In a feature article on CNN’s Web site this week, Jessica Ravitz writes about “the New Jews” out there, blazing a new, glorious trail in the latest chapter of the American Jewish experience.

“When Moses came down from Mount Sinai about 3,300 years ago, he couldn’t have seen these Jews coming,” charges Ms. Ravitz.

The article chronicles the unbridled and unfettered manner in which many young Jews today are observing and celebrating their faith and heritage, and it generally doesn’t have anything to do with shul, Israel, continuity concerns or paralyzing fears about anti-Semitism.

A few unconventional examples – Gen-X and Gen-Y Jews with tattoos featuring Stars of David and other Jewish icons and themes; women exchanging vows in a Jewish wedding ceremony; guys guzzling bottles of HE’BREW, The Chosen Beer; a PhD candidate who writes a letter condemning Israeli policies against Palestinians; a punk rock Jew who incorporates his religion into his music; and Roseanne Barr (who’s even older than me!) dressing up as Hitler, standing by an oven and serving burnt-Jew cookies in a Heeb magazine layout.

These “New Jews” tend to be sick and tired of the shuls and schools and the organizational alphabet games and the Holocaust/everything-Israel-does-is-great shtick, and all of the trappings of institutional Jewish life. They prefer an alternative, irreverent, sometimes even offensive take on their Jewishness, one that eschews the albatrosses of affiliation, tradition and rootedness.

I must admit, I certainly admire their impulse and desire for innovation and free-spiritedness. I, too, get tired of the vapid formality, endless rigidity and pervasive myopia of American Jewish life. I especially like the alternatives sprouting up – particularly in New York – where independent prayer groups for the spiritually hungry and adventurous are giving the mega-shuls a good run for their money (and yes, those mega-shuls sure like their money).

But with all due respect to Ms. Ravitz, I must also take it all in with a great big yawn. Because frankly, there’s not much “new” here, despite some catchy, newly-minted phrases like “Emergent Jews” and “the New Jews.”

Obviously, the old model isn’t working very well. There’s no argument about that. Young folks are bored, and so are most of the rest of us. We all seem to be going through the motions, and that’s across the denominational board. The stats back this up.

OK, yes, Hebrew school was dreadfully tedious. But let’s stop whining about it and try to make it better for our kids. Did our Jewish lives basically stop at 13 or 14?

I’m all for making Jewish life accessible, fun, creative and meaningful. I think we have to, simply for survival. And I don’t think that historical miscarriages of justice and continuity fears are going to inspire the troops. In addition, as important as it is, I don’t think a Judaism inspired and executed solely by social justice programming will do the trick (the Reform movement learned that lesson years ago).

Obviously, we need to employ the wonders of technology (the Internet, Facebook, Twitter and such) to reach out and really connect with the new and upcoming generations.

But I don’t think joking around about the horrors of the Holocaust, castigating Israel on a frequent basis or wearing T-shirts with amusing, caustic messages (“Kiss me, I’m A Christ Killer”) will make anyone feel more Jewish. It’s just something to laugh about, not anything with a profound meaning to help anyone figure out what being Jewish is all about.

Granted, all this stuff might make you feel hip. Tattoos do look cool, and seeing Roseanne with a Hitler mustache might be comical or cutting edge in some people’s eyes. But in the long run, it won’t make you really feel Jewish or understand Judaism. There needs to be some substance involved, too, and I strongly suspect that the “New Jews” will learn that eventually as well.

Last week’s funeral at Beth El Congregation to mourn the loss of Rabbi Mark G. Loeb was a veritable “Who’s Who of Baltimore Jewry.”

I must admit, I didn’t see too many “black hats” in the crowd—not a shocker since Rabbi Loeb always wore his liberal views on his sleeve, thus becoming the embodiment of everything that’s wrong with left-of-center Judaism to some frum folks.

But I did see people there from across the denominational and congregational divides, demonstrating how well-respected Rabbi Loeb was among his fellow Jews (and non-Jews, since I noticed a number of Christian clergy there as well).

Among those in attendance was Rabbi Jacob A. Max, the former rabbi emeritus of Moses Montefiore Anshe Emunah (MMAE) Hebrew Congregation, a shul still known fondly in some circles as Liberty Jewish Center. As you likely know, Rabbi Max, 85, was convicted last April of molesting an employee at the Sol Levinson & Bros. funeral home. In subsequent BALTIMORE JEWISH TIMES articles, other women came forward with their stories of inappropriate and indecent behavior toward them allegedly exhibited by Rabbi Max over the years. (No need to go into the gory details again.)

Since then, Rabbi Max has resigned from the Baltimore Board of Rabbis, shortly before they voted to discontinue his membership, and MMAE decided to suspend his title as rabbi emeritus and remove a polished stone bearing his name and proclaiming their campus in his honor.

All in all, it’s quite a fall from grace.

But there he was, at Rabbi Loeb’s funeral, looking well and smiling broadly. It’s a smile I know well. Rabbi Max officiated at my wedding and the wedding of parents in 1961, back when Liberty Jewish Center was located on Marmon Avenue in Howard Park. He was there for all of our family life-cycle events (save for my bar mitzvah), and he was always a source of great comfort and warmth to us.

Now, of course, I view this cordial, gregarious man with admittedly mixed feelings. At Beth El, to my surprise, Rabbi Max was greeted quite warmly by others in the audience. He was sitting only a few rows ahead of me, so I watched closely. (Couldn’t help it.)

At one point during the funeral, Rabbi Max got up and walked out of the sanctuary for a few minutes. While he walked up the aisle, one man arose, offered a handshake and hugged the rabbi. Others smiled, nodded and waved at him.

Is all forgiven? Has the community moved on and granted teshuvah for this man who, according to the American legal system, did something wrongful to a woman, something I think most of us would agree is not terribly rabbinical?

I couldn’t help but notice that most of those people who were pleasant to Rabbi Max at the funeral were older. Maybe it’s a generational thing. Maybe senior citizens don’t get all the fuss about sexual molestation, or are a little more forgiving and understanding than the younger set.

Maybe we just don’t want to deal with the whole odious matter anymore, so we say, “Let’s go forward, he made a mistake.” Or maybe people wanted to just let him mourn his friend, Rabbi Loeb, without bringing anything ugly into the equation – “It’s not the proper place.”

A day after the funeral, I chatted with a friend who works at a local synagogue about this subject. My main feeling was that I felt a sense of shock and maybe a grudging admiration for Rabbi Max’s (there’s no other word for it) chutzpah about showing his face in public, no less at a mega-shul holding a major communal event.

Me, I’d be in Nome, Alaska, where no one knows me. (Seals don’t know from molestation convictions.)

My friend explained that Rabbi Max ain’t the type to run off to Nome and hide. After all, he does come from the generation that kicked Hitler’s and Mussolini’s butts.

“He’s got a point to make,” said my pal. “He wants to show his face and be out there. He feels he has nothing to hide, did nothing wrong, and wants the world to see him smiling. He’s in denial about his problem, so he goes out there and does his thing. That’s just the way guys like him are, that’s how they’re built.”

I’m not sure whether that’s true or not, but when you see such stubborn chutzpah in action, it does take your breath away. And I couldn’t help but think of those women who say their lives have been greatly marred by Rabbi Max’s alleged behavior over the past decades and the community leaders and members who turned their eyes away and made excuses for him. I wonder how these women would feel about seeing him there, smiling and laughing and schmoozing.

But then again, he has been punished, in a court of law and, worse yet, in the public eye. And my guess is that in his most private of moments, he beats himself up pretty good as well.

Rabbi Mark G. Loeb’s sudden passing on Wednesday night is a shock for all of us who knew this incredible man and respected him. Everyone knows that Rabbi Loeb was brilliant and a powerful speaker to boot. He was also capable of enormous compassion and empathy, and could be quite acerbic and straightforward at times. That’s what we all loved about him. You knew you were getting it straight from Mark.

Everyone has a favorite Rabbi Loeb story or two. Let me share two of mine.

When I first came to the Jewish Times, my old boss, Gary Rosenblatt, suggested that I make appointments with local rabbis and learn about their congregations. One of the first rabbis I touched base with was Mark Loeb. I remember meeting him at his office at Beth El. We schmoozed for a little while, and then I asked him if I could take him to lunch. He said sure.

We got into his big, shiny car – which had a car phone, the first time I’d ever seen one of those – and started driving. “Where do you want to go?” he asked me. I suggested a couple of kosher establishments, since I figured he was a rabbi and kept kashrut.

Rabbi Loeb studied me for a moment and asked if I keep kosher. “No sir,” I replied. In not terribly gentle language, he chided me for assuming that he kept kosher and insisted that we would dine that afternoon at Linwood’s, and that “it’s on me.” We proceeded to have a great meal, and all of the staff at one point or another dropped by to say hello to the rabbi.

That was my initiation.

My other story: my mother had an old friend who passed away suddenly about a dozen years ago. The woman had a fleeting, peripheral relationship with Beth El.

While sitting with my mother at Sol Levinson & Bros. shortly before the funeral service, I heard someone going, “Psssst, psssst!” Looking around, I spotted a frantic Rabbi Loeb, who was gesturing for me to come over to the doorway where he was standing. I said hello to him, shook his hand and asked how he was doing, but he simply waved off all pleasantries.

“Look,” he said, staring hard into my eyes, “did you know this woman – the deceased—at all?!” I responded that I did know her a little bit, that she was a family friend, and he explained that getting the woman’s family to give him biographical and personal information about her for the eulogy was like extracting molars. He didn’t know her at all, and they didn’t seem to either, he said, exasperated.

