Frankly, over the years, I’ve dealt with a lot of head-in-the-sand attitudes in the local Jewish community. But this time, it felt different.

Several people told me that even though they had strongly suspected over the years that the rabbi’s stories were largely nonsense, he still didn’t deserve a negative write-up in the BALTIMORE JEWISH TIMES. After all, they said, this guy was a very mentschy person who was willing to go to shuls of every stripe – even though he was Orthodox – and even shake the hands of female clergy.

“Don’t take this away from us,” one person yelled at me. “This is a decent man. He doesn’t deserve this. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

One rabbi told me that whenever Youlus spoke at his shul about the provenance of his Torah scrolls, he usually simply walked out of the room, preferring not to hear such fanciful tales that defied logic and reason. Another rabbi/educator complained that Youlus was being “crucified,” even though he admitted that he privately and quietly discounted some of Youlus’s stories.

“Should we judge him because he says things that don’t sound quite right?” he asked. “Do we stand behind him and support him, even if he’s not telling the whole truth since he did things that were not necessarily legal [to acquire and transport Torahs out of Europe]?”

Another Jewish communal official who’d bought one of Rabbi Youlus’s Torahs said of the accusations, “I’m saddened to hear this, but he has been so helpful with the continuing care of this Torah. I take it back to him once a year. I take it to his house, [and] he lives very modestly.” She attributed the rabbi’s alleged fabrications to the fact that “he wants people to feel good. This was a midrash.”

Midrash, eh?

Misplaced loyalty may be admirable, but it’s still misplaced.

As you likely know now, Youlus recently made international headlines when he pled guilty in a Manhattan federal court to defrauding a charity he founded called Save A Torah Inc. of $862,000.

“Menachem Youlus concocted an elaborate tale of dramatic Torah rescues undertaken by a latter day movie hero that exploited the profound emotions attached to one of the most painful chapters in world history – the Holocaust – in order to make a profit,” said Preet Bharara, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. “Today’s guilty plea is a fitting conclusion to his story and he will now be punished for his brazen fraud.”

Between 2004 and 2010, about $1.2 million came in to Save A Torah, according to the court. An investigation by the U.S. Postal Inspection Service’s Complex Frauds Unit revealed that Youlus’s accounts were contradicted by historical evidence, witness accounts and records showing that he passed off used Torahs sold by local dealers.

In addition, records showed that Youlus never left the United States during some of the years he claimed to be finding Torahs abroad.

I met Youlus a couple of times over the years and I have to admit, he fooled me, too. When he spoke of his journeys to unearth Torah scrolls and bring them to “safety,” I didn’t really question it. Like everyone else, it made me feel good, like any good yarn does. After all, the man was very likable, articulate, personable, knowledgeable, open-minded – and who’s going to question a rabbi, right?

One of the first people who told me privately that they questioned Youlus’s stories was an Orthodox rabbi who’d had some negative business encounters with him. He said he discovered that a group of Torahs that Youlus said he “made kosher again” for him were never actually taken care of.

In conversation, when I made a comparison between Youlus and Deli Strummer, the local Holocaust survivor whose wartime accounts were strongly challenged by the organized Jewish community and historians, the rabbi said to me, “Excuse me, Alan, but I beg to disagree. Deli Strummer was an old lady who got caught up in her stories about the Holocaust and just liked the attention. Youlus is making money off the Holocaust with his bubbe meises about these Torahs. It’s disgusting. That’s blood money, and people in this community need to wake up.”

Youlus now faces a maximum sentence of 40 years in prison and will be required to pay restitution to his victims. Sentencing is scheduled in federal court on June 21.

Around the time that allegations first arose against Youlus, I wrote a blog entry about how I was concerned that Youlus was still speaking about his Torah scrolls to my daughter’s class at Hebrew school. I didn’t mind his educating the kids about the Torah and why it’s sacred to the Jewish people. I just felt, as a parent, that he shouldn’t discuss where he allegedly got these scrolls from while he was being accused of creating falsehoods about them. And I felt the synagogue had a responsibility to put a muzzle on him.

