor-
able?
No, this is the fast I desire:
To unlock fetters of wickedness,
And untie the cords of the yoke
To let the oppressed go free;
To break off every yoke.
It is to share your bread with the
hungry,
And to take the wretched poor
into your home.
Today we’
d been tested.
Would we merely starve our
bodies and bow our heads? Or
would we also share our bread
and house the homeless?
Isaiah would say we passed.
Louis Finkelman, JN contributing writ-
er, teaches at Lawrence Technological
University. He serves as half of the
rabbinic team at Congregation Or
Chadash in Oak Park. This was first
published in Times of Israel.
PURELY COMMENTARY
Rabbi Louis
Finkelman
L’Shana Tova
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