I offered a few pieces of general, seemingly worthless information – that she liked to shop, she loved her grandkids, she was a bit of an eccentric, she enjoyed playing the slots in Atlantic City – and then the good rabbi said, “OK, OK,” and basically told me to beat it. I couldn’t imagine what kind of eulogy he could proffer from my scant tidbits.

Of course, he gave an absolutely stunning eulogy in which you felt that he knew the deceased quite well and made you feel the loss of this unique human being. It was a mesmerizing performance, one that made my jaw drop, and you felt you were in the presence of a master rabbi, one who could always rise to the occasion and comfort those in need. That’s a gift.

Rabbi Loeb was a no-nonsense guy who didn’t suffer fools or foolish behavior and thinking well, but he always had a smile and a kind word for me (unless I was being foolish, of course). He said what he thought, in his own inimitable style, and didn’t worry about how he would be judged by others.

There aren’t many like Mark Loeb, and I know there will be many of us who will miss him a great deal. As my friend Gilbert Sandler said to me today, after learning of Rabbi Loeb’s passing, “He was a commanding presence.”

I think we can all say Amen to that.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m not sure I’ll ever feel the same way about David Letterman again.

Since the late night talk show host made his dramatic confession on TV last week that he was being blackmailed for $2 million for having numerous affairs with female employees, I’ve been talking to different people about Letterman. It seems like everyone basically wants to give Dave a free pass because a) well, he’s Dave, and just about everyone likes Dave, b) we all hate extortionists, and c) we’re all pretty sick of these silly sex scandals.

Blackmail is wrong, no doubt about it. And it certainly sounds like Robert “Joe” Halderman, the Emmy Award-winning “48 Hours Mystery” producer who was arrested for the alleged extortion plot, is a real piece of work.

But that doesn’t mean Dave should completely get off the hook. After all, this is a guy who has been more than comfortable taking potshots at peccadillo-prone politicians and actors in his monologues and Top Ten lists for decades. And then he’s fooling around with his female employees? The people for whom he signs their checks? The folks who would likely give their eyeteeth to work for a major celebrity like David Letterman? (Dave reportedly even kept a secret bedroom at his studio for his trysts.)

One friend said to me over the weekend, “Can you blame him? It’s good to be king. Why not? Who cares if he was their boss? He wasn’t married at the time, and he’s David Letterman. More power to him. Anyone would do what he did. They’d be crazy not to.”

Another person said to me, “Why was it unprofessional or unethical? Lots of people sleep with their bosses. It’s nothing new, older than the hills. David Letterman is a very powerful man, a celebrity. He didn’t do anything wrong. No one has ever filed a sexual assault or harassment complaint against him. These women knew what they were doing. It was consensual. He was just being a guy.”

This was the reaction (believe it or not) from Kim Gandy, former president of the National Organization for Women: “I don’t really care who someone sleeps with, as long as it’s not coerced and as long as there’s not some explicit or implicit promise of favors or the like. It’s another adult—it’s not a minor. If that’s all it is, he’s a single guy and he had a fling.”

Meanwhile, one CBS insider praised Letterman’s attitude toward women on the set. “I’ve worked in a lot of places, and [`Late Show’] is one of the better places for a woman,” the insider told Fox News. “Dave’s not a groper.” (How noble.)

In general, the reaction from the public has been muted and uncharacteristically forgiving. The comic geniuses at “Saturday Night Live” barely touched the Letterman mess last weekend, and it appears that Dave’s advertisers and viewers are sticking by him.

I don’t want to sound like a choirboy here, but something’s not kosher. I know that employers have flings with their employees from time to time. But this certainly sounds like more than simply a little misguided moment due to an affair of the heart. It sounds like someone having a real pattern of taking advantage of a situation because of his celebrity, influence and prestige. In some circles, that’s known as an abuse of power.

Certainly, it wasn’t illegal. And Dave admitted that what he did was “creepy” and “terrible.” But still, something feels wrong here. I guess I just expected more of Dave. And maybe of the rest of us.

On occasion, I’ve been accused by friends of being a “Luddite.” What’s a Luddite? By definition, a Luddite is someone who is opposed to technological changes, a term dating back to early 19th-century England when textile artisans protested the Industrial Revolution. (The leader of these upstarts was reportedly someone who went by the sobriquet “King Ludd.”)

Of course, if I was indeed a Luddite, you wouldn’t be reading this since I wouldn’t be using a computer and writing a blog. Nor would I have a cell phone, TV, washing machine, electric shaver or telephone answering machine.

I’d actually make a lousy Luddite. My old Royal typewriter no longer works and is only for decoration, and there are no clotheslines flapping in the breeze in my backyard.

Technology often improves our lives greatly when used well, and one of the places I’ve seen that take place is in the synagogue. For instance, where I go to shul, there’s a TV monitor that greets visitors, informing us of the day’s scheduled activities (Torah study gatherings, service times, committee meetings, etc.). We also receive frequent helpful email blasts from synagogue and religious school staffers.

But on holidays and Shabbat—times when I believe all of the denominations agree that we need to escape the hustle and bustle of modern life (translation: all of those pesky cell phones, computers, voice-mails and TVs)—that Luddite component of my personality tends to surface.

During Rosh Hashanah this year, I occasionally noticed clusters of teenagers hanging in the synagogue hallways. I have no problem with it – been there, done that. I’ve heard some people call it “Hormone Alley.” Fine. At least they’re in shul.

But when I see some of these young people standing around and using their cell phones to call and text their pals, I know something’s broken here. And it’s not necessarily their fault. Who’s to blame? Perhaps their parents, rabbis and teachers who are simply not making it clear that using modern apparatus in shul on one of the holiest days of the year is just plain wrongheaded.

After all, they’re already with their friends, enjoying themselves and chatting up Katie Perry’s new CD or whatever. No one’s shoving their butts into services. Can’t they drop the cell phones and texting for just a day, or at least until they get home? Is national security really threatened if they leave their cell phones at home?

My wife reminded me of one time when we attended a friend’s adult bat mitzvah ceremony a few years ago. It was a very moving event, but one of the worshippers was talking on his cell phone during most of the service. Even when the times came in the service to stand up and recite the Amidah and other prayers, he simply stood up, with the phone seemingly congealed to his ear, and kept chatting away. Finally, at some point, a few congregants shushed him enough that he walked out of the sanctuary, to finish his phone conversation (which I’m willing to bet was pretty unnecessary and inane) in the hallway.

It all comes down to that one precious resource so woefully lacking in our world—sechel (common sense). But if you want to call me a Luddite, so be it.

“So you’re scared and you’re thinkin’ that maybe we ain’t that young anymore.”

You know these words. You’ve heard them more than a billion times. They’re seared into your brain at this point, like a mantra.

Today is Bruce Springsteen’s 60th birthday.

Yes, you read that right.

Sixty.

How can that be possible?

For nearly as long as I can remember, this man has provided so many of us with the guidelines and narratives of our lives – stories about those who get stepped on and beaten up by society (“Born In The USA,” “Atlantic City”), lessons about how to get through it all with grit and determination (“Badlands”), lamentations about life and loss (“The Rising”), the pain of love gone bad (“I’m Goin’ Down”), the perils of temptation (“I’m On Fire,” “Brilliant Disguise”), the price of familial dilemmas and moral responsibility (“Highway Patrolman,” The River,” “Independence Day”), the revelry of youth (“Spirit In The Night”) and the crippling fear of death (“Cadillac Ranch”), and the fading promise of America (“The Promised Land,” “City Of Ruins, “My Hometown”).

He might be just a rocker, a pop star, a media cultural image, but in so many ways, his ideas, thoughts, poetry and philosophies have impacted the way many of us look at life. For many, he’s been there every step of the way on our own journeys, as maudlin as that might sound, like a good rebbe. Even if we’re not all working-class kids from Jersey, he provided the soundtrack of our lives.

I remember years ago writing about my old high school classmate, Steven Oken, who was eventually executed by the State of Maryland for murdering three women. I must’ve played “Nebraska” a thousand times while putting that one together.

I doubt there’s any occasion for which a Springsteen song wouldn’t work. Even when you know someone on Death Row.

I also recall a friend who was going through some tough times with his marriage and his job. “You know,” he said, “sometimes when I get home from work, at 2 or 3 in the morning, feeling wiped out and lonely and really frustrated, I go over to the VCR and pop in Bruce’s `Live In New York’ video, and I always feel better.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

With all due respect to Mr. Dylan, Mr. Lennon and others, no one else has ever written songs like Springsteen with that kind of empathy and conscience, songs that touched people of my generation so profoundly and directly. And no one has ever performed with that kind of commitment, energy, intensity and dedication, before or since.

So I say to all of my fellow Springsteen fans out there, let’s raise a beer and say, “Happy birthday, Bruce, yom huledet samayach, and thanks for everything.”

Sixty. How did that happen?

Show a little faith.

A day or two before the general elections last November, my wife ran into what I’ll call a “quasi-relative” of mine and his son-in-law. They were all schmoozing harmlessly – the kids, the weather, the stock market, nuclear fission, world peace, etc. – when my quasi-relative, a rather crusty, self-assured fella in his early 70s who enjoys offering his opinions (solicited or not), asked my wife what she thought of this guy named Barack Obama. He said it with a certain amount of disgust dripping from his lips.

When my wife replied that she liked Obama, the guy went into full-attack mode and started kvetching up a storm, “joking” that they’d be “serving chitlins in the White House” if he won and warning of the Democratic candidate’s wicked, wicked “socialist” ways. (And this was well before all of the boisterous health care town hall meetings.)