“What do I tell my daughter now?” I wrote. “That there are questions about this bright, articulate, very likable man, raised by some of the very people who believed in him the most and spent their hard-earned dollars to spread the love of Torah in memory of their loved ones? How do I explain these serious allegations, one that could horribly damage the reputation of someone that many of us previously held as a highly moral individual on a very noble mission?”

One official at the shul angrily wrote to me, “There is nothing to tell your children yet, unless it is a lesson on how to avoid the common trap of confusing allegations with truth.”

Well, I guess that’s not really an issue anymore, is it?

Like I said, misplaced loyalty may be admirable, but it’s still misplaced.

I know what you’re thinking: “Bubbeleh, where ya been? That thing came out more than 20 years ago.”

I know, I know. I’m a late bloomer.

Actually, I’ve watched parts of the series over the years, when PBS would re-run it. But I recently saw the whole series resting on a shelf at my local library branch and decided to finally watch it in its entirety.

And boy, am I glad I did. More than simply another documentary or historical series, “The Civil War” is nothing short of poetry, a sweeping, poignant narrative of our country’s most dire period told by a master storyteller. In my mind, the series – which took longer to make than the war itself – was a landmark event, a brilliant, accessible and highly articulate means of comprehending where we as Americans have been and where we’re going. It’s about more than battles and skirmishes, generals and strategies. It’s about human beings and events that changed their lives. And it’s not difficult to see running themes and concepts that are analogous to our own times.

Of course, when hearing me blather on about the brilliance of the series to my wife, my kids think it all sounds quite boring and antiquated. Who cares, they say, this is something that happened a long time ago. And I know a lot of people would agree with them. After all, slavery’s over, secession failed. It all worked out, let’s move on. The times have changed.

But have they?

The other day, a small article in the newspaper caught my eye. It was about an elementary school teacher in suburban Atlanta who recently resigned from her job after she and three of her colleagues were being investigated by school officials regarding the content of their math homework.

Seems that one of the math problems read, “Each tree has 56 oranges. If eight slaves pick them equally, then how much would each slave pick?”

Yet another problem went, “If Frederick got two beatings each day, how many beatings did he get in one week?”

OK, this is how we’re teaching our children math? This is how carelessly we view the heinous practice of slavery and arguably the darkest chapter in American history? This is how we teach children to view people of other races and groups? What if it had been, “How many Jews does it take … ?”

Two things I know for sure. One is that the Civil War didn’t really end at Appomattox. The second is that history isn’t something we should ever view cavalierly or simply jettison and not teach because it “took place a long time ago.”

Blogs were invented by Al Gore or Steve Jobs or someone like that so people can vent their spleens to the faceless masses – or at least to two or three of their buddies who follow their rants every now and then – so what better place to share some of my favorite pet peeves? After all, it is a new year. Maybe it’ll give us all something to think about before 2012 winds down into a life-ending ball of unadulterated hellfire (as reportedly predicted by the Mayans, Nostradamus and others).

Let’s start with those pesky people who decide to back into parking spaces. These dreadful, ridiculous, heinous folks need to be corralled and shipped over to a remote, uninhabitable part of western Australia immediately. I can’t fathom why so many drivers over the last year or two in America have decided that they can’t possibly just pull into a space headfirst. (Did I miss the interoffice email?)

No, they have to back in (even those not driving Lamborghinis) so that when they need to leave they’re all set for their immediate launch, as if they were Batman speeding off to save Gotham City or something.

Natch, I always get behind these people in a parking garage or lot. They typically drive slightly past the space and suddenly turn their wheel a little to back in. By this point, I have to back up as well since I can’t actually read their minds (and the cars behind me have to back up too). Then, I have to wait about a half-hour or so until this driver—who’s usually got a cell phone tightly wedged between their ear and their shoulder and is jabbering away—backs into the space just right. Sometimes they’re a teenager, sometimes they’re likely a World War I veteran. Doesn’t matter. It usually takes at least two or three good attempts to fit into the space, and they have no concern that they’re holding up others.

OK, glad I got that off my chest. Let’s move on.

People who like to speak in an obnoxiously loud manner on their cell phone about the most inane stuff while waiting in line. Yes, I’m usually in front of or behind that person and have to listen to all of their so-called dirty laundry. The question remains, why do these people even need cell phones? None of them are the president of the United States or even members of the U.S. Senate or House of Representatives. Is talking on the cell really just entertainment for them, like hanging out with pals or playing golf or playing video games? Do they really have to talk with their cousin about how much they ate and drank last year during the Thanksgiving meal at Aunt Hilda’s? More importantly, do I have to listen to it?

