blogs/rabbi-huberman

On a Tuesday night about 18 years ago, our synagogue board members gathered in the kiddush room for another depressing summary of monthly news.

The synagogue was in debt. Membership had leveled at about 140 families, and each year the synagogue was collectively aging by one year.

The president turned to me—the newly hired rabbi—and asked, “What plans do you and the cantor have for helping us grow, and getting us out of debt?

It’s a question many congregations were—and still are—asking. I turned towards the president, slowly rose from my seat, and shared a two-sentence strategy, which has served as our “north star” for almost two decades.

“We’ll rebuild this congregation from the children up,” I said. “We will become obsessed with families in everything we do.”

Not everyone was convinced. Many asked how we could accomplish this without immediately available funds. Our Hebrew school at the time had two students enrolled.

And, as boards tend to do, there was much discussion about incentives the synagogue could offer to encourage some of the newer, struggling families to join our congregation.

“We can’t afford to carry them,” declared one board member. After about 20 seconds, the board member sitting next to me slowly stood up. His name was Moe Bordwin, and the room went silent.

Because when Moe Bordwin spoke, you knew something special—sometimes off the wall—would follow.

“You must be kidding,” Moe scolded. “We should be standing on the street outside of the temple handing out $100 bills to passersby to get them to come into the building.

“And I think once they get to know us and our new team—things are going to be okay.

“And by the way, if you don’t find a few donors to hire teachers, buy new books and invest in the future, I’ll be there next Sunday in the middle of Hill Street handing out $100 bills. “Which is it going to be?”

And so, the cantor agreed to be our interim principal, and eventually, Fredda Klopfer and Susan Friedlieb, of blessed memory, stepped in to launch a revitalized school, focusing on families. And as they say, “The rest is history.”

Our Limud Hebrew School now includes more than 100 students. And last week, we added another class. Membership continues to grow.

Last Sunday, more than 350 family members and friends packed into our sanctuary to pay tribute to Moe Bordwin, who passed away one week ago. And as many entered, it was impossible to ignore the sound of fun, song and learning echoing from our classrooms.

As I quietly stood watching the room assemble, I thought to myself, “This is the school that Moe inspired.”

Indeed, whether a founder, board member or every-day “Jew in the pew,” everyone the cantor and I have laid to rest has been important to us. But as many noted last Sunday: Moe was unique.

One person observed that these days, when someone passes away in their 90^th year, they have outlived many of their friends and relatives; it is rare to have a full house honoring them. 

Moe, whose Hebrew name was Melech—King—saw this coming when eight years ago, he requested that his funeral service be held in the sanctuary, within the synagogue he so cherished. 

So, there we were, at capacity, with congregants and family from age one to 101 assembled—because Moe Bordwin was ageless. At 89, on the way out of Ben’s Deli, he would still grab French fries off strangers’ plates. His family, horrified, would scamper outside and wait for him.

After the initial “Hey!” from the stranger, Moe would engage them in conversation. And within 15 minutes, they would thank him for stealing their fries. Another new friend made.

If anyone ever needed funds to carry them through difficult times, it was Moe we could go to—no questions asked. And as he called the office to arrange payment, he would ask to be transferred to me and would say, “Thank you for the opportunity to help.”

Moe was born in 1936. He was raised by his mother from age three. When he was eight years old, he would take three subways to and from his uncle’s grocery store so he could act as “head of security,” yelling “thief” in Polish, if he observed anyone pilfering.

He delivered newspapers, later grew a law practice, and eventually, with his wife, Rochelle, moved to Glen Cove. Through it all, he made friends wherever he went.

Moe Bordwin was a survivor, and he spent his life helping others to ensure that they didn’t have to be one. He was the anonymous donor.

This week’s Torah portion talks about Abraham and Sarah opening their tent to three strangers before being asked. They provided food and drink for those they barely knew.

The Torah tells us 36 times to be kind to the stranger. But it is difficult for so many these days to embrace these lessons.

We live in a divisive world.

Governments detain and interrogate citizens based on color or language. Children argue against the message of being kind to strangers, reminding us that many strangers possess the capacity to harm them.

Kindness is often perceived as weakness, and optimism is confused with naiveté.

But last Sunday morning, as speaker after speaker rose to tell stories of Moe’s often-direct—but loving—approach to others, somehow, we all became a bit more optimistic as we honored “a life well lived.”

Moe was the one who asked you why you were putting on weight, or how much you earned at your job, or why you came to synagogue dressed so sloppily. He was the one who cherished the elephant in the room.

During shiva many shared stories of how Moe, without being asked, supported them, facilitated their education, mentored them, and—with a minimum of fanfare—helped them achieve a better life.

And each night since the funeral, many have shared stories of how knowing Moe inspired them to perform an act of charity or call someone in need and offer to help—without being asked.

In those moments, I realized, Od HaMelech Chai. Moe’s memory will continue to live within the thousands he inspired.

His life reminds us that even when the world is challenging—even cynical—we can heal this broken world, one act, one outreached hand, one mitzvah at a time.

May he inspire each of us to open our hearts and our tents to others. I loved the man. And I am not alone. For we will carry him on.

Shabbat shalom, v’kol tuv.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman