For Papi: My Other Dad

A wise person once said "If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all".

Advice like this came from not only my own dad, but from our "Papi", the father of one of my closest and dearest friends, and a man whom I loved as much as anyone could love a second father. I dedicate my return to the keyboard to Papi, who was called home to haShem last week after a courageous battle with cancer. Through it all, though, when asked of his health, the reply was always: Never better. He always was.

During my own family struggles these past several months, (which kept me from writing), Papi was always the man of reason. He was always there for me with a joke and a smile, and every Friday night, he stood in proxy for my own dad and gave me the Parental Blessing. I will miss him.

And so I return now to this column after several difficult months, wherein I refrained from writing for fear that any negativity that I may have been feeling would seep out into this Column; and as such, I kept my pain (as well as my joy) to myself and kept my relatively big mouth shut; until now.

A year ago, I wrote that I find this time of year the "most wonderful" of all the seasons. Spring flowers are in full bloom; the grass on fairways is green and the sound of wooden bats cracking baseballs 400 plus feet over outfield walls has again made its way back into our lives.

The most wonderful sound, though, is the voice of the youngest at the table asking "Why is this night different from all other nights?", and our response that we were once slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt. Add to this, the magic of being surrounded by loved ones; friends and family and friends of family and the sum of this equation is simply this: It is the most wonderful time of the year.

This is a time to reflect on the past. A past of some 3,200 years ago when G-d took us from bondage and slavery with a strong hand and an outstretched arm and gave us Torah fifty days later. It is a time to celebrate our freedom from our slavery in Egypt and a time to rejoice in our independence.

I would agree with everything that I have just written with the exception of the existence of one minor question: Are we free from bondage?

A year ago at our Seder, my first in the presence of only my boys, my youngest son, who is now 15 years old noted that we each live in our own Mitzrayim; our own "personal Egypt". Whether we be slaves to our school work, our jobs, our rent or mortgage; car payment or simply slaves to our society or the expectations that society places on us, our freedom can and will come from one source and only from one source: Faith.

Faith that the sun will rise in the morning; faith that the moon will show its wonder after dark; faith that I will awake with the sun, breathe and again be able to enjoy another day in this mixed up, yet wonderful world. Above all, faith that one more person today, just one more person, will also begin to have this faith, for until many more of us do, our woes as a world of human beings will continue.

It is said and believed that each of us has reason to be here; that we each have a purpose in this life, and whether or not we know what that purpose is, is irrelevant. The mere fact that we are here says something.

The wonderful poetess Linda Ellis, in her poem "The Dash", wrote of the dash between the dates of birth and death on our tombstones:

For it matters not how much we own;
The cars the house the cash
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

Papi lived this way. His dash bright and knowing; full of life and living; caring and loving; and most of all, in awe of the wonders of G-d and of Torah.

May we too, this Passover season, find our own personal Egypt and from it, find our own peace, independence and salvation from affliction, slavery and bondage. By listening to the Papi in all of us, maybe the beautiful words of Linda Ellis will help us to realize what life is really about, and if it is still difficult, just look outside and wonder in the amazing world that G-d created for all of us to enjoy.

From the Left Coast in Sunny Southern California, I wish you a very happy and healthy Passover, Shabbat Shalom and as always, Ahava u'Vrachot. Love and Blessings...

--Rabbi Alan Abrams

The Shortest Day of the Year

You may recall that several months ago I wrote a column called "Who Will Say Kaddish for Us" (April 10, 2010), and in it, I asked that we take a look at ourselves and ask ourselves what it means to truly be happy with who we are and with what we have.

After a long summer, filled with many changes, and an even longer autumn, replete with much tragedy and loss, I find myself again asking that we take yet another look at ourselves. This time, however, I ask: Who will say Kaddish for them.