Next: those perky, can’t-get-‘em-down, cockeyed optimists who like to say all the time, “It’s all good.” Yes, “it’s all good.” That’s gotta go – and quickly. Very 2004, don’tcha think? It’s all good? Let me take you to a couple of places where it’s not all good. Then you’ll stop uttering that insipid saying that belongs on the trash heap of bumper sticker bromides. Take a good look around, pal, and get your head out of the clouds. It ain’t all good! In fact, in some parts things are quite rotten!

Alright, back to cars. Why do so many people nowadays have to drive with tinted windows? Are they movie stars? Drug dealers? Both? Who are they hiding from? The paparazzi? The taxman? Panhandlers on street corners? Hitmen? And why are they trying so hard to look like they’re above everyone else? What’s with the self-removal from the human race? That’s what email, voice-mail and cell phones are for, right? To avoid us.

OK, Facebook. Oy, where do you start? That great Talmudic sage of our times, Betty White, had it right – what a “colossal waste of time”! Sorry but I don’t need to read all about your colonoscopy today. Or see that dopey photo of Jacques, your 9-year-old Rottweiler, in a mauve tutu.

Next: people who seem to go on vacation every month of the year. Good vacations, too, not just day trips. Paris, safaris in Kenya, Prague, Monte Carlo, etc. We’re not talking northeastern Jersey here. Do these people have unlimited access to trust funds? Is there scholarship money available for going on cool vacations regularly? Where do I sign up?

Alright, one more curmudgeonly outburst – people who insist on sending holiday cards bearing their kids’ photos. Yes, the kids are cute, but do we really need to show off our children like prized bovines at the state fair? The worst ones are the photo holiday cards from Jews that either proclaim “Seasons Greetings” or “Happy Hanukkah.” Talk about Christmas envy - just throw in a crèche scene in the background and call it a day.

Well, I’m out for now. If you’ve got any pet peeves for the new year (and no, they can’t be about kvetchy, whiny, self-important bloggers), please share ‘em with me. Misery loves company, you know?

Well, everyone needs a hobby.

But it’s true. For some reason, I connect with older gentlemen on a personal, visceral level, much more so than with guys my own age and of my own generation. Maybe I’m an ancient soul, or perhaps I’m just in training for my own geriatric years.

I just find I can learn so much more from older folks than those who’ve lived through the same fairly dull times as myself.

Last week, I lost one of my old guys, Morris Martick. Morris was the owner, operator, chef and head bottle-washer at Martick’s Restaurant Francais, a French bistro on Mulberry Street that would’ve never existed if not for the sheer force of personality, innovativeness and quirky determination of this irascible, idiosyncratic man. To call him a true Baltimore character of the highest order would be a colossal understatement.

I’ve lost a few other great old guys in my time whom I still miss. One was Harry Zweback, a Toms River, New Jersey, chicken farmer who originally came from Poland. I met Harry when he and his ailing wife, Bella, lived downstairs from me and my wife at Pickwick Apartments. Harry had a thick East European accent, and even though he was a small man, he had the muscular arms and shoulders of a guy who had worked with his hands all of his life. He used to call me and say, “Come on, lemme take ya to the Suboibian sometime,” alluding to the Suburban House restaurant. He loved deli.

Then, there was my old Yiddish teacher, Dr. Solomon Manischewitz. Back when we first got married, my wife and I decided to get in touch with our roots and learn the mamaloshen. But what we learned early on while taking evening classes at Baltimore Hebrew University with Dr. Manischewitz was that Dr. M didn’t fool around. He didn’t look at Yiddish as this cute little language in which to tell corny, outdated jokes. He took Yiddish quite seriously and academically – conjugated verbs, past participles, you name it – and he expected the same commitment to the language from his students.

Naturally, I started trying to cut his classes, because I wasn’t prepared at all, but my wife forced me to go, especially when it became quite clear that Dr. M took a particular shine to me. (My wife called me the teacher’s pet.) He used to smile at me and cup my face in his hand, saying, “Ah, he’s a good boy.” (Of course, I was in my early 30s at the time, and not so good in reality.)

