More essays
Ann Curry "Today" show anchor: "The kindness of strangers"
Susan Vreeland catalogs how people made a difference while she was fighting lymphoma
The lesson in taking a youngster to the ballpark. By Brad Meltzer
Kermit the Frog hops on the volunteer bandwagon
Rabbi Kushner, author of '"When Bad Things Happen to Good People"
John Edgar Wideman, "Hoop Roots: Basketball, Race and Love" author, keeps hope in simple human connections
Frances & Ginger Park, a father's memory inspires two sisters to write about their heritage.

Make good things happen

Harold S. Kushner recalls a courageous rabbi who quelled racial tensions in a Brooklyn neighborhood.

Kushner, himself a rabbi, is the author of the best seller "When Bad Things Happen to Good People" and, new this month, "Living a Life That Matters" (Knopf, $22).

When I was 5, my family moved to the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn, N.Y., a neighborhood populated largely by middle-class Jewish families. We soon found our spiritual home at the Brooklyn Jewish Center, at that time was one of America's most prominent conservative congregations. Its members included the Brooklyn borough president, a future mayor of New York City, the head of Brooklyn's Democratic Party, and scores of doctors, lawyers and successful businessmen. Each Sabbath, 1,000 people would attend services. It was no wonder: The cantor was Richard Tucker, who later became a Metropolitan Opera star. The rabbi was Israel Levinthal, perhaps the finest preacher the American Jewish community ever produced. We heard stories about how Orthodox Jews, who don't drive on the Sabbath, would walk over the Williamsburg Bridge from Manhattan to hear his sermons.

A dozen years later, the complexion of the neighborhood began to change. Some of our neighbors had prospered enough in the postwar years to cast a covetous eye on the new suburbs in Queens and Long Island. Others, who had grown children, no longer needed a three-bedroom, single-family home. Some houses were sold to young Jewish families, but a few were sold to African Americans.

At that point, unscrupulous real estate brokers began ringing the doorbells of middle-aged Jews, warning them that the neighborhood was turning black and that they would be well advised to sell their homes before they lost all value. There was a sense of incipient crisis: What would happen to the neighborhood we had cherished?

That year, for High Holy Day services, Rabbi Levinthal chose an obscure verse from the book of Numbers (21:19) for his sermon. After crossing the Red Sea and receiving the Law at Sinai, the Israelites "went on to Mattanah (which in Hebrew means 'gift'), and from Mattanah to Nahaliel (which means 'God's portion'), and from Nahaliel to Bamoth (which means 'the heights') and from Bamoth into the valley."

He applied the verse to the history of the congregation during the 40 years of its existence. Many congregants had escaped poverty and persecution in Europe, had crossed the Atlantic Ocean even as our ancestors had crossed the Red Sea, and had been given Mattanah, a gift, the opportunity to live in freedom in the United States, and the right to live, work and send their children to school wherever they chose.

We had transformed that gift into Nahaliel, God's portion, by establishing this magnificent synagogue. We had reached the heights. But now the danger was that we would descend into the valley by denying others the opportunities we had been given. He sharply criticized those who would make black neighbors feel unwelcome. He had harsh words for the real estate agents -- some of whom were congregants -- who would prey on racial fears to reap a profit. He urged us to stay and keep Crown Heights the wonderful community it had been, making it clear he would be embarrassed by anyone who moved away for fear of racial integration.

The blockbusting stopped, but not forever. Over several years, the neighborhood changed, as many do. But that sermon brought us several years of racial harmony. (Decades later, Crown Heights gained notoriety for an ugly riot as relationships between Jews and African Americans tragically broke down.)

I was 18 when I heard that sermon. I didn't know I would become a rabbi, although I admired Rabbi Levinthal tremendously. But I suspect that the experience of learning that a sermon could change people's behavior was part of my decision. For years afterward, when I would sit down to prepare my Sabbath sermon, I would feel Rabbi Levinthal looking over my shoulder and reminding me of the power of the pulpit to make a difference.

Photo by SHAWN HENRY for USA WEEKEND