Having spent many an hour in and out of Skilled Nursing facilities and Hospice facilities as a visiting Rabbi, (the key word being "in and out"), (except for an extended period as a patient), I had only done so in my professional role and until this past July, when faced with my grandmother's admittance to a like facility. Sadly, I had never felt that I had a reason for spending more than the requisite half hour or so with the specific patient whom I had intended on visiting, nor did I believe that I had the time to visit others; and even then, I had never allowed myself to become involved with them beyond a quick hello, or to offer a brief Mishaberach (healing) prayer on my way to my next stop in a busy day.

This of course changed in late June when my grandmother was sent to a Skilled Nursing facility following a terrible automobile accident, and my days this past summer were spent almost in their entirety at the facility. There, I visited not only her, but her neighbors and new friends; patients both in and out of consciousness; their families and friends, and of course, deeply rooted new friendships formed with both residents and with the dedicated staff of medical professionals and administrators.

And then, one day in late August, my grandmother died.

Would her neighbors and friends be now again forgotten? What about others in other homes? Who will visit them??

Most of these folks have no family, or what family they do have, rarely visit. Which, then leads me to ask: Who will say Kaddish for them?

The famous sage Hillel was known to have said "If I am not for myself, then who will be for me; and if not now, when?"

Are our friends in these homes and facilities not us? Are they not our grandparents, our uncles and aunts?? Our brothers and sisters??? And, if they are us, as I believe them to be, we owe it to them to visit them while they are still with us; and, we owe it to them to say Kaddish for them once they have passed on to Olam haBa.

For these reasons, I have begun a program of Bikurei Holim; visitation to the sick that encompasses many of the Skilled Nursing facilities in the Los Angeles area. My goal is to reach out to our brothers and sisters in these facilities by providing Chaplaincy services while visiting each patient three times weekly, and Palliative Care Chaplaincy when necessary, even if it means being on-call daily and nightly.

Our program, Mobile Rabbinic Chaplaincy Services will kick off officially on January 1, 2011. Should you be interested in helping us achieve these goals, please visit our website.

At this time each year, the time of the secular holiday season, I find myself often wondering where the "holiday spirit" that seems to be present this month goes almost immediately after New Years Day. I find that even trips down major boulevards bring visions of decorations and light displays them themselves call for us to be kind and gentle to each other, yet, at the same time, this time of year almost always makes me wonder why these feelings of "good tidings" are only present during the period between Thanksgiving and New Years.

Wouldn't it be nice if everyone were just as nice the rest of the year? What might we be able to do to make it so?

Last week, while driving to Los Angeles along the 101 Freeway, sitting in heavy traffic, as is normal for any time of day, I looked to the sky. It was dark; grey; cloudy; cold. It appeared to be ready to open up and rain. In an instant, though, this all became irrelevant, as a large flock of birds flew in a southerly direction in perfect formation. At that very moment I was reminded of the perfection that continues to remain in the world. It occurred to me that no matter the weather; no matter the grim outlook of ongoing war and economic strife and sickness that is all around us, the world is, in fact, unfolding exactly as it should, and that the smile brought to my face by the flying birds can be brought to everyone, by us, by just thinking of those birds, and passing the smile along to the driver next to us on the freeway, or the person crossing the street, or whomever you happen to meet next.

Maybe if we remember those birds and remember to smile a little more, we can keep the feeling of December all year long. It is worth a try, at least, isn't it?

From rainy damp and chilly Southern California, where the sun always shines (in our hearts, if no place else), I wish you Ahavah, uVrachot, Love and Blessings for a wonderful week and Shabbat Shalom.

--Rabbi Alan Abrams

When push comes to shove, blood is not thicker than water; Money is.

My father, whom you have read about on numerous occasions; and whom I adored and loved more than any person, save for my wonderful children, taught me many things in our short forty-six years together.

All of which, so far, have turned out to be quite correct, with the exception of one glaring item, which, truth be told, is the one thing that should absolutely be correct, but sadly, these past few weeks I have learned otherwise.

"Blood is thicker than water", he would say. Relating of course to family bonds, loyalty and love; meaning that no matter what, in the end, blood, family loyalty and respect for that loyalty will triumph over anything and anyone who tries to break that bond of blood over water.