My wife tends to be laid back and has a capacity to grin and bear these kinds of older guys (she’s from the Midwest, after all), but the man’s son-in-law was having none of it. “Oh, come on!” the son-in-law said, interrupting his father-in-law’s harangue. “You just don’t like him because he’s black, plain and simple.”

When my quasi-relative appeared stunned, protested vehemently and said he didn’t have a racist bone in his body – something quite hard to stomach for anyone who’s heard the man use the term “schvartze” on countless occasions and say other things that would fall under the category of bigoted “thought” – the son-in-law couldn’t stop himself from countering, “Oh, come on! Please!!”

Of course, at that moment, the son-in-law became my hero.

And that brings me to Jimmy Carter, who is definitely not my hero. But ol’ Jimmy says much of the criticism directed toward President Obama these days is based on – you’ve got it—race. (By the way, that’s an assessment that the White House says Obama does not agree with.)

“I think that an overwhelming proportion of the intensely demonstrated animosity toward President Barack Obama is based on the fact that he is a black man, he’s African-American,” Carter told NBC television on Tuesday.

I hate to admit it, but Jimmy might be right.

I think we always have to be careful when using the race card when talking about, well, everything. It can be a very slippery slope. Not every time that President Obama is criticized is the result of racism, and there’s an inverted racism for liberals and others in coming to that conclusion automatically.

But I do think that Jimmy Carter – who has been so wrong in his analyses about the Middle East and other matters in recent years – is correct when he says that the specter of racism has permeated the recent overly harsh criticisms of Obama (i.e., Sen. Joe “You Lie” Wilson, the town hall meetings, the corporate bail-out condemnations, the controversy over merely telling students to work hard and stay in school).

How else do you explain this kind of rampant, white-hot vitriol and alarmism, the over-the-top hatred of this man (who by the way is a pretty likable guy) in such a short period of time? In only nine months, he’s been compared to Hitler, Che Guevera and Uncle Joe Stalin. We’re told he’s a commie, a liar, a dictator, a Nazi, an autocrat, a slick huckster – where does it end? Even presidents who got our boys and girls killed in wars that we still don’t comprehend never got treated with this kind of scorn and disrespect.

Maybe the other side of the political aisle just has a bad case of sour grapes, as has been suggested. No one likes to lose, and Sen. John McCain is undoubtedly an upstanding human being and a great patriot (but a lousy candidate). But sorry, there’s more going on here than simply sore losers or political differences.

Look at this country’s racial legacy. And then look at the overwhelming bulk of the people clamoring for Obama’s hide.

And then tell me Jimmy might not be right.

OK, now on a completely different note ...

Like many people weaned on the folk music of the ‘60s and ‘70s, I was greatly saddened to hear about Mary Travers’ passing this week, at age 72. Her group, Peter, Paul and Mary, were an inspiration to a lot of people for getting involved in social and political activism, and that will always be her legacy.

Mary’s death reminded me of two things. One of them had nothing to do with her, but I recalled once interviewing her Jewish bandmate, Peter Yarrow, as a cub reporter in the parking lot of the old Memorial Stadium.

Yarrow was one of the organizers of a “traveling rally” of activist tent-dwellers who were going from town to town for several months, to raise awareness and call on the powers of the world to ban nuclear weapons. In hindsight, the whole affair might sound a bit kooky, mawkish and crunchy-granola, but I was inspired by Yarrow and the hundreds of other activists there who were so committed to that cause (and to our children’s future) that they gave a chunk of their lives to it. That kind of activism, passion and selflessness just doesn’t seem to exist or resonate today.

The other thing I recall is how Mary Travers was so unceremoniously dumped from the performing lineup for the historic December 1987 rally in Washington for Soviet Jewry. The reason: organizers were warned that with Travers being a female, many traditional Jewish rally-goers wouldn’t show up because of restrictions against hearing women sing. The wind-up was the rally was a major success and helped usher in a new era, but Mary wasn’t there singing. (And I was there, looking for her.)

I understand the organizers’ sensitivities in this matter, but this was Mary Travers we’re talking about here, a person who among her many other human rights and social justice causes was a vocal and ardent supporter for the freedom of Soviet Jews. As I recall, Mary was reportedly pretty understanding about the whole thing, but it still bothers me to this day.

Mary Travers deserved better. May her memory (and legacy) always be a blessing.

So let me get this straight—the president of the United States wants to talk to the nation’s schoolchildren about the importance of education next Tuesday, Sept. 8, and the conservatives are riled up? When did we become an anti-education nation?

The speech, which is to be live-streamed from the White House Web site, is President Obama’s manipulative attempt to push his legislative agenda, according to conservative commentators and “thinkers.”

(Boy, they were right all along! This guy really is a commie! He wants kids to stay in school!!)

Some conservatives have even called for parents to keep their kids at home that day – a “national truancy day” of sorts—so they won’t be “indoctrinated” by Obama’s nefarious message. And some schools have announced that they will not show the speech at all.

Obama’s opponents – who obviously taste blood after those health care town hall meetings created such a buzz out there and sent his poll numbers nose-diving – say the president’s education message is all propaganda.

“It’s historic in the sense that it’s unprecedented. They do this type of thing in North Korea and the former Soviet Union,” said Republican strategist and commentator Andrea Tantaros.

(North Korea?! The former Soviet Union!! The man’s just saying, “Stay in school and work hard.” Does that sound like the gulag to you?)

Florida GOP chairman Jim Greer wrote a letter to the White House, saying that students are being forced to watch Obama’s speech, and that it’s an abuse of power. (Just how boring does he think the speech will be?)

I’m sorry but there’s only word for all of this: lame. I can’t imagine if former President Bush wanted to speak to students about the value of education that it would have generated this kind of outcry from liberals and moderate Democrats.

Politics is one thing, but this is entering the Theatre of the Absurd. Conservatives need a better hook to hang their hats on.

Sometimes, even when you’ve had a fleeting brush with fame and greatness, memory has a way of tricking you and then chuckling right in your face.

That happened to me last weekend while intermittently watching on television the funeral service, procession and burial of Sen. Edward Moore Kennedy. As the commentators spoke about Senator Kennedy’s distinguished service to his country for nearly a half-century – and even touched on his ability to transform himself into a vessel of great compassion and high purpose, with a feeling for those not as fortunate as himself—I thought to myself, “Man, I would’ve loved to have met this guy, or at least to have been in his presence.”

And then, it dawned on me: I once was in his presence.

Cue up the flashback music. Back in ‘86, I was a young reporter covering the contentious congressional race in the Second District between Kathleen Kennedy Townsend, Maryland’s future lieutenant governor and Senator Kennedy’s niece, and Rep. Helen Delich Bentley. Ms. Bentley wound up shocking many of us, you may recall, by soundly defeating Ms. Townsend. (After all, beating a Kennedy doesn’t happen too often.)

As I remember, it was toward the end of Election Night at Townsend campaign headquarters, the votes had been tallied, and I leaned against a wall at the Towson Armory and put away my notepad. It was a long, tiring evening, and I still needed to come into the office that night (or maybe it was morning) to finish writing my share of the Election Night reporting. The speeches had all been delivered, and the crowd was thinning out. The Townsend supporters were fairly somber and broken-hearted.

But out of the corner of my eye, I happened to spot Senator Kennedy, standing alone (as I recall it), only a few footsteps away from me. He was smiling, calm and looked pretty much like he always did on TV – Uncle Teddy. He seemed lost in thought.

I tried to catch his eye, and even thought I’d pose a question or two. What the heck. I didn’t particularly relish the thought of asking him about his niece’s defeat, but how many chances do you get to interview the patriarch of political royalty, someone whose brother was a U.S. president and whose other brother served as attorney general and is an icon in his own right? Not to mention, Teddy Kennedy was the first politician for whom I ever cast a ballot, way, way back in the ’80 Democratic primary.

Alas, it wasn’t mean to be, as someone suddenly came over, grabbed Senator Kennedy’s arm and whisked him away.

Nonetheless, I can always say that I was in Ted Kennedy’s presence. And hopefully I won’t forget it this time. And even though he was always a lightning rod for conservatives out to crucify “bleeding-heart liberals,” I’ll always be proud that I cast my lot with him on the occasion of my first vote in the American democratic process.

The other day, I was sitting at a stoplight, behind a pick-up truck, spacing out. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to some silly tune on the radio, I noticed the truck’s bumper-sticker, with the words, “Secession: It’s The Right Thing To Do.”

I have to admit, my first impulse after seeing this bumper sticker was to drive around to the truck’s driver, roll down my window and yell, “Hey, moron, the South lost. It’s time to move on already, Einstein!” And in my younger years, I might’ve done so. (With youth comes a great deal of chutzpah and stupidity.) But I decided I wasn’t interested in endangering my life, so I just kept my mouth shut. When I drove by the guy a few minutes later, I did look at him rather dismissively, shook my head and sped by. I might’ve cut him off, too. (Old habits die hard.)

It’s been nearly 150 years since the start of the Civil War. It’s a fascinating part of our history. (Just ask Ken Burns.) But why won’t this thing go away?

To a degree, I understand Southerners’ need for preserving their legacy and heritage. I think I have a good understanding about why many people feel the war was not so much about slavery but about states’ rights and economic subjugation and such.

But how long can you hold onto something? Even I can’t hold a grudge that long! Especially because when all is said and done, we’re talking about owning human beings in a country that is supposedly founded on freedom and equality?

When I was in Louisiana a few years ago, a Baton Rouge native tried to explain it all to me. (Down there, they talk about the war like it was last month.) “We Southerners just never got over the war,” she said. “There was so much pain and anguish there. The cruelty and barbarism of the North is something we’ll never, ever forget. We just can’t. It’s in our DNA now.”

