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How one man’s burial brought Jews and Christians together — and what it still teaches 120 years later
“The beautiful little synagogue was filled to capacity,” the Tupper Lake Herald reported on February 12, 1915. “Many were there who had known Mr. Cohn for the past twenty years — old Adirondack pioneers… The air was heavy with tears as Rev. Boyd of the Episcopal Church lifted a Hebrew prayer book given him by Mr. Cohn a few years ago.”
The man they gathered to honor was Harris Cohn, an early Jewish resident of Tupper Lake, New York. His funeral filled the small Beth Joseph Synagogue, the same wooden building that still stands today, now celebrating its 120th anniversary.
Just a decade earlier, in 1904 or 1905, local families — peddlers, merchants, and new immigrants — had pooled roughly $450 to build it, holding Hebrew school classes in the town hall while waiting for carpenters to finish the sanctuary. In 1911 they purchased an acre for a cemetery beside the Methodist burial ground.
Cohn, the paper wrote, was “the personification of honor, truth, and integrity” — a man of “deep religious convictions… the firm believer of righteousness, benevolence, charity and prayers.” His “belief in God,” the editor added, “was so ideal, so far elevated above all earthly things, that no sacrifice was too great to show and prove his devotion to his Maker.”
Rabbi S. Freedman of Beth Joseph led the prayers, chanting the memorial service in Hebrew. Then the local Episcopal minister rose to speak.
He held up the worn Hebrew prayer book Cohn had given him and said, “I prize this book so much, for Mr. Cohn was a man whom I admired and with whom I established a strong and lasting friendship.” Then he turned to the young people present and urged them “to hold fast to whatever denomination they were reared under,” reminding them that conviction and faith come from devotion to one’s own tradition.
The rabbi had spoken of religion not as a convenience but as “a deep solace to the soul.” The minister, moved also by faith, echoed it in his own words. Jews and Christians mourned together. When the eulogies ended, the mourners recited kaddish, an ancient prayer offering comfort and acknowledging God.
I came across this article, digitized through the New York State Historic Newspapers archive, while researching Jewish life in nearby Ogdensburg and Massena. I paused to hold this memory. I had been tracing the histories of small-town synagogues — some now closed, others still standing in places like New York’s North Country and across the Midwest. In Tupper Lake, as in so many places, Jewish life grew quickly and then thinned with time: by 1913 a Sisterhood had formed; by 1914, a lodge of the Independent Order of Brith Abraham met in the synagogue twice a month; and by 1918, Beth Joseph had joined the Union of American Hebrew Congregations. Each step spoke to a community that saw itself as part of something enduring, even in a place far removed from America’s largest Jewish centers.
The story of Harris Cohn’s funeral felt familiar. I had come across many such moments in small-town American history, and it revealed something essential that runs through so many of these places: a moral imagination larger than their size.
These were communities where faith was not theoretical. Jews and their neighbors depended on one another — through long winters, economic hardship, and the isolation of distance. Synagogues, often built by peddlers and storekeepers, became civic landmarks as much as houses of worship. A century later, when we look back at the geography of American Jewish life, we see that its reach was far wider than today’s metropolitan map suggests. For every major center of Jewish population, there were dozens of smaller congregations that carried the same prayers into fields, factory towns, and forest settlements.
It’s easy to forget that these rural sanctuaries once embodied outposts of Jewish belonging. Their stories are rarely told, overshadowed by the better-known narratives of New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles. Yet in towns like Tupper Lake, Judaism became part of the spiritual language of the whole community.
That is what moved me about the 1915 funeral. The newspaper account wasn’t written for a Jewish audience. It was published for the whole town, describing the service with reverence and curiosity but without exoticism. The boundaries between communities blurred, and what emerged was shared moral clarity: the belief that dignity, faith, and friendship can withstand every division.