On Rosh haShana, of all days, I learned that this is not true, when the Mezzuzah that adorned the doorpost of my grandmother's home, in which I live, was stolen, and in it's place, a note was left by the thief, not only identifying himself by name, but admitting that he was the thief! Later in the day, he reached my by telephone (I initially answered as I saw the number and thought that the call was due to my mother being hospitalized) and told me to go get the note that he had left for me where the "F***ing 'Jew Thing' used to be on the door". He subsequently left me four voice mail messages threatening my life, using highly anti-Semitic rants if I did not leave my grandmother's house and move back to Arizona. He then showed up at my residence a few days later and pointed his fingers at me like a gun and reminded me through the window that he owns guns and knows how to use them.

The following day, I did what any normal person would do, and filed for protection with the Superior Court. I was granted a Temporary Restraining Order against this maniac, but lo-and-behold, he was somehow able to evade process of service.

What you may ask does this anti-Jewish piece of dirt have to do with blood being thicker than water? It so happens that he is married to my blood, and she, amazingly enough, condones his behaviour, and even smirked when played his voice mail messages, that, among other rants included his opinion that "Rabbis are just like Catholic Priests; they love to mutilate little boys by cutting off pieces of their penises." And that Rabbis have a "fake f***ing religion."

You see, it is all about the almighty dollar. And that makes me sad. This relative of mine once told me (following a thirteen year gap where the despicable husband interfered previously) that never again would she allow anyone or anything to come between us; that life was too short and that indeed, blood is thicker than water. If only that were true. The truth is, that her goal and that of her insane (born Jewish) Nazi husband is to sell the house in which I live, even though they have no right to it, legal or otherwise.

Her basis is to continue to accuse me of mistakes that I made thirty years ago. Who has not erred?

It is true that each of makes mistakes in our life. The goal is to remedy them, ask forgiveness from those whom we have hurt, atone for them to G-d and move on to better things and a better life. This is the basis for our wonderful faith. Absent this faith, what do we really have?

We would have a life absent joy. Absent the pure simcha of seeing our children go up to the Torah and read; absent the blessing of walking our children to the Chuppah (Wedding Canopy); absent the knowledge that our children have ascended in their lives and Jewish education and have become Jewish adults, we would have a life that is empty and void of happiness.

Should she continue on this path, my relative will never know this joy. For this, I am not angry. I am disappointed and I feel compassion and I feel pity. For the Joy of Torah is absent in her life, and the only G-d that she knows is green, with numbers on its corners and pictures of dead presidents on the front center panel. It is sad indeed.

May she awake someday soon and thank G-d for the day that she has been given; may she open her eyes to Torah and to the knowledge that all she was taught as a young girl is true and is good. May she walk away from the evil that surrounds her and encompasses her life. May she realize that blood is thicker than water. May she come home.

From Sunny Southern California and the Emek in the Maarav, I bid you Ahavah u'Vrachot; Love and Blessings...

--Rabbi Alan Abrams

Ashamnu. I have sinned.

During the month of Elul, and in fact, no less than one week ago, I committed the biggest sin that any one of us can commit.

I have done exactly the opposite of what we are supposed to do during Elul, and not only have I not failed to approach each of you whom I have hurt over the past year and ask forgiveness, I have also done the unconscionable by committing the act of Lashon haRa, publicly and hurting more than one person with one misplaced stone.

Last Shabbat, I misused the pulpit of one of my dearest friends; one of my most respected Colleagues, and in doing so, not only hurt him, but tarred the reputations of a few very respected Rabbis in our community.

This was not done with intentional malice, however, it was done nonetheless, and for these transgressions I must request Slicha; I must request forgiveness from not only them, but from all who were present when I mis-spoke, and from all who read my latest Column.

The matter at hand was the cessation of the Falafel Grill in Agoura Hills to remain a Kosher restaurant. Without verifying with every person involved, I took the word of one person, and due to incidents at another Kosher restaurant last month, allowed myself to become enraged at a situation absent of the complete facts.