In your DNA? Secession? Maybe it’s just something a boy living in a Mid-Atlantic state and born to New York-bred parents can’t get. But to me, in an age when our president is African-American and our newest is Supreme Court justice is a Latina, talking about seceding from the Union seems about as archaic as gathering up rocks to toss in defense of stampeding dinosaurs.

I don’t want to pat myself on the back too hard. After all, one must always keep their ego in check. But in my many years as a reporter, I’ve written about a lot of topics: murders, suicides, interfaith relations, immigration, neighborhoods, education, politics, spirituality, discrimination, sexual abuse, you name it. I once even covered a dog fashion show, believe it or not, in Hampstead. (A docile, doe-eyed beagle named Penny emerged the victor, if memory serves correct).

But never – and I mean never – in all of my professional years have I received an avalanche of responses from readers about an article like I have about my recent story on what I call the “mystery building” on S. Caroline Street in East Baltimore. I can’t tell you how many calls, letters and emails I’ve received on this matter—all for an article that I almost didn’t write because, frankly, I thought a lot of people would consider it a bit irrelevant, silly and provincial.

How did it all begin? Well, about a year ago, I was driving through East Baltimore, on my way to Fells Point or someplace like that, when I noticed an old, church-looking building. I love old architecture and wondered to myself if this abandoned building—padlocked and surrounded by weeds and broken glass in a not-so-safe section of town—might have once been a shul. I noticed the cornerstone, and sure enough, there was a Hebrew inscription etched into it, with the year “1925.”

But then I looked up, and I saw an insignia at the top of the building with a Star of David and with what appeared to be a dollar sign in the middle of it.

Dollar sign?! Huh? It blew my mind. Why would a dollar sign be in the middle of a Star of David? (Anti-Semitism? A Jewish bank? A Hebrew loan society?) Then, I parked, got out of my car and took a closer look at the cornerstone. There was a Psalm in Hebrew written on it, but also a reference to the Gospel of Matthew. You don’t have to be a crack reporter to know something was very different about this building. (And not too kosher.)

So I decided to go to my trusted sources on this one – Gilbert Sandler, whom I call the Bard of Jewish Baltimore, and Dr. Deborah R. Weiner, research historian and family history coordinator at the Jewish Museum of Maryland. To my amazement, I stumped these two Jewish Baltimore experts, something that doesn’t happen too often. Deb’s hunch was that the building used to belong to Hebrew-Christians, or Messianic Jews, who reached out to the Jews of East Baltimore in the first part of the 20th century.

But I wanted more information, especially about that vexing dollar-sign Mogen David. So I decided to open the field and write an article about it, seeing if anyone in the community had any answers, recollections or insights. And to my amazement and delight, I’ve been flooded with interest. One older gentleman even told me that the article was the main topic of conversation at a recent gathering for senior citizens at Beth El Congregation, and I know of other recent situations in the community where it’s been widely discussed.

I’m not going to tell you yet what I’ve come to learn about this building. With the help of many people, I believed I’ve pieced it all together – for the most part – and plan to write a follow-up article in the Jewish Times (I don’t want to scoop myself).

But I will tell you one thing I’ve learned in this process.

There’s a feeling out there that in our society today, people don’t care about history. “It’s old news” – that’s the conventional wisdom. We practically don’t teach history in our schools. I’m astounded by how little history is taught in my children’s public school. As a result, most kids (and subsequently adults) think it’s boring and irrelevant. It has no meaning in their lives (unless it’s taught with the rapid-fire special effects and uber-concise narratives of the History Channel).

But this article has proven to me that besides the fact that people love a good mystery, they also have an unquenchable thirst for history, whether it be Jewish history or Baltimore history or whatever. The future may be a mystery, but so is the past in many respects. And for the most part, analyzing history is the only way that we can get an inkling of what’s ahead. We need to know history to know who we are.

I almost didn’t write this article because I figured no one would care. Instead, I found that there’s a burning interest for this type of historical exploration and remembrance. That’s something Gil Sandler’s been telling me for years.

We shouldn’t lose sight of this in an age of historical illiteracy. The ramifications could be perilous.

(By the way, for what it’s worth, I’m sure that if she were still with us, Penny the beagle would agree.)

Look, I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news. But I knew I had to tell him. He’d want to know. So reluctantly, after coming home last Wednesday night from the charred remains of the Suburban House, I called “Jersey Boy” – my good buddy who lives in the so-called Garden State – to let him know that the landmark Pikesville restaurant suffered a major fire.

There was a long pause on the phone, and I even wondered if some tears were being shed. “Is it gone?” he asked, sounding fragile. I told him the damage was fairly extensive, but I was hopeful that they would reopen.

I sensed a great relief. “That’s good,” he said. “That place just has to stay open.”

Whenever he comes to town for a visit, Jersey Boy always wants to go to S&H (as Suburban House is known in the local vernacular, a holdover from the initials of the first names of the former owners). Jersey Boy loves their food, and obviously a lot of other fressers do, as evidenced by the customers being evacuated from the building while carrying plates full of food. Along Reisterstown Road, I swear I saw plates with half-eaten hotdogs and onion rings left on the grass and sidewalks.

(They couldn’t just leave the food while fleeing a fire?! They had to bring it with them?!! When I told this to a colleague, she shrugged and simply responded, “That’s our people.” I’m sorry, I’m Jewish, too, but you tell me that a restaurant’s on fire, I’m hauling my butt out the door and leaving the kreplach and kasha varnishkes far behind. No food is that good!)

But you know, the community’s longtime love for S&H goes far beyond the quality and abundance of its old-world Jewish cuisine and noshing appeal. It may not be the most beautiful or well-decorated place. One has to have a love of kitsch and nostalgia to truly appreciate it. (For example, paint-by-number-style portraits of Abe Lincoln in the dentist’s chair might not be everyone’s idea of high art.) Some people might not enjoy being the youngest person in a restaurant by a good 30 years. (One friend told me, “I always feel like I’m in a senior center or a nursing home when I go in there.”) I’ve always said that S&H is the Jewish version of the old Women’s Industrial Exchange restaurant in downtown Baltimore (but without the tomato aspic).

And the informality of S&H isn’t everyone’s cup of tea when it comes to fine dining. Cases in point: loud, boisterous conversations among families, and octogenarians helping themselves to third, fourth and fifth cups of coffee without permission from the waiting staff. Some people might not like the décor (paneling, mirrored walls, autographed portraits of local “celebs,” and painted, shlocky beach scenes) nor the spinning dessert case.

But as Baltimore Jewish bard Gilbert Sandler told me yesterday, all of that is part of the charm of the place. The minute you walk into S&H, you immediately know you’re in a decidedly and unabashedly Jewish restaurant. The corny placemats with the silly Borscht Belt humorisms (about mothers-in-law, “goyim” buying retail, and Liz Taylor’s countless marriages). And then there’s the schmoozing (oh, the schmoozing!). The laughing and kibitzing and wheeling and dealing. The arguments.

S&H reminds us that we’re still Jews, we’re not WASPS yet. We don’t have to put on airs there. We can just be ourselves, among our own. We don’t have to keep our pinky fingers in the air there when we drink our coffee, or worry about getting a few crumbs or stains on our shirts.

That’s why it’s one of the last of its kind. It’s not just the soup with the matzoh ball that’s bigger than your head. Or the omelette that could feed Ghana. Or the coddies or shiva trays or gefilte fish or chicken-in-a-pot special. It’s the way S&H makes you feel when you go in there. You not only feel welcome, but you feel like you can take your time and be yourself. A lot of places say their customers are like family to them. At S&H, you don’t feel like family; you feel like mishpachah. There’s a big difference.

Everyone has an S&H story or two. They used to always go there with their zaydie or bubbie every Sunday morning. Maybe they went there after the movies while on their first date with their future wife. Perhaps their family went there after someone’s bris. (Ouch!)

Here’s one of my S&H stories. A couple of years ago, I bought Jersey Boy a great big pen at S&H’s counter with the restaurant’s information imprinted on it. I knew he’d love it because a) it was a souvenir from S&H, and b) it lit up in the dark. Of course, he was thrilled with it, but I decided to go back and get one for myself.

Trouble was, they were all out. The hostess at the cash register apologized profusely, but they didn’t have anymore. However, Joe Stowe, one of the co-owners, must’ve seen the disappointment on my face and came over.

“You know what, I’ll look through my house, I’m sure I have one of those pens lying around,” he said to me. “Give me your address and I’ll mail it to you.” He didn’t know anything about me (such as that I write for the Jewish Times). He was just being a mentsch. Then, he turned to his hostess and said, “If a customer wants a pen that badly, I’ll find it for him.”

And damned if a week later, that pen didn’t show up in my mailbox. That says a lot about a place, that it takes its customers’ loyalty seriously and doesn’t take its following for granted. If only more businesses were run that way these days.

When I finished my conversation with Jersey Boy on Wednesday night, he seemed encouraged about S&H’s future, despite this setback. “They’ll find a way to reopen,” he said. “They’ve got a good thing going there. The next time I come to town, we’re going back.”

You’ve got a date, Jersey Boy. And the matzoh ball soup’s on me (figuratively speaking).

Someone asked me the other day, “So, pray tell, what’s the Jewish angle on Michael Jackson?” Then, they chuckled.

Of course, there is a Jewish angle on the late, great King of Pop. (Isn’t there always?) Supposedly, his ex-wife, Debbie Rowe, is Jewish, and thus two of his three kids are members of the tribe (well, at least from a halachic point of view). And then there was one of his best pals, Liz Taylor, who’s among the most famous converts to Judaism in history (after she snatched Eddie Fisher from under Debbie Reynolds’ nose back in the late ‘50s).