Frankly, my strong hunch is that he liked me because I work at the Jewish Times. Anyway, I could do no wrong in that class in Dr. M’s eyes, and here was my wife pulling me by the ear into the classroom. Let’s just say she wasn’t too pleased. I still hear about it on occasion.

The last time I saw Dr. M was in the supermarket a few years after taking his class. He was very friendly but had just lost his beloved wife, and he said to me, “Everything I went through during the war and in the [concentration] camps, nothing compares to what I’ve been through with my wife.” His eyes were full of pain, sorrow and fear. I’ll never forget it.

And then there was the one and only Sol Milgrome, the Torah reader at my old shul, Shaarei Tfiloh Synagogue by Druid Hill Park. I still can’t drive by Shaarei Tfiloh without thinking of Reverend Sol. I could hear his voice chanting Torah on Shabbos morning and feel like I was being transported back to the Polish shtetl, hearing it all done the authentic way of my ancestors. This former student of Rabbi Moshe Feinstein had a tireless love for his shul and for people in general. He used to walk all over Baltimore, just to schmooze with people and shed a little of his unique light upon them. He liked to be a street philosopher and dispense his life’s wisdom, whether you were interested or not. Yes, he could sometimes drive you a little meshugah after a while with all of his preaching and jabbering, but you always knew Reverend Sol was good people.

He was a real mentsch, he wanted to make the world a better place, not by writing checks or sitting on committees but simply by talking to people and enlightening them, maybe just giving them a chuckle. And when someone didn’t come to shul, he’d always take it personally and yell, “What? He wants to sleep?! There’s always time to sleep when you’re dead!”

These guys are all gone now. They were among a vanishing, rare breed. I know it sounds trite, but they can’t be replaced. They had something – I don’t know what you call it, character, a zest, moxie, a generosity of spirit, an aversion to B.S., a humility, a je ne sais quoi as they say in Yiddish (I told you I was a rotten Yiddish student) – that precious few of us have. Certainly not those of us born after World War II. They were byproducts of their time and places, perhaps emblematic of their era. Maybe as my father used to say, they were graduates of the College of Hard Knocks. Maybe that’s what made them so special.

Hopefully, for those of us who enjoyed their company, sat at their feet and learned from them, they still live in a part of our hearts and spirits. I know they’ll always bring a smile to my face.

This week, the biggest story in the Jewish realm by far was the sudden news that Matisyahu – the Chasidic hip-hop artist formerly known as Matthew Paul Miller and raised in Westchester County (despite his Jamaican accent while rapping) – shaved off his beard.

Stop the presses! A grown man shaved off his beard! I can’t tell you how many people emailed me links to this story.

Of course, this wasn’t just any man but arguably the most famous Orthodox Jew on the planet. No one can deny that Matisyahu has become an icon of sorts, for Jews and non-Jews. Besides transcending conventional wisdom about Orthodox Jews and Jews in general with his rhymes and beats, he has brought a certain type of spiritual fervor and awareness to his listeners that goes well beyond labels and boundaries.

There was always something a bit New Agey about Matis, despite his peyos and tzitzit. You always felt that if he didn’t fall into the frum lifestyle, he could’ve just as easily immersed himself in another spiritual or religious discipline, like Buddhism or Evangelical Christianity or something else. (By the way, that’s not putting him down.)

His “gimmick” was always the frum thing, the sight of a guy in a fedora and a long gabardine coat, who looked like a diamond trader from Williamsburg, rapping and moving around like Jay-Z. But unlike us old people, the kids always knew it wasn’t a gimmick or an act, that Matis was being authentic and sincere in his approach, in his kavanah (intention) and creative muse. (Admission: I say this as someone who is not a big fan of his music or that musical genre, but respects the feeling and depth he brings to his work.)

And that’s why Matis never went away after making it big several years ago, like so many other musical fads and one-off poseurs. And in the process, he inspired many of his fans to be more receptive to contemplating their own spiritual lives, including young Christians who just happened to like his tunes and thought he was cool, not to mention all of the young Jewish seekers out there who are sick of the trappings and restrictions of conventional Judaism.

