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For years I have loved the music of Leonard Bernstein. Music he composed such as the opera Candide, the ballet Fancy Free, and the shows On the Town, West Side Story, thrill me. And when I hear a recording of Lenny conducting music by another composer like Mahler or Beethoven, I am deeply moved. I feel Lenny’s passion and it enhances my pleasure of the music.

This pleasure was something I wanted to bring to readers in Music Was It: Young Leonard Bernstein. I was astonished to learn that as a boy growing up in Boston, Lenny had to struggle to make a career in music despite his exceptional talent. His father, a Russian immigrant who had successfully established a beauty supply business, opposed the idea. Sam Bernstein, Lenny’s father, believed that it would be impossible for an American Jewish kid to break into the world of classical music, which in the 1930s and 1940s was dominated by Europeans. And he was right. Sam wanted Lenny to take over his beauty supply business. Or, at second best, become a rabbi.

Although Lenny loved his father and was greatly influenced by Judaism, he pursued his dream of a life in music. From the moment when he was ten-years-old and the family received a cast-off piano from Aunt Clara, Lenny knew that “music was 'it'.” “There was no question in my mind,” he recalled, “that my life was to be about music.”

With the encouragement of his mother, younger sister Shirley, supportive teachers and influential mentors, Lenny achieved his goal. The book ends with his triumphant conducting debut at Carnegie Hall when he was just twenty-five. A reporter asked Sam why he had ever objected to Lenny’s desire to be a musician, and Sam relied, “How could I know my son was going to grow up to be Leonard Bernstein?”

Researching and writing this book was a joy. During the process I had the marvelous opportunity to meet and interview two of Lenny’s children, Jamie and Alexander Bernstein. I also talked to Lenny’s brother Burton and his lifelong friend and one of his first piano students, Sid Ramin.

But reading about Lenny is incomplete without listening to his music. I tried to compile a discography for the book but had trouble because Lenny is one of the most recorded conductors in history. With the help of my wonderful edit

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Now--here's something you don't see everyday. A graphic novel (or any book for that matter,) with the by-line, "Yet another troll-fighting 11-year-old Orthodox Jewish Girl." Whaaaat?! You can't judge a book by its cover, but you sure can be pulled in by a hook like that. And since Hereville is one of the contenders for the School Library Journal Battle of the Kid's Books, and I need to make some

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This evening is the first night of Hanukkah/Hanukah/Chanukah — and what better way is there to celebrate than with a holiday story? Here is “The Cave of Mattathias,” a tale that originated in Eastern Europe and was passed down in the oral tradition. It is one of many stories included in Howard Schwartz’s Leaves from the Garden of Eden: One Hundred Classic Jewish Tales. Happy Hanukah!

In a village near the city of Riminov there was a Hasid whose custom it was to bring newly made oil to Reb Menachem Mendel of Riminov, and the rabbi would light the first candle of Hanukah in his presence.

One year the winter was hard, the land covered with snow, and everyone was locked in his home. But when the eve of Hanukah arrived, the Hasid was still planning to deliver the oil. His family pleaded with him not to go, but he was determined, and in the end he set out across the deep snow.

That morning he entered the forest that separated his village from Riminov, and the moment he did, it began to snow. The snow fell so fast that it covered every landmark, and when at last it stopped, the Hasid found that he was lost. The whole world was covered with snow.

Now the Hasid began to regret not listening to his family. Surely the rabbi would have forgiven his absence. Meanwhile, it had become so cold that he began to fear he might freeze. He realized that if he were to die there in the forest, he might not even be taken to a Jewish grave. That is when he remembered the oil he was carrying. In order to save his life, he would have to use it. There was no other choice.

As quickly as his numb fingers could move, he tore some of the lining out of his coat and fashioned it into a wick, and he put that wick into the snow. Then he poured oil on it and prayed with great intensity. Finally, he lit the first candle of Hanukah, and the flame seemed to light up the whole forest. And all the wolves moving through the forest saw that light and ran back to their hiding places.

After this the exhausted Hasid lay down on the snow and fell asleep. He dreamed he was walking in a warm land, and before him he saw a great mountain, and next to that mountain stood a palm tree. At the foot of the mountain was the opening of a cave. In the dream, the Hasid entered the cave and found a candle burning there. He picked up that candle, and it lit the way for him until he came to a large cavern, where an old man with a very long beard was seated. There was a sword on his thigh, and his hands were busy making wicks. All of that cavern was piled high with bales of wicks. The old man looked up when the Hasid entered and said: “Blessed be you in the Name of God.”

The Hasid returned the old man’s blessing and asked him who he was. He answered: “I am Mattathias, father of the Maccabees. During my lifetime I lit a big torch. I hoped that all of Israel would join me, but only a few obeyed my call. Now heaven has sent me to watch for the little candles in the houses of Israel to come together to form a very big flame. And that flame will announce the Redemption and the End of Days.