There is something profoundly Jewish in the humility of that service. The simplicity of the synagogue, the equality of all before death, the act of remembrance itself — all mirror the same values I have seen in Jewish life today. In Tupper Lake, that ethos endured. By the 1930s, Beth Joseph opened its doors to patients from the nearby state hospital for Passover Seders, and in 1925 Rabbi Freedman — the same clergyman who eulogized Cohn — offered words of comfort at a Masonic memorial for a Presbyterian pastor. The boundaries were always more porous than history remembers.
Beth Joseph’s continued presence in Tupper Lake is a kind of quiet miracle. This year marks its 120th anniversary — a milestone few rural synagogues reach. The synagogue testifies that Jewish life has, at various times and places, reached into nearly every corner of America, leaving behind something worth remembering: the habit of neighborliness, the belief that God is present wherever people honor one another.
When Rev. Boyd lifted that Hebrew book at a funeral in 1915, he could not have known how far that gesture would travel. But in reading it more than a century later, I think of it as an act of faith in its own right. A Christian minister, holding the sacred words of another tradition, showing them to his townspeople with tenderness. That is a kind of sermon that still preaches.
The story of Harris Cohn’s funeral is not about a vanished world. It is about a world that, at least for one afternoon in the Adirondacks, revealed its best self.
The prayer book may no longer exist, but its lesson remains open: that the sacred is never confined by walls, and that remembering each other is itself a holy act.
The post How one man’s burial brought Jews and Christians together — and what it still teaches 120 years later appeared first on The Forward.
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Israel to Reopen Jordan Border Crossing for Passage of Aid, Goods After Terror Attack
Israeli police officers stand next to their cars at the scene of a fatal shooting at the Allenby Crossing between the West Bank and Jordan, Sept. 18, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Oren Ben Hakoon
Israel is set to reopen the Allenby Crossing with Jordan to the passage of goods and aid on Wednesday, an Israeli security official said on Tuesday.
The border crossing has been closed to aid and goods since September, when a driver bringing humanitarian aid to Gaza opened fire and killed two Israeli military personnel before being killed by security forces.
The security official said the crossing would have tightened screening for Jordanian drivers and truck cargo, and that a dedicated security force had been assigned to the crossing.
The Allenby Bridge is a key route for trade between Jordan and Israel and the only gateway for more than 3 million Palestinians in the West Bank to reach Jordan.
The crossing reopened to passenger traffic shortly after the attack, but had remained closed to aid trucks. The UN says the crossing is a major route for bringing food, tents, and other goods into Gaza.
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US Imposes Sanctions on Network It Accuses of Fueling War in Sudan
A bronze seal for the Department of the Treasury is shown at the US Treasury building in Washington, US, Jan. 20, 2023. Photo: REUTERS/Kevin Lamarque
The US on Tuesday imposed sanctions on actors it accused of fueling the war in Sudan, taking aim at what it said was a transnational network that recruits former Colombian military personnel and trains soldiers, including children, to fight for the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces.
The US Treasury Department in a statement seen by Reuters said that it imposed sanctions on four individuals and four entities that were part of the network, which it said was largely comprised of Colombian nationals and companies.
The Treasury said that since at least 2024, hundreds of former Colombian military personnel have traveled to Sudan to fight alongside the RSF, which the US has accused of committing genocide.
The Colombians have provided the RSF with tactical and training expertise and served as infantry and artillerymen, drone pilots and instructors, among other roles, with some training children to fight for the paramilitary group, according to Treasury, which added that Colombian fighters have participated in battles across Sudan, including in the capital Khartoum and al-Fashir.
“The RSF has shown again and again that it is willing to target civilians — including infants and young children. Its brutality has deepened the conflict and destabilized the region, creating the conditions for terrorist groups to grow,” Treasury Under Secretary for Terrorism and Financial Intelligence, John Hurley, said in the statement.
Among those targeted was Alvaro Andres Quijano Becerra, who the Treasury said was a dual Colombian-Italian national and a retired Colombian military officer based in the United Arab Emirates. It accused him of playing a central role in recruiting and deploying former Colombian military personnel to Sudan.