The fact is that yes, Falafel Grill is no longer a Kosher establishment; and yes, it is no longer a Kosher establishment due to an increase in the cost of Kosher meat; and yes, the supervising authority was Chabad of Conejo.

The larger fact, however, is that Chabad of Conejo did not increase these costs; they did not force the restaurant to abandon Kashrut, and in fact, during the several years that they held Hashgacha and supervision, never once did they charge Falafel Grill for their supervision, nor did they force Falafel Grill to use one vendor over another. They simply dictated which Shchita was acceptable to their standard. This is not only their right, but their responsibility. Unfortunately, the costs of meeting this standard were too high for this restaurant and they were unable to sustain their business.

That said, I ask forgiveness from each of the Rabbis affiliated with Chabad of Conejo, and hope that you will hear my request for Slicha.

To my dear friend, whose Bima I desecrated with my words of Lashon haRa, I ask your forgiveness, though I may not deserve it. We have known each other over forty years, and in the last two and a half years, as we have become closer, I look to you as a mentor, a guide, a teacher and a Rav. To my dear friend, I beg Slicha.

To those of you that were present last week, and to those of you who read this Column, I ask of you Slicha. I mis-spoke and I mis-wrote. I am sorry and pray that you will all forgive me.

On a similar note and grander scale, on this last Shabbat of the year, I pray that each of you that I have hurt during the past year please forgive me and grant me atonement.

-----------

Last Thursday morning, at 7:15, my grandmother lost her battle against injuries sustained in an automobile accident that is the reason I find myself in Los Angeles.

Over the course of the last two and a half months, I learned many things about her life that were very surprising to me. I learned that many of the facts about her childhood, were not as I had been told previously. I am not sure how I feel about this.

What I do know, though, is that I will miss my Nana as long as I live, and hope to wake up every day to see roses in her garden.

The following I delivered at her Funeral this past Sunday:

ברוך דין האמת. יהוה נתן ויהוה לקח. יהי שם יהוה מבורך.
G-d has given and G-d has taken away.

Over the past three months, I have had more than occasion to think about what I would say today; How I would eulogize my grandmother; How I could possibly put into words what her life meant to me; what, she meant to me.

Over the past three months, day after day, I would sit at her bedside and in the beginning, during the first days and weeks after the terrible accident that would eventually take her life, I would talk with her; hearing stories about which doctor she taught to bake peach cobbler, or how she would constantly have to sweep and clean the first home in which she and my grandfather and mother lived upon arriving in California in 1946.

During the last four or five weeks, the conversation was much less; and most days, not even existent. Most days, if I was able to even give her a small bag of popcorn it was an accomplishment for her to know that I was there.

And even so, even though I have had all this time; even though I easily write and deliver eulogy after eulogy, in this and in other similar chapels, today I am without words. Today, I draw a blank. For there are no words that I know to write; no words that I know to deliver that could even begin to describe my grandmother to you.

As history will tell, on Friday, September 19, 1919, just one week before Rosh haShana, 5680, G-d provided a gift to Raechel and Nathan Weizer of 1800 East 105th Street, Cleveland, Ohio, in the form of a baby girl, Claire.

She took on the role of big sister with love and devotion, caring first for Alfred, and then for baby sister, Gladys, throughout her teen years and up until the time that she met the love of her life, the brother of her best friend Rhea; rough and tough, Herman. The troublemaker; the motorcyclist; the fighter, who snuck around and boxed under the assumed Goyishe name, H. Anthony Shea. Jews – don’t fight.

My grandparents ran away sometime during 1938 and married. It was just before wartime, and eloping seemed the best idea. From what I was told, the family didn’t really buy the whole secretive life, and shortly thereafter, they were married under a Chuppah, and set out to find and live the American dream.

During the Summer of 1939, Maryl was born, and seven years later, the three Shapiros made their move west, to Los Angeles.

Work did not come easily in Los Angeles for a twenty-six year old named Shapiro, so, one day, after passing by the store in Santa Monica, my grandfather listed his name on a job application as “Sears”, and was immediately hired. The official name change was finalized not long after.