“Meanwhile, I prepare the wicks for the day when everyone will contribute his candle to this great flame. And now, there is something that you must do for me. When you reach the Rabbi of Riminov, tell him that the wicks are ready, and he should do whatever he can to light the flame that we have awaited so long.”

Amazed at all he had heard, the Hasid promised to give the message to the rabbi. As he turned to leave the cave, he awoke and found himself standing in front of the rabbi’s house. Just then the rabbi himself opened the door, and his face was glowing. He said: “The power of lighting the Hanukah candles is very great. Whoever dedicates his soul to this deed brings the time

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To promote my 10/25/10 talk at the Jewish Community Center of Houston, the Houston Chronicle blog "Iconia—Wherever faith meets art" kindly interviewed me about Superman's religion and a Hitler rumor, for lack of a better word.

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I sat in synagogue on the first day of Rosh Hashanah listening to the Rabbi’s sermon about how we should bring our Judaism into our everyday lives and I started thinking about how my faith has always been a part of my life a great or lesser extent, even when I was in college and apparently told my father that I didn’t believe in G-d, something he told said to me years later was the most upsetting thing I’d ever said to him. The irony was that I didn’t even remember saying it. I was like, “Dad, I was in college! Doesn’t everyone question their faith when they’re in college?”

My ritual observance has had its ebbs and flows, but ultimately my neshama, my Jewish soul, calls me back. I’ve gone from being devoted as a tween, to questioning as a teenager, to agnostic in college, to searching for a deeper meaning in my twenties, and becoming more observant in my thirties and forties.

My first book, CONFESSIONS OF A CLOSET CATHOLIC, was about spiritual explorations, and how Jussy, the book’s protagonist, learned to find her own relationship with G-d and meaning in faith as opposed to merely accepting the path laid out by her family. Although I never went into my closet and confessed to my teddy bear, there was a strong autobiographical element in her spiritual confusion and questioning.

Sitting in shul on Rosh Hashanah, I was thinking about how Judaism is actually a religion made for teens and here’s why: it’s a faith based on ARGUING.

The teen years are all about questioning. Who am I? Why do I have to empty the dishwasher? What do I really believe in? Can you believe she wore that? Why can’t I have the car keys? What do I want to be in the future? Why did I have the misfortune to be born to the most EMBARRASSING MOTHER IN THE WORLD?

Questioning leads to discussions, which, more often than not, leads to arguments. Teens are very good at arguing. So are Jews. Ever heard the expression: “You put ten Jews in a room and you get eleven opinions” ? It’s true.

The reason is that arguing is an integral part of our people’s history. The Torah is filled with references to arguments between the Patriarchs and G-d. Dennis Prager wrote a terrific article about the lesson these biblical arguments provide for parents:

Parents who allow their child to argue with them retain (and even enhance) their authority, are more likely to be loved, and even more important, guarantee that the child will continue to talk to them. A child who is always forbidden to argue with a parent will eventually stop communicating.

One of my favorite festivals (except for the cleaning beforehand and the effect that eight days of eating matzo has on my digestive system) is Pesach, or Passover.

In the Haggadah, aka the Seder Instruction Manual, which we read from at the festive meal it says:


It once happened that Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Yehoshua, Rabbi Elazar Ben Azaryah, Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Tarfon were reclining in Bnei Brak. They were discussing the Exodus from Egypt all that night until their students came and said to them: "Our teachers, the time has arrived to read the morning Shema."

We take pages and pages of the Haggadah to talk about how these four prominent sages were lying around all night arguing about the possible meanings of “the hand of G-d” and “his outstretched arm” and “all the days of your life,” and why we’re enjoined to talk about the Exodus from Egypt at night instead of during the daytime. PAGES, I tell you. When I was a little and stuck at the kiddy table I just couldn’t understand why we wasted so much time reading about all these long dead sages who sat around arguing about the meaning of words all night.

But that’s the whole point. They were arguing. In Judaism arguing is okay. It’s what we do. In fac

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Guardians, messengers, protectors…what are angels? In Angels: A History, David Albert Jones, Director of the Centre for Bioethics and Emerging Technologies at St Mary’s University College, explores the enduring power of angels over the human imagination. He argues that they teach us something about our own existence, whether or not we believe in theirs. In this excerpt from the book, Professor Jones talks about what different religious texts tells us about what angels look like.

Ancient Depictions of the Cherubim

The Ten Commandments in the Hebrew Scriptures include a very severe warning about carving images: ‘You shall not make for yourself a graven image or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath’ (Exodus 20: 4). Nevertheless the same book describes how to carve two cherubim with wings facing one another to overshadow the ‘mercy seat’ to sit on top of the ark (Exodus 25: 20–1). This is nicely ironic, as the ark is the box that holds the tablets on which are written the Ten Commandments— which say you should not make images.