In his big announcement to the world that he’d shaved off his whiskers, Matis sent a photo and wrote, “No more Chasidic reggae superstar. … When I started becoming religious 10 years ago, it was a very natural and organic process. I felt that in order to become a good person I needed rules—lots of them—or else I would somehow fall apart. I am reclaiming myself.”

This “reclaiming,” the shedding of the beard, might make headlines for a couple of days and good water cooler fodder at Jewish agency offices. But there’s nothing seismic or cataclysmic going on here, it’s not a major indication of the changing times we’re living in. It should just be viewed as part of Matis’s spiritual evolution. (That or his face was getting scratchy.)

When he first broke into the big time in ‘04, Matis was affiliated with the Chabad movement. But throughout the process, he announced that he was no longer involved with Chabad – while never putting down that movement – but was simply an observant Jew, without all of the labels and such.

“I’m really religious, but the more I’m learning about other types of Jews,” Matis said, “I don’t want to exclude myself.” He said he was “not feeling bound to one way or one path, but open to many paths within Judaism.”

Now, it seems that Matis has come to the conclusion that one doesn’t have to sport a beard – or a mustache or a Van Dyke, for that matter – to be a good Jew (or a good person). Some people are already questioning his intentions (Publicity? Gone Hollywood?) and criticizing this move (Is it bad for the Jews? For the frummies?).

Only in the Jewish community could people get worked up about a guy shaving off his beard. I can’t imagine Methodist mayhem over a mustache.

Like Bob Dylan, Matis’s spiritual journey is obviously not based on a herd mentality or a sense of complacency but a healthy restlessness and undying desire to understand his place in the cosmos.

Thirty years ago, while trying to sort out his infamous, much criticized “Gospel Period” and his reemergence as a Jew, Dylan wrote, “In the fury of the moment I can see the Master’s hand/In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.”

Matis, with or without beard, is on that same journey, that fury of the moment, to find God’s presence in every grain of sand, every speck of dust, every gust of wind. And you have to respect him for taking that walk into the lonesome valley, no matter whom he annoys, angers and amuses with his actions and words. That’s the mark of a true artist and seeker.

Maybe it’s a Jewish thing.

That’s why it’s so refreshing to me to meet someone like Marshall Kohen. Marshall is the choir director at Temple Isaiah, the Reform congregation in the southern Howard County hamlet of Fulton. This past year, Isaiah – led by Rabbi Mark J. Panoff for 27 years – has celebrated its 40th anniversary. Of course, 40 years has a special place in Jewish hearts, since the Children of Israel spent 40 years in the wilderness to reach the Promised Land.

Last week, I went out to Fulton, to interview Marshall, and I must say, it is the Promised Land. A lovely rural community that is now booming with new housing developments and shopping centers, Fulton is going through a great deal of change. So is Isaiah, which moved to Fulton in 2004 (after 33 years of adhering to Columbia’s interfaith centers concept) into its own sprawling, gorgeous facility.

Like the Children of Israel after the 40-year mark, Isaiah congregants are facing a big leadership change, with Rabbi Panoff retiring in June and a new spiritual leader expected to be hired by next month. And like almost every shul these days, they’re confronted with the challenges of how to maintain membership numbers, keeping the veterans happy and attracting young families, all in a tough economy.

But with congregants like Marshall, I’m confident that Isaiah will be in good, solid shape. Over a year ago, Marshall decided to do something special for the culmination event of Isaiah’s yearlong 40th anniversary celebration.

So he spent a good chunk of his weekends, weeknights and spare time while on business travels laboring on a grand choral work chronicling Isaiah’s history. The four-movement piece, titled “From Then To Tomorrow” and performed by the Shir Isaiah Choir (conducted by Marshall), will premiere tomorrow night, Dec. 3, at Isaiah’s “From Then To Tomorrow: A Musical Celebration Of Temple Isaiah’s 40 Years” gala.

When you’re a busy professional and a married dad of two, writing a choral work in your “spare time” is no easy feat. I have not yet heard the piece, but I can tell you that I’m highly impressed with Marshall’s dedication and tenacity. His love and commitment to his shul is nothing short of inspiring.