Times were especially tough financially and some of the best memories that my mother has, involved skipping along the Venice Boardwalk with her mother on their way to a rare movie, with only an apple for refreshment. Motherhood was difficult also in those days, made even more so by the presence of post war hardships.

At the ripe young age of 42, Claire became a “Nana”, and it was then that she took flight.
I believe that her life’s mission was to be a mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. Even, a Matriarch. Our own version of a real life Alexis Carrington.

Thanksgiving after Thanksgiving; dinner party after dinner party; family birthday celebration, or other reason to get together became her time to shine, and shine she did.
The China was always perfect, as were the Silver and Crystal; the meals were well planned out and delicious. These were her calling cards.

My Nana was not a “Bubbie”. Never. Rather, she was the stereotype of elegance. It shined, as did she.

I only know how to properly set a table, because she taught me.

But this, dear friends, this does not scratch even the surface of who she was.
As wonderful as a grandmother as she was, I cannot even begin to describe her as a Great Grandmother. She carried with her a wonderful and genuine interest in others; especially her family.

My sons, Zac and Dylan, were unable to be here today, as they just started school this past week in Arizona, but Zac sent the following for me to share with you today:
I sincerely apologize for my absence. To all who are here, especially my Grandma, I send only my deepest love.

What is a Matriarch? The first definition on Dictionary.com reads: "The female head of a family or tribal line". If there was an entry for my Nana, that is exactly what it would say. Nana was the oldest member of our wonderfully dysfunctional family, and she held that position with pride for many, many years.

I met Nana 18 years ago, when I was just a baby. Truth be told, my fondest memories of my early childhood consist of visits with her, as well as my grandparents. I always felt that Nana and I shared a very special bond, and over these 18 years, that bond grew. I had so many wonderful conversations with her; I feel like we would talk for days on end whenever she called. The best thing about her is that she practically made excuses just to call me.

A great example of this was just recently, back in May, when she called me to tell me she was watching baseball and that it made her think of me. Truth is that I know for a fact that sports were the absolute least of her interests, but as far as she was concerned, if it made me happy, it made her happy.

I'll never forget last summer when I was in California and she engaged with me an entire discussion about the NBA Finals. And I was even stunned to find out that she actually knew who some of the players were! Anytime I spent time in her home, she always had some sort of article or magazine clipping that she had saved specifically for me. I actually still have every single article in a footlocker at home.

I think everyone can agree that she always had wonderful stories. And my favorite stories were the chivalrous and insanely romantic tales of Papa, the love of her life and one of my all-time heroes. And I'd like to end on a high note with a wonderful story of my favorite Nana being defended by her man:

Papa and Nana were driving on a city street. Well, Papa being the fearless driver that he was, totally and completely cut off a guy who was trying to make a lane change. Well, the red light came and the man had somehow gotten next to the car that Papa was driving. He enticed Papa to roll down the window, and the man immediately began swearing like a sailor.

Language that should NOT be used in front of a woman. Well, Papa couldn't stand for this. So what did he do? He got out of the car. Papa, standing (insert height here; I can't remember how tall he was) and the Pottymouth Motorist, standing well over 6 feet tall, faced off. And with one punch from the muscular former boxer that was Papa, the opponent was knocked to the ground. Papa immediately demanded an apology to Nana, in which the man did very fearfully.

Nana, I know that you and Papa are finally back together. May you spent the rest of eternity reminiscing about great memories like this and making up for all the lost time. I know that you must be thrilled, and I know that it's gonna be one hell of a reunion when I find myself up there with you in 102 years.

Take care of yourself up there. I love you and always will hold a special place in my heart for my favorite matriarch.

I think that Zac said it best, I know that it's gonna be one hell of a reunion when I find myself up there with you when my time comes.

We began the service earlier with the words, יהוה נתן ויהוה לקח.
G-d has given and He has taken away, but let us not believe, even for one moment that He took her away from us. No. Let us know in our heart of hearts that He took the disease from her; that he took her to my grandfather, the love of her life, and that He took her to the Grace and perpetual paradise of Olam haBa, of the next world, after leaving her with us for just a week short of ninety-one years, according to the Hebrew Calendar.