But there really isn’t much of a Jewish angle to Jacko, who will be memorialized in Los Angeles today at a service unlike any other in history that’s expected to be viewed by an estimated billion or so. He was raised a Jehovah’s Witness and reportedly dabbled in Islam and perhaps even kabbalah.

But as I watched the mayhem beginning to unfold in L.A. this morning on the TV talk shows—all covering Michael’s farewell service while giving short shrift to President Obama’s work with the Russians on nuclear disarmament (after all, what’s the planet’s safety next to whether the Gloved One’s children are really his, or whatever happened to Bubbles the Chimp?)—I couldn’t help but be struck by a few words from the Rev. Al Sharpton.

In footage from his sermon last Sunday morning, Rev. Sharpton, who seems to be quite ubiquitous right now, condemned the media for examining some of Michael Jackson’s controversies (drugs, his manner of death, the molestation case, the plastic surgeries, etc.) and infamously odd habits and eccentricities. Right now, he said, is a time to focus on the brilliant entertainer’s positives and not the negatives.

Fair enough, even though I don’t necessarily agree.

But then, Rev. Sharpton spoke of a double-standard regarding coverage of Michael’s passing, strongly intimating that the racist media don’t go after white dead celebrities in the same vicious and no-holds-barred manner.

“I’m here because of the disgraceful and the despicable way [the media are] trying to destroy the legacy [of Jackson],” he said. “You have had other entertainers that have had issues in their life. [The media] did not degrade and denigrate them.”

Rev. Sharpton and I must watch different TV channels. Because from what I can tell, dissecting and beating up celebrities – white or black, dead or living – has become blood sport in this country. Where do you start? Elvis, Heath Ledger, Farrah, even poor Ed McMahon, etc. Celebrity-bashing, especially the deceased ones and particularly before they’re put into the ground, has become an American media tradition. I’m not saying it is right, it just is the way it is. That’s now the big business of our media in a celebrity-obsessed culture. This is what people are talking about at the water cooler.

For Rev. Sharpton to bring up race in this situation is inappropriate and does a disservice to the times when racism actually is a factor (which is plenty) in society. Let’s face it, Michael Jackson is just as fascinating in death as he was in life, and his sudden exit from this cacky coil leaves us (once again) with more questions than answers.

Rev. Al should know better. There are plenty of other times when he can play the race card. A celebrity of Michael Jackson’s stature and caliber has died, and no mention of the weirdness or controversies? Just that he had great moves and an amazing ear for hooks and riffs? To loosely paraphrase Michael himself, expect a full-court media circus and post-mortem, it don’t matter if you’re black or white.

It’s a tough call. What do you do? You hear that a controversial group – a church outfit, no less – is coming to town, for a rally in front of three Jewish institutions. They want us all to repent, and they don’t mind getting nasty and bigoted in their condemnations and proclamations. They’re famous, most of all for holding protests in front of funerals for U.S. soldiers who died in Iraq and Afghanistan. (How vile and sacrilege can you get?)

They’re fundamentalists who believe that everyone else is going to hell and only they have the true answer, and that the rest of us better straighten up and soon. (Some people would say that really means they’re just a bunch of nutjobs.) And they obviously love attention and media coverage, almost as much as they love their so-called religion, not only because it gets their word out but it also pays for the butter on their bread. After all, they might be small in numbers but they obviously have deep pockets from external sources, to go around the nation and protest at soldiers’ funerals and other venues.

So what do you do if you’re a media outlet? Do you give them their much-cherished publicity? Or do you just ignore ‘em, like a nagging toothache?

That was our staff’s dilemma yesterday when those crazy folks from the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kans., dropped by and held protests in front of the Park Heights Jewish Community Center, the Jewish Museum of Maryland and the headquarters of the Associated: Jewish Community Federation of Baltimore.

Only three Westboro members actually showed up – Shirley Phelps-Roper, the hateful, acid-tongued daughter of the church’s longtime spiritual leader, and her two obviously brainwashed kids, Rebekah, 22, and Gabriel, 13. A fair-haired boy in t-shirt and shorts, Gabriel looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than where he was. He had that look on his face that many boys his age wear when they’re at their overly-affectionate aunt’s house for a family dinner. Simply put, he looked absolutely miserable.

The Westboro folks’ message for Jewish Baltimore? It’s time to atone – for killing Christ, for stealing the land of Israel, for murdering Palestinians, for condoning homosexuality, for being generally wicked. (There was no mention of deplorable driving habits on Reisterstown Road during rush hour.) They also seem to have beefs with Ed McMahon and Michael Jackson, both of whom they say are now dancing the tango in hell for their sinfulness (and whose funerals they plan to protest).

At times, their rallies here yesterday seemed rather lame and pathetic. Singing hateful songs against Jews and gays with insipid lyrics to a blasting iPod. Yelling at and arguing with motorists and passersby, until they’d resort to quoting specific biblical passages or singing loudly to avoid further discussion. And with only three of them here, it frankly just seemed a bit silly. Wearing a bunch of signs with provocative messages, they looked like clowns on a picket line.

Which goes back to the earlier stated question—is it really worth covering these guys, with such a small number of “protesters” and with their obvious craving for attention? One person even said to our executive editor, Phil Jacobs, that these guys wouldn’t even bother coming out of their holes and do this kind of stuff if those of us in the media would simply ignore them.

To be honest, I go back and forth on it. I don’t enjoy giving people like this a pedestal for their expressions of hatred. Why give them what they want?

But on the other hand, I think it’s important that we know who we’re dealing with. These folks are nationally-known, have been on virtually every major national news program and in every major publication, and not everyone out there thinks they’re nutjobs, even if they themselves wouldn’t personally go out on a street corner and scream that Jews are murderous reprobates heading for a fiery demise.

It’s important that we know who is lurking in America’s underbelly, even if we have to occasionally give them their 15 minutes of fame. And to come face to face with such unadulterated and perverse hatred is something to behold, even if it did get a little boring after a while.

At one point during one of the “rallies” yesterday, when arguing with a University of Baltimore law school student, Rebekah Phelps-Roper alluded to the victims of 9/11. In her defense of Westboro’s tactics, she said that those victims are now in hell because of America’s hedonism and wickedness, its failure to truly adhere to biblical law. A pause fell over us, and I looked at the U of B student next to me. It was as if both of us were telepathically saying to each other, “OK, do you want to hold her down while I knock her silly, or should I?” But then, we seemed to think better. We knew that’s what she and her ilk would have wanted.

So we let them have their say. And then we move on.

Sometimes in our little sporadic sectarian skirmishes (the Owings Mills JCC/Shabbat issue, family holiday meals, etc.), those of us who are not as observant as our traditional friends, relatives and neighbors often forget about what they go through in their daily lives in America.

This slapped me upside my head the other day.

My last blog entry, as you may or may not recall, dealt with my almost 7-year-old son and I hearing a bizarre anti-Semitic comment made at a recent Fort McHenry Flag Day gathering. The reason for the comment was that a family walking behind us had the audacity to be Orthodox and wear traditional attire. (Me, I thought people were allowed to dress in the manner in which they choose in America, as long as they weren’t buck naked.)

Anyway, I happened to see a neighbor a day or two later, and I told him about how shocked and upset I was about this dork yelling out something against Jews because he happened to see folks in yarmulkes and long dresses. But my neighbor, who is Orthodox, just stared at me incredulously.

“Alan,” he said, “don’t you know I deal with this all the time. All the time. Where’ve you been? It’s a way of life for us.”

He proceeded to tell me about how when walking to services on Shabbat, he and his family are routinely harassed and ridiculed by motorists and other passersby. One non-Jewish neighbor’s kids occasionally yell, “You’re going to hell!!” One driver has a penchant (and reputation) for stopping in the middle of Smith Avenue on Shabbat and leaning on his horn for a long time when he sees an Orthodox person or family crossing the street or walking along the sidewalks.

And this is in Pikesville, mind you, not Ames, Iowa!!

My neighbor told me he’s had pennies thrown at him on occasions. (If anyone threw pennies at me, I must admit, I think I would get myself killed in some kind of melee.)

Furthermore, my neighbor told me about when he was hospitalized as a teenager after being jumped by a group of anti-Semitic idiots while attending a yeshiva in the Midwest. He also told me about how he was once at Lexington Market and a kind, elderly woman told him to get out immediately, because she heard some thugs saying they were going to mess with him because they could tell he’s Jewish.

After telling me all of this, my neighbor smiled and laughed gently. He could see the look of horror and indignation on my face. “You’re naïve,” he said to me, “you just don’t know what it’s like out there. We’re used to it. Your guy at Fort McHenry, he was just a kook. I don’t worry as much about the kooks as the other kinds. They’re the ones who scare me.”

Maybe I am naïve. I’ve never doubted that dressing as a traditional Jew (or any other kind of outwardly religious person) draws its share of stares, moronic comments and occasional juvenile behavior in our society.

But to this extent—where one is subjected to fairly constant belittlement in a largely Jewish area, to the point of hearing about an anti-Semitic comment and not even being alarmed or spooked by it – was a real wake-up call for me.

A couple of years ago, when chatting with a close Jewish friend about anti-Semitism, he simply looked down at one point, took off his glasses, shook his head woefully and said, “They just hate us so much. They hate us so much.”

I’m not sure I’m willing to go to that point of capitulation. I still believe that the majority of people in this country believe in the freedom of religious expression and practice, and don’t really care if I wear a kippah, turban or a nun’s habit.