Of course, in every synagogue and temple, you’ll find people who quietly, earnestly and diligently do things – large and small – for their congregations, only out of love and fellowship. Not all of them write epic musical pieces, but they all help keep the places running and humming. We’re lucky to have them and should appreciate them more.

They’re the folks that carry the rest of us kvetchers on their coattails. We could certainly stand to learn a thing or two from them.

A hearty yasher koach to Marshall, Rabbi Panoff and the rest of the folks at Temple Isaiah on their milestone and simchah. They greatly contribute to the tapestry that is Howard County’s Jewish community.

But unfortunately, beside her gifts as an educator, I’ll also always remember this teacher – whose name I’ll omit – for something she once said as an aside. It just demonstrates to watch what you say fleetingly—someone might still remember it 30 years later.

It was right before the High Holidays, and she noted at the start of a class that some of us might be out of school for a couple of days. “Of course,” the teacher, who wasn’t Jewish, said with a bit of a sneer, “I really wonder how many of you will actually be in synagogue, praying, and how many of you might be elsewhere, like the mall or someplace like that.” She then rolled her eyes.

Now I’m not saying that this belongs in the Anti-Semitism Hall of Fame, but I recall never feeling quite the same way about that teacher. After all, even though I was going to shul for those holidays, whose business was it to question the beliefs and motives of my fellow Jewish classmates? Does every Christian student go to church on Christmas Day? Are we going to send out truancy officers or the thought police if someone takes off for a religious holiday and doesn’t go to their particular house of worship? Can’t someone pray at home on their holiday, if that’s their choice?

This memory came flooding back to me recently when a friend of mine told me about a recent situation with his child. One day in school, when about to discuss a book about the Japanese internment camps in the U.S. during World War II, the kid’s teacher prefaced the conversation by saying, “Just remember that we had concentration camps in America, too. It wasn’t only the Jews in Europe during the Holocaust who had concentration camps.”

First of all, if this teacher had just bothered to read the book’s introduction, she would have noticed that the author stressed that what Japanese-Americans endured were internment camps, not concentration camps.

Big difference.

That’s not to minimize what Japanese-Americans went through during the war. These people, most of whom were upstanding, hard-working American citizens, were forcibly relocated to these camps and lived under difficult, deplorable conditions, all based on racial prejudice, hatred and hysteria. They were slapped in the face by their home or adopted country, to which they were loyal. It was largely a blatant case of guilt by association, one of the darkest moments in U.S. history.

But to compare such dire circumstances and naked unfairness to the Nazi concentration camps in any way, shape or form is unconscionable. What America did was absolutely wrong, unjust and mean-spirited, but the U.S. did not slaughter millions of Japanese-Americans. There was no “final solution” of Japanese-Americans. We did not herd them into gas chambers or perform medical experiments on them or turn them into piles of ashes.

I don’t know this teacher. It may have simply been a slip of the tongue. I don’t want to sound too paranoid here. But my hunch is that she – like some non-Jews, and even more than a few Jews on occasion – gets tired of hearing Jews talk about the Holocaust and the other episodes of persecution throughout our history. I could be wrong but my guess is that she thinks we may be a bit of a whiny breed. After all, other people have suffered, why do the Jews have to outdo everyone else and kvetch about it all the time?

If only we couldn’t outdo everyone else in the category of genocide, hatred and oppression.

The fact that an educator is so historically-illiterate and poorly-equipped is a bit disheartening. And scary. But it reminds you how we have to constantly be on our guard to explain why the Holocaust was different from other tragedies in history. That’s a sad task to still have to perform, but unfortunately it’s still with us.

And no doubt will be for a long time.

But I just can’t stop myself.

Recently, I attended a friend’s simchah at a big shul in town. I tend to be one of those people who prefers sitting in the back of a room, so I plunked myself down in the rear of the sanctuary, near a couple of rows full of kids around 12 or 13 years old. They were a good-looking bunch of youngsters, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that I wouldn’t be spending much time focused on God or Judaism or what was going on in the siddur or on the bimah.

Let me put it plainly – these kids just wouldn’t shut up. And it was more than a little distracting.

Over and over again, I watched as ushers, worshipers, teachers and even old guys (even older than me!) went up to these brash kids – who were boisterously chatting, laughing, clapping, flirting and carrying on, like they were in a movie theater – to tell them to shut the hell up, that some people in the sanctuary actually wanted to hear the service (and maybe even pray).