----------

May G-d grant each of Peace in the coming year. May He inscribe and seal us all in the Book of Life and may he continue show us that only His Torah is and remains our light and redemption.

With Ahavah u'Vrachot, Love and Blessings, I wish you Shabbat Shalom and Shana Tovah.

--Rabbi Alan Abrams

Taking off the gloves; Playing with fire... for the sake of Elul...

In the last edition of this Column, you may recall that we spoke of a "Community" Kashrut company, who, while calling themselves "Orthodox" or "Frum", or whatever term they wish to use to describe their sacred and extreme high level of observance, was caught with their proverbial hand in the cookie jar, when in my presence, they were seen and heard extorting money from a small restaurant owner in the San Fernando Valley, before the Community (a code word for their real name) would let them reopen.

Incensed, I wrote about the incident in this Column and was almost immediately besieged by e-mails from readers; almost all of them positive in that it was about time that someone supported the "little guy"; some offering help in "getting the big guys"; and one e-mail, from a dear friend and Colleague warning me against "playing with fire", and one, from a reader in Chicago that accused me, angrily, of sticking my nose into other people's business.

Playing with fire? Are we not talking about Rabbis? With long black coats, disheveled beards, big hats and Tzitit hanging from their pants? They would hurt someone physically?? RIGHT BEFORE THE MONTH OF ELUL???

Friends: Is it not our job as Rabbis, Cantors, Educators and administrators to teach, inspire and try, however we must, to make living a Jewish life easier for those who seek to rejoin our Communities? Is it not the job of all of us to remember that Talmud teaches us that Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh be Zeh? That ALL Jews are responsible each of us for one another? It is our job; it is our duty; it is our lot; period. Failing to believe this; failing to act accordingly and failing to take this responsibility seriously is simply, not very Jewish.

This week, Chaverai, on Rosh Chodesh Elul, on the day that we are supposed to be beginning our Slichot, our asking of others to forgive our behaviour from the past year; I learned that the Kashrut authority in Agoura Hills has caused the Falafel Grill on Kanan Road to abandon their distinction as a Glatt Kosher restaurant. Due to an almost three fold increase in the cost of Kosher meat from the only supplier that the Conejo Chabad will accept as Kosher, as well as significant increases in the costs of their supplies across the board, we, as a community, have lost another Kosher business.

Is it maybe not time to take off the gloves? Is it not time to maybe play with a little fire? Is it not time, my friends, to take off the gloves and fight for what is right? Is it not time for US to take control and follow the most simplest of all Mitzvot - veAhavta et Reecha kaMocha - and you shall love your neighbor as you do yourself. And, is it not time for us to take control and protect our brothers and sisters who are being wronged, not just in our own community, but by our own PEOPLE?

I suggest that we take back our playground. I suggest this by visiting Kosher restaurants and supporting them, at the same time making it clearly known to the restaurant owner(s) that you support them for providing a place for us to dine, but that you are not in support of the Mafia-Like thugs who pressure them.

I suggest that you forward this week's edition of Normal is Overrated to your e-mail contact list; I suggest that you leave a comment here for all to see pledging your support of our community; and I suggest that we all contact Kehilla Kosher in Los Angeles and voice our opinions on their business practices. And, when doing so, I suggest that we let them know that we forgive their sins and their transgressions in how they treat their clients, in that it is the month of Elul, after all. Just because they act with complete disregard for Yiddishkeit, does not mean that we will.

Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh be Zeh. It is our job; It is our responsibility and it is our duty.

Shavuah Tov, Wishing you a great week from Sunny Southern California. As always, I send Ahavah u'Vrachot, Love and Blessings...

--Rabbi Alan Abrams

When a "Community" hurts "THE" Community

Dear Friends:

Over the course of the many months that I have written this Column, I have had occasion to write about happy and sad times; I have had opportunities to introduce you to new artists and community events; and even have taken you into parts of my life and shared them with you.