But hearing my Orthodox neighbor’s stories about what he goes through reminded me that – OK, cue up the maudlin violin music—Jews of all stripes and flavors still need to stick together. Maybe we’re not really “One,” as our Jewish organizations like to tell us during solicitation drives. But if we think we’re out of the woods and completely accepted by secular American society, we need to think again.

Last Sunday night, I took my son to a great fireworks show at Fort McHenry, the birthplace of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” in honor of Flag Day. He got his first real taste there of good old-fashioned American patriotism, with a brass marching band belting out prideful tunes and dazzling red, white and blue colors lighting up the downtown skies (and reflected in the murky harbor waters).

But he also got something else that I hadn’t bargained for – his first real taste of good old-fashioned American bigotry.

Here’s what happened. After the program ended, we and thousands of others headed back to our parked cars, many of which were located outside of the fort. It was a beautiful night, and everyone was in a great mood after the wonderful presentation. The police officers kept us in line, asking folks to make sure to stay on the sidewalks, to keep the main street clear for emergency vehicles and motorists who were lucky (and early) enough to park inside the fort itself.

But as we all made our way out, I saw a strange-looking man on the street near the sidewalk who appeared to be selling fluorescent glow sticks. I barely paid any attention to him, he was just one of those guys you see at events selling stuff, when I heard him yell out (while looking down at his merchandise), “The Jews are accursed by God! The Jews are accursed by God!” Then, he said nothing.

Huh? The Jews are accursed by God? Where’d that come from? Was he some kind of Old Testament prophet with a dire warning? (He did have a straggly beard and glazed-over eyes.) Did he have some kind of inside information? What do Jews have to do with glow sticks?

At first, I didn’t think I heard him right, so I just kept on walking. But his odd words continued to ring in my ears. “The Jews are accursed by God!” I thought to myself, “Why did he just say that out of the blue?” So I looked around and noticed an Orthodox family walking directly behind us, dressed in kippot and long dresses. When their young children asked about the man’s odd words, the mother looked embarrassed and tried to laugh. “He didn’t say anything,” she told them, “don’t pay attention. Everything is fine. Don’t worry about it.”

I didn’t think my 7-year-old son caught it, but when we got into my car, (sure enough!) he asked, “Dad, why did that man say that Jews are cursed by God? What did he mean by that? I don’t get it.”

I thought for a moment before answering. “Well, Josh,” I told him, deciding to go for the honesty route, “there are a lot of weird, sick, strange people in this world, and I guess that man is just one of them. He doesn’t like that Jewish people are different from him, and that’s not what tonight was all about.” Then, of course, I tried to change the subject. But from my rear-view mirror, I could see the little wheels spinning in my son’s head.

Driving home, I thought about that great scene in the film “Witness” when Harrison Ford, playing a tough Philly cop hiding out in an Amish community and posing as a “plain person,” beats the living hell out of a couple of secular ne’er-do-wells who mess with him and Kelly McGillis’s family. I daydreamed about going over to that anti-Semitic street vendor creep and showing him a few new things he could do with those glow sticks.

But then I thought better. After all, strangling a nut-job in front of one’s kid and other youngsters might not be the best or most mature way to handle an unfortunate situation.

But in the same week that a white supremacist walks into the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum and kills a security guard, and a Republican activist makes a “joke” about the First Lady being related to a gorilla, you can’t blame a man for daydreaming about kicking a bigot’s butt, now can you?

Maybe sometimes we Jews are a bit too civilized for our own good. Maybe at least one of us should’ve gone over and looked Mr. Glow Stick in the eye and said, “Do you have something to say, pal? Who’s really cursed here?”

Ah, why do I always think of these things too late?

This afternoon, James W. von Brunn, a noted white supremacist and Holocaust denier from Annapolis, stepped into the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., wearing a Confederate hat, and opened fire indiscriminately with a long rifle, killing a security guard named Stephen Tyrone Johns before being shot in the head by two other guards.

Von Brunn, 88, reportedly a World War II veteran, did this while the museum – sacred ground to many, many Americans – was filled with innocent schoolchildren.

The assault comes only a few days after President Obama’s historic and touching visit to the Buchenwald concentration camp.

Von Brunn’s action doesn’t make any sense, of course. It defies logic. But for years, he has been outspoken about his hatred for Jews and African-Americans, and even told one of his ex-wives that he planned to go out in a fiery blaze of glory.

As of this writing, he is barely holding onto life and is in critical condition at George Washington Hospital.

Perhaps his action will inspire his fellow adherents of hatred. But it should also encourage those of us who strongly believe in equality, justice and non-violence to recommit ourselves to fighting the hatred in our midst.

More than anything else, it should remind us not to be lax about the bigotry out there. We all have a tendency to look at discrimination and hatred as a thing of the past, something that fills the history books but has no place in our lives and society anymore. We’ve moved on, we figure. People’s ethnic heritage, race and religion don’t matter in America anymore. We’ve achieved Dr. King’s dream. After all, we now have a black president. People don’t openly use ethnic slurs anymore. (Or they usually don’t.) Stereotypes are viewed as boorish and passé, like polyester suits and perms.

This horrible happening in the nation’s capital today should remind us that this is not the case, and that hatred is alive and well here. We always have to be ready to meet it head-on.

Let’s hope that those kids in the museum today, rather than being scarred by the experience, will always remember the sounds of those gunshots ringing out as a call to never forget the hatred that unfortunately seems to be a component of the human condition.

The other day, I was driving through the Greengate neighborhood when I passed by the Moses Montefiore Anshe Emunah Hebrew Congregation. For those of us who grew up in this area, that shul was, and always will be, in our minds, Liberty Jewish Center.

Driving by, I couldn’t help but notice the prominent stone monument in front of the synagogue’s parking lot, designating the area the “Rabbi Jacob A. Max Torah Campus.” I wasn’t looking for it, but there it was, a proud and bold homage to the congregation’s rabbi emeritus.

It all would seem quite innocuous if one didn’t know all of the facts.

A couple of months ago, Rabbi Max, as most of you undoubtedly already know, was convicted, at age 85, of sexual molestation. Since news reports first surfaced of the conviction, a sizable number of women have called the Baltimore Jewish Times office, to report their less-than-honorable interactions and memories over the years with Rabbi Max.

Now I understand that the folks at Liberty Jewish Center feel a sense of allegiance and loyalty (and rachmones) to Rabbi Max. After all, he was their spiritual leader and life force for more than five decades. His smiles, his words of comfort and guidance, served congregants at their highest peaks and lowest valleys, and that can never be forgotten. He was there for them.

But at the same time, we must never forget the pain, humiliation and self-loathing of those who have suffered at the hands of people who have this compulsion or disease or disorder, or whatever you want to call it, that seems to be rampant in our society (and yes, even in the Jewish world). Their needs and comfort levels must be remembered, too.

So I say this as someone whose wedding was officiated by Rabbi Max, and whose family was always touched by this complicated man at virtually all of our simchas and sorrows. I say this as someone who spoke at Rabbi Max’s retirement gala. To borrow very loosely from the late President Reagan regarding his line on the Berlin Wall (“Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”), I say, “LJC, remove that stone! Please.”

I’m sure this is an exceedingly difficult, painful, awkward and confusing time for the congregation. That’s understood. But the healing must begin, at once, and taking away that in-your-face reminder is a first step. I hope that the synagogue’s elders will not tarry on this matter. There is a time to “committee” things endlessly, and a time to quietly and quickly take care of a situation.

Now is a time for the latter.

For this year’s observance of the festival of Shavuot, I would like to offer a real-life parable of sorts, one that hopefully evokes thoughts about love, compassion, the power of music, empathy for society’s disenfranchised, human connections and mutual respect. I know, it’s a tall order.

A few months ago, I was driving home from work, about to get on I-83, at a stoplight on North Avenue. A gentleman wearing tattered jeans and a homemade sign around his neck proclaiming himself a homeless war veteran stood on an island, asking motorists for spare change.

Now this might sound horrible but I don’t usually give money to these folks, because I really prefer not encouraging panhandling. Plus, I never seem to have any spare change in my car. But I was in a good mood on this particular afternoon, and maybe he saw a welcoming glint in my eye, so he came over to my vehicle.

After I gave him a couple of quarters and he blessed and thanked me profusely, he stopped suddenly and seemed to stare right through me for a few suspended moments. Nervously, I asked him what was wrong, and he pointed at my passenger seat. I turned my head, and there on the passenger seat were a couple of harmonicas.

Now look, anyone who knows me knows that I love the humble Mississippi Sax, and even play it occasionally while driving to and from work. It keeps me sane; I call it my “tin shrink.”

Anyway, I was a bit embarrassed, but I said to the man, “Yeah, I like to play in the car sometimes, to the radio or to myself. Just for fun, and to practice.” He gave me a look of pure and utter joy, and said, “OK, well, come on, son, play it! Let’s hear ya, brother!”

Sheepishly and hesitantly, I picked up one of my harps and vamped a few blues riffs, with my fellow motorists watching intently (they must’ve thought I was nuts). At this point, the homeless man started dancing up a firestorm – right there in the middle of the street – and yelling, “Hey, buddy, you’re good! You’re good! Keep playin’!”

Naturally, I was a bit uncomfortable (after all, it was a rush-hour street scene, not a jam session at a Fells Point tavern), but I kept blowing harp and he kept dancing, singing and screaming the whole time. Finally – thankfully! – the light turned green and I stopped playing and wished him a good evening and drove off.