It was pretty clear that the youngsters didn’t care, because they went right back to their loud discussions and shenanigans, only quieting momentarily when the next adult came over to chastise them. (Which, of course, was an exercise in futility.)

I went over to one of the ushers later in the service and noted that some of the kids were students at a local Jewish day school. He simply laughed at me.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “They all act like this nowadays. That’s just how it is. It doesn’t matter where they go to school, Jewish or otherwise.”

I admit, I was no choirboy in Hebrew school or elsewhere as a young teenager. I used to like to schmooze and goof around with my buddies, especially during a long shul service or in the hallways. But I know one thing – when an adult came over to tell me to keep quiet, I did so. Usually with my knees trembling.

It seems that sense of awe, that skittishness about adults, is long gone, like polyester suits and mood rings. I mentioned this the other day to a friend who works with college students and he said, “Young people today, in general, aren’t scared or intimidated at all by adults. The problem is we’ve leveled the playing field. Kids now are immediately taught by their parents to call other adults by their first names. There’s no Mr. or Mrs. So-And-So. There’s only Stu and Zelda. And that’s how it all begins, that sense of disrespect and entitlement. Plus, they all know more about technology than us, and that really gives them a sense of superiority. So yes, there’s no respect for adults today.”

He may be right about that. But the problem goes even deeper, from a Jewish perspective (natch).

On Yom Kippur, my wife mentioned to me that she went into the ladies’ room at a shul and noticed several teenage girls in the lounge area. The girls, whom she recognized as students at a local Jewish day school, were on their cell phones, talking and texting away like crazy. Here they are, with their parents spending gobs of dough to give them an intensive Jewish education, and they’re texting in shul on the day Jews believe is the holiest one of the year?

Obviously, the problem isn’t just a lack of respect for adults but also a lack of respect for what is and isn’t appropriate behavior in shul. And maybe Judaism itself.

As parents and educators, we seem to have failed, to a certain extent. We seem to be raising a generation that doesn’t have much regard for anything, regardless of where or how they’re being educated. They just want to do whatever they want to do, whenever they want to do it, and all with a sense of entitlement. And we’re the ones whose knees are trembling. We just want them to like us and not get mad at us.

That might sound quite uncool and “old fogie” to say out loud, but so be it.

How do we stem the tide? That’s for deeper minds to figure out. Right now, we have to recognize this problem. Because it only stands to reason that if we raise a village of spoiled brats (with some exceptions, of course), we’re going to reap just what we sew.

Seems that the nefarious league – which is independent and non-sectarian, predominantly non-Jewish in players and coaches, and based in the Timonium/Cockeysville area – is having a regularly-scheduled game this Saturday morning, even though it’s Yom Kippur, held by Jews as the holiest day of the year.

“Can you believe that?” he said, exasperated and seething. “How dare they do that? It’s Yom Kippur, for crying out loud! Thank God it’s just a regular game and not a big playoff game. But come on, people!”

OK, pardon me for asking this question – well, I will anyway – but when did the United States become a Jewish theocratic state? Are we living in Israel? Or even Brooklyn?

Let’s keep in mind that this league has, tops, four or five Jewish players—out of hundreds. And let’s also not lose sight of the fact that we live in a section of the country where our schools are usually closed for our major holidays and people are, for the most part, quite mindful of our holidays and traditions. They even put up with our traffic and congestion snarls on yontif at synagogues.

Look, I know this guy’s kid will be disappointed that she has to go to shul this Saturday instead of kicking a ball around and having fun with her teammates. She’ll miss a game. But she’ll live. The world will remain on its axis.

Am I missing something here? If I were a non-Jew overhearing our conversation, I know what I’d be thinking – “Geez, these Jews are never satisfied.”

“I said to my wife, `This place reminds me of the Holy Temple,’” Chazzan Perlman told me recently. “All I saw were Jewish symbols, nothing particularly Christian, and I began to realize how sad it is that we Jews don’t appreciate what we have. Others do, but we don’t. We’ve run away from tradition and brought secular things into our synagogues. Why? Because we’re insecure.”

