Clothes Make The Man

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A couple of weeks ago I was in Venice, Italy for Shabbat.
What’s Shabbat?

It occurs every single Friday night and lasts until Saturday night at sundown… without exception.
And what else?

Take it, Coen Brothers:

Donny: What's Shabbos?
Walter Sobchak: Saturday, Donny, is Shabbos, the Jewish day of rest. That means that I don't work, I don't get in a car… I don't pick up the phone, I don't turn on the oven, and I sure as shit don't f**king roll! Shomer shabbos!
The Dude: Walter...
Walter Sobchak: Shomer f**king shabbos. “”

Okay, so that’s Shabbos (Yidddish pronunciation).

Y’see, growing up I always dressed up nicely for synagogue. It was ingrained in me—every Friday I’d go to my Jewish Day School in my Navy blue sweater vest and slacks… I would’ve gotten beaten up for sure, except all the other kids were dressed similarly.
Then, when I went to synagogue, my mom would insist I dress accordingly.
“You have to get dressed up, you’re going to synagogue.”
In fact, my brothers and I called slacks, button-down shirts and loafers “dress clothes” because we only wore them when we’d get “dressed up.”
(maybe we were all closeted trannies, secretly eager to wear dresses… either way, those slacks made my hips look big).

Anyway, I would sometimes see other kids my age dressed shabbily for Shabbat, a shame— they weren’t poor, they simply didn’t dress respectfully: T-shirt or sweatshirt and… jeans! Not even faux-nice black jeans, but blue jeans! I love blue jeans as much as the next closeted tranny (Levi Strauss, a Jew, jean pioneer!), but not to synagogue!
Also, here in Israel, where Shabbat is proudly observed each and every week (not just when a relative has a Bar/Bat-Mitzvah), kids (usually 14 or younger) also wear blue jeans to services. It takes so little effort to change into a pair of khakis, and they look nicer.
I told my wife, “When we have kids, they are not going to wear jeans to services. They are going to wear nice pants to synagogue. DRESS pants!”
(this confused her, “So you want our sons to wear a dress OVER their pants?”)

Well, two weeks ago, I hung up my “dress shirt and dress pants” in a hotel in Florence so they wouldn’t get wrinkled in my suitcase.
Then we took a train to Venice.
And I left my shirt and pants in the closet.

“Aaaarrrggghhh!”—Charlie Brown

I still had a sweater to wear to synagogue, but the only other pair of pants I had brought to Italy were (ominous music)… blue jeans!
I spent most of Friday afternoon looking around Venice for a pair of slacks my size. No dice! Nothing! Plenty of masks. Oh my god! Every other shop sold glittery, Mardi Gras, fabulous masks! But no pants.

So I had to go to a traditional, Orthodox synagogue in Venice, Italy… while wearing… jeans.
(sigh)
I felt like such a hypocrite.

But Saturday morning I was called to the Torah for an aliyah—when a congregant recites a four-line blessing before/after a section of the Torah is read. It was an honor (I know this because immediately after this, a synagogue member handed me an envelope addressed to the synagogue in which I could put a donation… nothing’s free).

I was touched
And I realized—Jesus was right about one thing (at least):

“Judge not according to the appearance, but judge righteous judgment.”

-- John 7:24

My first New Testament quotation. Mazel tov!

And Shabbat Shalom!

The Dude: Will you come off it, Walter? You're not even f**king Jewish… You're … Polish Catholic.
Walter Sobchak: What the f**k are you talking about? I converted when I married Cynthia! Come on, Dude!...
The Dude: Yeah, and five f**king years ago you were divorced.
Walter Sobchak: So what are you saying? When you get divorced you turn in your library card? You get a new license? You STOP being Jewish?
The Dude: It's all a part of your sick Cynthia thing, man. Taking care of her f**king dog. Going to her f**king synagogue. You're living in the f**king past.
Walter Sobchak: Three thousand years of beautiful tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax... [shouting] You're …damn right I'm living in the f**king past!

-- “The Big Lebowski,” 1998, written by Ethan and Joel Coen
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