When I looked in my rearview mirror, about to get on the expressway ramp and en route to my home and family, the man was still dancing in the street as cars sped by, a great, big smile on his face. He no longer seemed to care about the couple of coins I gave him. We’d had an encounter that even my lousy harmonica playing could diminish. It reminded me that even with all of the pain and suffering going on in this world, especially these days, we still have the power to touch and move each other.

Such is the stuff of life. He made my day, and hopefully I made his day. For a fleeting instant, we developed a fellowship of the soul. And isn’t that what Shavuot is all about?

Chag Samayach.

A few weeks ago, a guy – who identified himself as being Jewish—called to tell me about what he considered a prime case of religious and ethnic discrimination. It seems that a local Catholic high school was holding a prom for its seniors, and one of the students wanted to bring her platonic Jewish male friend. The school, however, forbade it, because the friend was not Catholic.

“Tell me, is that blatant discrimination or what?” the caller asked. Yes, I responded.

Then, the caller admitted that the whole scenario was a fabrication, a great big lie. Never happened.

He said the “real” story was of a friend’s son who attends a local Jewish high school and wanted to take a platonic non-Jewish female friend to the prom. The school basically said, “Um, sorry, ain’t gonna happen. It’s against our policy.”

“Well, is it still discrimination?” the caller challenged me. He then noticed a long pause on my end of the phone.

I tried to explain to him that I can understand that the Jewish school is in the business of promoting Jewish values and beliefs, which include keeping Judaism and the Jewish people going and thriving. “I understand where they’re coming from,” I said, “even though it certainly does have a discriminatory aspect to it. But from a Jewish communal perspective, it’s about survival.”

The caller, however, was having none of it. “If someone pulled this on the Jews, we’d be screaming bloody murder and calling the Anti-Defamation League and every media outlet in town,” he said. “This is point-blank bigotry.” He went on to say that the whole matter has turned him off to the Jewish community and Judaism in general, and he was even thinking of quitting his temple (which is not connected in any way, shape or form to the Jewish school.)

When I asked him if the family of the Jewish student would talk to me, possibly for an article, he said they would absolutely not. They didn’t want to make waves or criticize the school publicly. They were just fuming quietly.

But meanwhile, the caller was quite frustrated with my lack of outrage and disgust, and called me on it. He basically called me another communal stooge who hides behind Jewish assimilation and intermarriage fears to promote discrimination and prejudice.

“I understand what you’re saying,” I told him, “but this is an issue that goes straight to the heart of modern Jewish life. It’s complex. If a Jewish institution says, `Jews only,’ is it discrimination? Or is it a matter of survival, considering that the demographics show that the Jewish community is practically vanishing before our eyes? I know that sounds alarmist, but there are no easy answers here.”

The man, highly annoyed with me, ended the conversation by noting that of all people who should know better about exclusionary practices and the very high price of only accepting someone by their genetics and lineage (something beyond their control), it is Jews.

Fair enough. But one thing is for sure: this conversation will go on. For a long time.

Many years ago, I covered a Baltimore Jewish Council lunch gathering at which the keynote speaker discussed apartheid and how it was affecting South Africa’s Jewish community. After the talk, I grabbed the speaker in the hallway for a moment and asked a few questions, including one about whether he felt a holocaust was imminent in South Africa. Remember, these were the days when Nelson Mandela was still in prison and the white minority ruled.

One older audience member, Chiae Herzig, who was eavesdropping, came up to me afterwards and said, “Excuse me, Alan, but you asked him if there could be a holocaust in South Africa. I don’t mean to butt in, but you need to know that there was only one Holocaust, and to ask if there could ever be another one is incorrect. There could never, ever be another Holocaust.”

Maybe Chiae, God bless her soul, was being a tad reactionary in her comments, but she was right. My usage of the term “Holocaust” was inappropriate. After all, what was going on in South Africa was horrific and terribly wrong, but to compare it to the systematic genocide of European Jewry during World War II was woefully misguided and naive. The Holocaust was and is a singular tragedy unlike any other in the annals of human history.

I feel somewhat similarly about 9/11. The terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, were also a singular historical event, one that my generation (hopefully) will never, ever forget.

Now I’m a big fan of Wanda Sykes. I think she’s hysterical, and I always enjoy her performances on TV talk shows and “The New Adventures Of Old Christine.” And like many people, I absolutely loathe Rush Limbaugh. His comment earlier this year that he hopes President Obama fails, to me, is tantamount to treason, regardless of your political stripes.

However, to say at last week’s White House Correspondents dinner – even jokingly – that Limbaugh was originally going to be the 20th hijacker on 9/11, “but he was just so strung out on OxyContin [that] he missed his flight,” is just way over the top and way over the line. (Even Sykes herself asked the president from the podium, “Too much?”)

First of all—and I know I say this at the risk of sounding like a wet mop—someone’s past substance abuse problems is nothing to giggle or snicker about. But more importantly, the subject of 9/11 should in every way, shape and form be officially deemed off-limits for even the most extreme, edgy and outrageous comedian.

My guess is that Sykes, as a brilliant, left-leaning entertainer, wanted to one-up and/or woodshed Rush for his “I hope Obama fails” comment. Fair enough. But somehow that needed to be done without alluding in any way to that horrible day in September of 2001.

Some things are just sacred. Like Chiae said to me those many years ago, some things are far beyond comparisons.

The story pulls at the heartstrings and reminds you that in such a world of darkness, there is some light.

Nancy Lichtig Frederick was Michelle Harf-Grim’s best friend for 36 years. According to Michelle, “Everyone was like family to Nancy. When someone would first meet her, she always made them feel like they were her best friend. She had a way of including you so you would never feel alone. She took care of those around her.”

But in July of 1995, Nancy was diagnosed with late stage-3 ovarian cancer. Now, it was Nancy who needed someone to take care of her.

Nancy, according to Michelle, never stopped battling the disease, and her courage was inspirational. She called herself a “stubborn Hungarian,” and her thirst for life was unquenchable. She often gave speeches about her situation (and the symptoms and risks of ovarian cancer) for the American Cancer Society, and helped raise money for Relay for Life fund-raisers. In addition, she co-founded the Cancer Support Foundation, which helps people battling the disease.

In September of 2007, Nancy’s doctors told her that the cancer had spread to her esophagus and they were out of options for her. They gave her a prognosis of six months to a year, but with the strength of her spirit and will to live, she exceeded that projection.

In the last 18 months of her life, Nancy sought spiritual solace, although she did not belong to a synagogue or temple. According to Michelle, the only response Nancy, a Baltimore native, received from the local Jewish community in her inquiries was from Cantor Nancy R. Ginsberg, formerly of Har Sinai Congregation. The cantor visited Nancy in her home every other week for months, and also at Gilchrist Hospice, Michelle said.

Nancy lost her fight on April 19, at age 41, leaving behind many grieving family members and friends. One of them was her husband of eight-and-a-half years, Trevor Frederick, who last January was diagnosed with stomach cancer that was found to have spread to his liver.

As things happen, one morning last month, on the day of Nancy’s funeral, Michelle’s husband, Michael Grim, stopped by a convenience store that he frequents, for a cup of coffee. While there, he chatted with the owner of the store about the Fredericks’ tragic situation, including the fact that there weren’t quite enough funds available yet to pay for Nancy’s funeral (because of Trevor’s expensive treatments). The proprietor, a Jewish man, immediately made a sizable contribution, even though he barely even knew Nancy.

When I called the store owner this week about possibly writing an article on his incredible act of generosity, he immediately turned me down. “I did this out of my heart, out of instinct,” he said. “I’m not looking for attention or compliments. It’s just something I did, that’s all.”

Of course, I’m not going to tell you this man’s name. But in my opinion, he is a living embodiment of Maimonides’ precept that the highest form of tzedakah is giving anonymously.

And it goes without saying that the world would be a far better place if there were more people like this gentleman … and Nancy Lichtig Frederick.

Jack Kemp’s passing late last week, of cancer at age 73, didn’t get as much attention as you’d think it would. After all, we’re talking about a guy who ran for president (in ’88) and vice-president (in ’96, with Bob Dole), played professional football (an NFL quarterback, no less), and spent virtually his entire life in the public eye.

I guess with so much going on these days – economic turmoil, Swine flu, “American Idol” heating up, Jessica Simpson’s fluctuating weight (poor dear) – a guy like Jack Kemp snags precious little ink when he dies.

But I vividly recall being in attendance at Chizuk Amuno Synagogue 11 years ago when Mr. Kemp spoke passionately and eloquently at an Associated gathering about his deep commitment to Israel and how being a Zionist informed him as a human being.

“People sometimes say to me, `Why would a guy from suburban Los Angeles have had this love affair with human rights and Israel?’” Mr. Kemp said. The answer was touring Auschwitz in ’72 as a freshman congressman, he said, and later visiting the Jewish state, receiving a tour of the country from future Israeli President Ezer Weizman, then an Air Force general.

“You don’t have to be Jewish to love Israel or the Zionist dream. … Israel stands as a beacon of hope in the Middle East,” Mr. Kemp said. “When it comes to supporting Israel, there’s no Republican Party or Democratic Party. There’s only one party – the United States party.”

Not surprisingly, Mr. Kemp, a Republican known as a “progressive conservative,” wasn’t too keen on the Oslo Accords. In fact, he felt that Israel was already receiving too much of the blame for the collapse of Middle East peace process.

“Israel gave up the Sinai, the oil fields, Hebron, 490 towns and villages, and seven cities,” he said. “And now Israel alone is being called into account for the failure of Oslo.”