Manny Perlman is a warm, friendly, engaging man, but he’s also a passionate and indefatigable crusader for tradition. In particular, he considers himself the preserver of the chazzanut, the grand style of cantorial music and performance as typified by such “golden age” cantors as Yossele Rosenblatt, Leib Glantz, Richard Tucker and Jan Peerce.

The essence and art of being a chazzan is something very dear to Cantor Perlman’s heart. It’s in his blood and in his soul, and it’s something that he promised those who came before him – like my late friend and neighbor, Cantor Saul Z. Hammerman – that he will cherish, perpetuate and fight for.

And even if that kind of synagogue worship music is not your particular cup of tea, you can’t help but be impressed and inspired by Chazzan Perlman’s intensity, commitment to integrity, and devotion to keeping this part of our musical heritage alive and strong.

Everywhere in shul life today, we see this style of music being discarded, jettisoned and denigrated. Younger people, we’re told, don’t want an operatic kind of performance at synagogue; they want music they can relate to, something they can sing along and clap with, whether it be Jewish summer camp music, folk, rock, reggae, ska, jazz and even rap.

Chazzan Perlman says he enjoys and appreciates those kinds of music, too. But he says they have their place, and synagogue worship services ain’t one of them.

“I love the Beatles!” he told me in his office, with a great sense of urgency and frustration in his voice. “I’ve played their music in a band with my brother, I’ve taught a class on them. They’re wonderful! But they’re not my God, and they don’t belong in shul! And that’s next, Alan! You’ll see, people will want to bring the Beatles into services!”

(Hmmm, I’m trying to imagine “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” played at Shabbat services.)

“We live in an era when Yankee Stadium isn’t even the same place where Babe Ruth played,” Chazzan Perlman continued. “People want to move on and remove and repackage. We grew up with Cracker Jack, and you loved that toy. But now, that toy would be just a throwaway.”

He employs yet another analogy: “Upstate New York is one of the most beautiful places to drive through in the world. But some people would rather fly to upstate New York than drive in the autumn and look at all of that gorgeous foliage and just enjoy it. People want shortcuts today. But sometimes you have to say no, to yourself and others. … We’ve become a society where there’s 500 channels and nothing on. People are constantly changing the channel. We want what we want right now.”

The diminishing interest in chazzanut music and the growth of the “Kumbaya” shul mentality reflects a major change among Jews today in general, he charges. It reflects a lack of knowledge and appreciation of our heritage and legacy.

“We need to become more Judaically and Biblically literate and embrace our heritage,” Chazzan Perlman says. “People can tell me who they’re favorite singers are off the top of their heads, but who’s your favorite prophet? Your favorite Biblical figure?

“I feel we have to go back to the virtuoso days of cantorial prayer, to explore where we came from.”

While listening to the chazzan on this subject, I couldn’t help but think about a mega-church in suburban Chicago I visited a few years ago. This church looked more like the Mall of America than a house of worship, and its membership may have exceeded the population of France. One of the secrets of its success, I was told by the church’s leadership, was that the old hymns and liturgical music – considered antiquated and uninspiring by these Baby Boomers—were thrown out for a decidedly more hip, contemporary Christian rock sound.

At one point during my visit there, I sat down with a group of four or five 20-something males who belonged to the church. Several of them had tattoos and nose rings, as well as ripped jeans and T-shirts bearing the names of various mainstream hard-rock bands. All of them were quite courteous, respectful and highly enthusiastic about the church and its impact on their lives.

But when I asked them if they enjoyed the church’s weekly rock music performances and selections, they looked at each other and fell silent.

Intrigued, I pressed on. After all, the Christian rock performances that were an integral part of the worship services there were supposedly tailored for young guys like them. And everyone knows that music of all types can be a great portal for spiritual discovery and growth.

Finally, one of the young men said to me, “Um, we like it OK but it’s really for the, um, older people here.” (Translation: fossils like me.) “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “we all like rock and hip-hop and stuff like that. But we listen to it all the time – at work, at home, in the car, in our social lives. We just wish that when we were in church, we could hear the old-time hymns and music that’s been around for so long. That’s what we want to hear in church, not the same old stuff in our daily lives. In church, we don’t want to rock out. We just want to be inspired and moved. We want to feel something.”

Chazzan Manny Perlman couldn’t have said it any better.