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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