You might not agree with all of Mr. Kemp’s views on the Middle East or other matters (I certainly don’t). But looking back on everything that has transpired since that brisk November night in 1997 when he spoke at Chizuk Amuno, it’s hard to disagree with a lot of his comments. Israel still gets most of the blame for everything, and the Palestinians are still viewed as victims, even though their so-called moderates admit in public that they will never, ever recognize a Jewish state. So much for peace accords.

Thank God for friends like Jack Kemp. We need more of ‘em.

The issue of same-sex marriage is a complicated enough one without having idiots getting involved to stifle our freedom to express what we believe in, or without the Politically-Correct police swooping down on us.

Perhaps you’ve heard about the recent controversy involving a Miss USA contestant and Perez Hilton, the celebrity blogger and gay activist. It seems Mr. Hilton, who served as a judge at the pageant last weekend, had a decidedly pointed question for Miss California, a.k.a. Carrie Prejean, about whether she supports same-sex marriages.

Ms. Prejean did something that’s getting to be pretty rare in American life – she said how she really felt.

In a respectful, gracious way, she replied, “I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman—no offense to anybody out there. But that’s how I was raised. And that’s how I think that it should be, between a man and a woman.”

Everyone agrees that the candid response likely cost Ms. Prejean—who was the runner-up—the Miss USA crown, including the young woman herself. Meanwhile, Perez Hilton has gone on just about every TV talk show that will have him, screaming bloody murder about this woman and basically accusing her of extreme homophobia and sectarian myopia.

Furthermore, other pageant judges have criticized Ms. Prejean for not making her response more parve and for not hitting that fastball right down the middle, to not offend anyone. (How lame.)

“I am so disappointed in Miss California representing my country,” Mr. Hilton ranted on a video blog on his Web site. “Not because I believe in gay marriage, but she doesn’t inspire and she doesn’t unite.”

(Hold on? Miss USA is supposed to inspire and unite us? Especially about something as complex and potentially divisive as same-sex marriage? Isn’t Miss USA just supposed to be a well-poised babe who looks swell in a bikini and doesn’t – usually—trip on a runway? Isn’t the whole thing a bit of an annual charade?)

Anyway, on a morning talk show the other day, Mr. Hilton also said, “There were various other ways she could have answered that question, and still stayed true to herself without alienating millions of people.”

So let’s get this straight, Senator McCarthy: she basically should’ve lied or fudged her answer, just to make everyone happy, to be able to snag the crown?

Look, I don’t like beauty pageants much, and I don’t happen to agree with Ms. Prejean about her views on same-sex marriage. But I think her stance on this matter has become irrelevant here. Something bigger is going on. She is entitled to her opinion – one that is shared by millions and millions of Americans, by the way, for a variety of reasons – and I don’t appreciate anyone who says she’s not.

To use a timeworn cliché (and I say this as the proud son of a World War II veteran), American soldiers fought for Carrie Prejean’s right to answer that question.

To say she is not entitled to her opinion is an un-American impulse, one that is embraced far too often these days by liberals and conservatives alike. We’ve gotten so caught up in our narrow agendas that we’ve lost a sense of mutual respect, graciousness and acknowledgment in our discourses. I might disagree strongly with you, it might even infuriate or repulse or alienate me, but I’m still willing to hear what you have to say.

At best, Perez Hilton is standing up for gay rights, certainly a noble cause, but at worst he’s using this moment in the spotlight to simply augment his fame. Whatever. But where I come from, I always heard that if you ask someone a question, don’t be shocked if you don’t like the answer.

When discussing this matter of Perez Hilton vs. Miss California the other day, a friend – half-jokingly, I suspect—said to me, “Oh, you’re just on her side because she’s really hot!” But it’s not about being on sides, or the banality of beauty pageants. It’s about being allowed to express yourself, which by the way is something that folks in quite a few corners of this planet still aren’t allowed to do.

The final, fleeting hours of Passover are now upon us. With visions of garlic bagels, croissants and pizza slices dancing in our heads, we prepare to reenter the leavened realm, hopefully with a new appreciation of the role of bread in our lives and, more importantly, the great privilege of living in a free, open society.

I was honored recently by a request from Rabbi Ron Shulman of Chizuk Amuno Congregation to write a piece, to be sent out via the synagogue’s email list, on how I mentally, spiritually and emotionally prepare for Passover. Rabbi Shulman asks several congregants every year to share their reflections on how they get ready for Pesach.

I must confess, I don’t do as much as I should to prepare for the holiday. We’re all so busy, the holiday just seems to sneak up on us, without any warning. Wisely, Rabbi Shulman gently prods us into participating in this process, and I must say that it enhanced my Passover and forced me to really contemplate what it’s all about, from my perspective.

I’m not sure that I completely delivered the goods. After all, I never brought up Moses and the Children of Israel, Pharaoh, the seder, or even how (or if) I clean my house from top to bottom of chametz. But since I’ve received some good feedback from others on the piece, I decided to reprint my “Kavanah” here.

Passover may be just about over, but its essence is eternal.
Chag Samayach!

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Growing Young Again
by Alan Feiler
Years ago, I went with a close friend to a trendy coffee house where a rock band was performing. Not far from us, while we sat and enjoyed our joe, a young woman, dressed in a flowery dress and swaying beads, danced alone, uninhibited, like a child. She was either blissfully ignorant or utterly indifferent to the stares fixed in her direction.

My friend simply gazed at her, sighed and said to me, “Can you imagine being that free? How did we ever get so old?”
What a drag it is, to paraphrase an ancient sage. But is there a way to regain the sense of freedom we felt when we were younger, when such issues as family commitments, mortgages, bills and health concerns were merely something we overheard others talking about?

Passover forces us to revisit our concepts of freedom, from interior and exterior perspectives. To get mentally and spiritually prepared for the holiday, we have to reacquaint ourselves with the notions of freedom we enjoyed as young people. It was a freedom that filled us with the exhilaration for life, optimism for our future and what we could achieve in this world. (We once had the well-intentioned hubris to think we could make a difference.)

We’ve lost that elasticity in our lives, and it hurts. Deadlines and commitments prohibit our ability to do what we want to do. True, every adult must own up to this and grow up. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t strive to reconnect with the joy that is life at its core.

Freedom will increasingly be in short supply. Things once taken for granted—our livelihoods, our homes, the “American Dream” itself, our children’s inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness—are now up for grabs. Thanks to the merchants of greed and self-indulgence (translation: us), it all now seems quite up in the air and fragile, flimsy and wispy, like a sheet of matzoh.

Faith is the key, not in human beings so much (for we too are fragile, flimsy and wispy) but in some kind of higher power, to direct us to our source for true freedom.

Is Passover only about cleaning our homes, obliterating all that pesky hametz, and cooking enough food to feed Cameroon? Is it only about avoiding all leavened products, just so we can say, “Well, I’m not much of a Jew, but at least I don’t eat bread on Pesach”?

It’s about recommitting to the sacred, and to what really matters to you. That means turning internally, to your past and your values system, and to looking externally at what freedom has meant, and continues to mean, for us as a people, as Jews and Americans.

It means, in many ways, to grow young again.

Maybe I’m just getting a little overly-sensitive or cranky in my old age. I don’t think I’m a right-winger. And as someone who has worked in journalism his entire adult life, I’m certainly not a media-basher.

But the headline slapped me upside my head and made me, well, annoyed. It was an article in today’s Sun about Shlomo Nativ, a 13-year-old Israeli who was brutally killed by a Palestinian man wielding a pickax on April 2. The headline was, “Palestinian Kills Israeli Settler, 13.”

Now it’s true that Bat Ayin, where Shlomo lived, is a settlement located in the Judean Hills of the West Bank. I’m not going to start getting into that whole thing.

My point is, this was a 13-year-old boy. He was a boy. This was a terrible, senseless tragedy. I would never call a boy a “settler,” even if some Palestinians would.

The article starts off by mentioning this horrific act, but then gets bogged down in the fact that it was the Netanyahu administration’s second day on the job, and as a conservative government pondered how it may or may not respond. It’s not until the eighth paragraph that you get the terrifying details about what happened in Bat Ayin. Then, the article quickly transitions into a financial probe regarding Foreign Minister Avigdor Lieberman.

Look, I’m not an advocate for holding onto lands conquered in the Six Day War, and I’m certainly not in the habit of criticizing other publications. But this is not good journalism, and it’s not sensitive, humane reporting about a tragic situation.

Maybe I’m getting mired down in semantics but, again, this was not a settler. It was a boy.

So word has it today that a judge in Malawi has turned down a petition by Madonna – oops, I mean Esther, as she’s known in kabbalistic circles – to adopt a second child from that southeastern African country.

Madge, now 50, adopted her 3-year-old son, David Banda, in Malawi in 2006. Now, it seems that a residency requirement there has prevented the pop superstar and mystical dabbler from adopting 3½-year-old Chifundoercy James, whom she first encountered in an orphanage three years ago. The residency requirement for prospective parents is 18 to 24 months in Malawi.

Shockingly, Madonna, who lives in New York and London, doesn’t apparently plan to move to Malawi anytime soon.

I admit, I’ve never been a big fan of the Material Gal. But I do admire the tremendous amount of good work she’s done for poor and abandoned children in Malawi. Quietly and publicly, she’s raised a lot of money and awareness for orphanages and fighting AIDS and poverty there, and kicked in her own bucks as well. She also co-founded a non-profit group called Raising Malawi, which provides programs to help the needy.

She obviously cares.

But at the same time, I’m getting pretty sick and tired of goofball American entertainers zipping into struggling and impoverished lands, snatching their kids (largely because their wealth and celebrity status bring special privileges and hyper-expedited red-tape treatment) and then parading themselves in the media for their mitzvahs

.
Intention must count for something.