The UAE has been widely accused of arming the RSF, an accusation it has denied.
“The United States again calls on external actors to cease providing financial and military support to the belligerents,” Treasury said in the statement.
The conflict between the Sudanese army and the RSF erupted in April 2023 out of a power struggle and has triggered famine, ethnic killings, and mass displacement. In November, US President Donald Trump said he would intervene to stop the conflict.
The United States, the United Arab Emirates, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia – known as the Quad – earlier in November proposed a plan for a three-month truce followed by peace talks. The RSF responded by saying it had accepted the plan, but soon after attacked army territory with a barrage of drone strikes.
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When Is a Wedding Too Extravagant?
A wedding ceremony, illustrative. Photo: Jason Hutchens via Wikimedia Commons.
It has been part of my life as a rabbi to attend weddings — more often than not, to “perform.” I reckon that I have attended approximately 100 weddings of various sizes, styles, numbers, and traditions. Some I have enjoyed, but I am finding it increasingly hard to feel comfortable about many of the religious weddings I have attended.
They are getting more and more protracted. People are forced to wait for hours. A wedding I once attended was so overcrowded by jostling relatives under the Chupah, that the father of the bride couldn’t get close enough to give his son in law a sip of the cup of wine.
One band plays for the reception, another for the Chupah, a third for Hasidic or Israeli dances, a fourth for ballroom dancing, and a fifth for a disco. One singer is for Ashkenazi cantorial style, one for Hasidic pop, one for Sephardi tunes, and another for Carlebach. As for food, a loaded reception is offered as people arrive, and sushi is a must. There are multiple servings and meals, and if there’s a Hasidic Mitzvah dance at the end, you’ll get a complete breakfast too.
It is fashionable in the Diaspora to fly in rabbis from Israel. An oligarch recently hired an airliner to ferry over musicians, artistes, and security alone. Consider the millions being spent each year on religious weddings. And then consider how much charitable and educational work could be accomplished instead of a one-night bash that disappears into photo albums a few hours after it is over, to be glanced at perhaps once a year thereafter. The cost and the waste is mind blowing.
Successful businessmen have to invite business contacts, flaunt their success to attract new capital, and invite gaggles of rabbis to prove their religious status and legitimacy. It is not just spoiled daughters who clamor for excess; it’s magnates, too.
Over the past 50 years of rising Jewish affluence, as well as continuing Jewish poverty, many religious leaders of all denominations have tried hard to limit excessive expenditures on weddings, to absolutely no avail. Desperate parents have offered apartments and cars instead of huge weddings. Occasionally, you hear of a couple who elope to Israel or just take a rabbi and two witnesses into Central Park, but the pressures are great — and in most Jewish circles, it is simply not an option.
Recently, I entertained a relatively humble Rosh Yeshiva from Israel with 10 children who has personal debts of $500,000 because of marrying off his five daughters. It was not just the cost of the wedding itself or all the celebrations. It was the need to buy an apartment for each that left him staggering under such a heavy load of debt. And at the same time, he must help and support his five sons who are also married but are studying full time. This is not atypical. A rented apartment is unacceptable nowadays. And the chances of someone with no serious secular education getting a good job are massively reduced in Israeli society, indeed in any society nowadays.
Judaism is expanding because of its families blessed with many children. And it is true that social welfare (incidentally a product of the secular culture they despise) enables this mindset. But eventually, at some point, social welfare will have to be cut back as fewer enter the workplace to fund all this with their taxes.
For our own good as a people, we must call a halt to throwing so much money away on pure self-indulgence. If we care for our future, we must give as much attention to supporting Jewish education as we do to celebrating occasions. And the place to start is weddings. Make your calculations. Then set budgets, be realistic, and divide the sum evenly between your needs and those of others.
It is a huge mitzvah to rejoice at weddings and to help couples get married. Every day in our prayers, we are reminded how important Hachnasat Kala is. But that doesn’t mean we should go overboard. There should be limits.
The author is a rabbi and writer based in New York.