None of these, however, even begins to compare with the sadness and shock of an event that I witnessed this past week, when a Jewish company took such advantage of another Jew, that the ugliness of their practices bodes us to not only pay attention, but to take action, before it is too late.

This "Community" company, (whom I may not name directly, under threat of reprisal from them), labels itself as amongst the most Observant of the most Observant; a company that in fact places itself at the highest level of Holiness by judging who is Kosher and who is not; and providing Hashgacha, on site inspectors who supervise a restaurant's activities.

Rather than opine at the moment, please permit me to simply tell you what happened this past week, and how it transpired before my very eyes and ears:

I went into a known Kosher restaurant in the Los Angeles area around 2:30pm one day this past week. I approached the counter, looked at the menu on the wall and ordered the "Lunch Special" which consisted of a hamburger, fries and a fountain drink. I was told by the counter girl that she could not prepare that for me as the "Rabbi was blessing the place". She looked over to three men sitting at a table and I approached, introduced myself and made it known that I have eaten there before; that I know it to be Kosher; and that I was accepting of the fact that a "Re-Hechshering" was in progress, but that I trusted the owner to not sell me non Kosher food, and asked that they please prepare the hamburger for me.

When I exited the restroom, I was again told that they could not prepare this order, but that I could have some Shawarma from earlier in the day, before the procedure had begun. Not wishing to find a different restaurant, I ordered the Shawarma and sat down to eat.

While seated, I heard the three men talking. The restaurant owner was pleading with the other two men, one American and one Israeli, to allow him to open and sell food. The two men say there and listened, but offered no solution. Two or three minutes later, the American said "I understand that you are upset. Let's do this, if you agree to buy the pans now, you could be open in no time. In fact, you could be open right now if you would just buy the pans."

My friends, I thought that Tony Soprano was sitting at that table. I felt as if I was in a scene from a Coppola movie, or that Ray Liotta was going to jump out of the back with a sawed-off and save the day. Did I hear right? Was the owner of this small Falafel stand being extorted?? And, if so, could this possibly be done in the name of Torah??? NO WAY, I told myself, and then, I felt compelled to ask these guys, and ask I did.

"Why are you keeping this man's restaurant closed?" "Because he is not yet Kosher", I was told. "Why is he not yet Kosher?", I asked, "He has been Glatt Kosher for YEARS", I continued. Their answer blew me away. According to this man, Larry Somebody, the restaurant was not Kosher enough, and the pans in question (drip pans used UNDER the Shawarma Rotisseries, NOT for food that would be eaten) might have come in contact with something bad, I was told, and therefore, the restaurant was not Kosher until he said that it was Kosher.

Welcome to Extortion 101.

I returned the following day and the owner thanked me for trying to help him. The Israeli man was back and sitting at the same table, while playing with his iPhone and getting up occasionally to make a plate of food (which, no he did not pay for). This "on site inspector", by the way, earns $15 per hour, paid by the restaurant, which is in addition to the $675 per quarter that the restaurant pays the "Community" for their super supervision.

I asked the owner what had transpired. Why did he feel compelled to change Kashrut companies and was told by him that he had been approached and advised that were he to not change to this "Community", "The Ashkenazim would not patronize his store", thus, causing him financial loss.

Those are the facts. That is what I saw and what I heard. I called this "Larry" person on Wednesday morning, and informed him that I was going to write about this incident in my Column, and was warned that should I publish this piece, I could be hurting my new friend the restaurant owner. Now that this has published, let's see what happens.

My friends, we all know that we live in a time when we cannot afford to fight each other. We are constantly and consistently being threatened by both Arab States and renewed World Anti-Semitism. We are facing possible passing of a maniacal new law in Israel that could affect the legal conversions of thousands of Jews, and we are living in an ages where the Presidential Administration, for the first time in history, is clearly Anti-Israel and Pro-Palestinian (read: Terrorist).

We are facing the largest number of Jews who are non-affiliated in history, and every day, we hear of yet another Shul closing its doors.