When Solomon built a temple to house the ark, in the sanctuary he placed two cherubim, each 10 cubits high with a 10 cubit wingspan—that is, around 17.5 feet (5.3 metres) high and the same distance across (1 Kings 6: 24). The wings of the cherubim were outstretched, so that the tip of one touched the wall and the tip of the other touched the other cherub. Unfortunately the ark was later lost (as any film-goer will know!). The ark was taken or hidden or destroyed when the Babylonians destroyed the Temple in 586 BCE. When the Temple was rebuilt after the exile there were no ark and no giant cherubim. It is, therefore, very difficult to know what the cherubim looked like. Some have imagined that cherubim looked like the winged bulls (the ‘shedu’) of the Assyrians or like a sphinx or a griffin (there is a scholarly theory that the words cherubim and griffin are related, but this is disputed). This idea is also based on the role of the cherubim as guards of the sanctuary. In other ancient cultures the shedu, griffin, or sphinx has this role.

The book of Ezekiel describes the cherubim as having wings outstretched and with faces of a man, an eagle, an ox, and a lion (Ezekiel 1: 10; see also Ezekiel 10: 14). However, Ezekiel does not say the cherubim have the body of an animal. Furthermore, the imagery of Ezekiel is deliberately exaggerated and may not reflect the Temple as it was. The other biblical accounts do not mention animal body parts in relation to cherubim. The cherubim on top of the ark face one another, and their wings ‘overshadow’ the mercy seat. This posture does not have parallels with images of shedu or other animal guards and Jewish writers from the third century CE suggest that these cherubs had human form (though not necessarily a human face).

It is certain that there were carved cherubim above the ark and in the sanctuary of Solomon’s Temple before the exile (586 BCE), but unfortunately these were lost or destroyed centuries before Jesus was born, and no image of them remains. What is more, the descriptions in the Bible do not give a clear picture of what they looked like. According to Josephus, no one in his day knew what cherubim were supposed to look like. There is a break, then, between these ancient images of the cherubim and the images of angels painted by later artists.

Wings and Halos

The traditional depiction of angels has been shaped largely by Christian artists. This is in part because both in Judaism and in Islam there has been a reluctance to depict angels. Images of angels found in Islamic manuscripts from medieval Persia or in Ottoman cu

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Earlier this week details were revealed about Rebecca Rubin, the first Jewish American Girl doll, and the latest addition to the company's steadily growing line of historical characters who hail from different ethnic backgrounds. Like those who came... Read the rest of this post

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In the past 48 hours, I’ve attended several services in synagogue and one by the banks of the Seekonk River (for Tashlich). I’ve spent time sitting and standing and sitting and standing and sitting and standing in synagogue. I’ve prayed with kavanah. I have listened to three sermons, delivered by Rabbi Flam [...]

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Magabala Books, based in Broome, Western Australia, is an Australian indigenous publishing house. They’re committed to using aboriginal illustrators for their growing list of children’s books, but aboriginal illustrators are as few and far between as towns in that part of the country. So manager Suzie Hazlehurst put together a proposal to train and mentor promising talent. With funding from Writing WA and artsource, Suzie invited artists and likely future artists recommended by the local art centers in the Kimberley region to participate. She brought illustrator Ann James from Melbourne’s Books Illustrated to teach two 4-day intensive courses, one in Broome and one in Perth, with about a dozen participants each.

“Ann did a great job teaching both established artists and people with no experience in art mediums,” Suzie says. “Illustration requires specific skills. Artists have to know how to work with publishers, writers, and designers. They need to understand layout and collaborate on deciding which parts of a story need more detail.” Three workshop participants submitted exciting sample illustrations, she reports, and are now being mentored for particular titles.

Furthermore, Magabala is mentoring a young Adelaide writer on his graphic novel, which will also be the first graphic novel Magabala has published. The publishing manager is overseeing editorial guidance and a Melbourne designer with much graphic novel experience is offering design input. The target publishing date is late 2008 for this 3-way collaboration.

Magabala’s star is rising. The company, started in 1984, became an Independent Aboriginal Corporation in 1990. A recent move into the old Visitors’ Center in Broome, across the street from the new Visitors’ Center, has increased visibility and growth. A bush garden is in the works, as are gift products to be developed from the “artistic collateral” of their books. “Broome gets 300,000 visitors a year,” Suzie muses, “and if only a tenth of them bought one of our books…”

Wondering what the word Magabala means? Check it out here. For more about Australian indigenous book publishing, visit PaperTigers here. And here’s a PaperTigers review of one of Magabala’s most endearing titles, My Home in Kakadu. Who knows how much this one book has done to increase respect for the indigenous cultures of Australia?

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