These are the times that we must be united. This is not the time that we can sit back and watch the world go by. This is the time that we must stand strong, together, and take action to prevent these situations. I ask and urge you to speak with the restaurants owner(s) the next time that you dine in a Kosher restaurant. I urge you to ask who supervises them, and I implore you to ask them if they have been treated in such a way and to pay attention to their answers. I urge you to speak with your friends and neighbors; your Rabbis and teachers. I ask that you please forward this Column to everyone that you know and that you make this serious issue known throughout your Community. Maybe it can be a start to ending this corrupt and horrible behaviour.

As a footnote, I can tell you that in looking at the Community's website this evening, I noticed that several pages (listing which restaurants which they supervise, for instance), have been removed, and that in the past few days, much of their website is no longer functional. Maybe this is a good thing.

I thank you for listening. I thank you for reading and above all, I thank you for helping us all bond together to prevent this crime from continuing to plague our brethren.

With Ahavah u'Vrachot, Love and Blessings from the Left Coast and Sunny Southern California, I bid you Shavuah Tov; a good week. May magical good wishes find you as always.

--Rabbi Alan Abrams

For Brandon (z"l)

At Two O'clock in the afternoon of July 18, 1991, I joined a club.  It is a club that boasts a membership that unfortunately grows daily, and it is a club in which not one member has ever requested entry; most of us, in fact, try for as long as we can to deny our affiliation.

We do so at times by living as if all is well; and we do so at times by conveniently forgetting that precise minute when we entered, never to be permitted exit.

At Two O'clock in the afternoon of that dreadful day, I held the lifeless body of my beautiful little son in my arms and kissed his face; knowing that the next time I would see him would be at the Cemetery on Tisha b'Av, when we would lay his young body to rest.

I had joined the worst club imaginable:  The club of parents who bury their children.

His face was cold, and his lips were blue.  His Neshama, his Soul, had left his tiny body never to return in this World.  I was sad and I was angry.  WHY?  WHY would a Loving G-d that I knew to be a Loving G-d take the tiniest of his children, even before my Brandon had a chance to make his impact?

For seventeen years, as I placed phylacteries on my left arm every morning, and read Morning prayers I asked G-d why.  And for seventeen years, I had no answer.  My answer appeared two years, six months and seven days ago when I eulogised my father at a Cemetery not fifteen miles from where my Brandon is buried.

For those of you who remember my dad, I have no real need to remind you who he was.  For those of you who never had the absolute blessing of having known him,  I will tell you that he was a man who was genuinely loved by every single person whose life he touched, and that he touched every person whom he had ever met.  My father was, in the simplest of terms, a Tzadik.  A righteous man; a man who knew who he was, and a man who was so in love with his grandchildren that his every thought and his every smile were both brought to him by them, or dedicated to them.

That being said, how could G-d not  have a beautiful grandson waiting his arrival into Gan Eden, the paradise that is the Olam, haBa, the World to come.  Enter my Brandon.  My beautiful boy was taken to be there for his Grandfather's arrival.  Who better to greet my dad in Heaven, but his Grandson whom he had not had the time to know or grow close to, as G-d's plan was different.  I no longer ask why.

On Shabbat, somewhere between the Kiddush and Motzi, we parents place our hands on the heads of our children and offer our Blessing.  I pardon your indulgence for, but a moment as I ask that you stand with me as I send this Blessing to my beautiful boy on the nineteenth anniversary of his passing:

Brandon, I know now that G-d has made you as Ephraim and Menashe; He has Blessed you and He has kept you; He has shined his countenance upon you and been gracious onto you; and above all, G-d has kept you with Him and has brought you Peace.

We do not always know the reasons behind the magnificent works of haShem.  It is at times difficult to not know and to not understand.  It can be frustrating and at times even maddening.  But, for those times that we do understand, Oh, for  those times, the world, even in its heightened levels of craziness becomes a truly enlightening and beautiful place.

From the Sunny Left Coast, I send Ahavah u'Vrachot, Love and Blessings.

--Rabbi Alan Abrams