Kristallnacht had faded into our distant past, eclipsed by the historic election of Barack Obama to the US Presidency five days before. American politics dominated public discourse, and rightfully so. Had America not suddenly and dramatically reversed her direction, it is likely that we, too, would have personally experienced a frightful night like the Kristallnacht, with its subsequent steep slide into state-sponsored terror broadly directed against our own citizens.

The narrowness of our escape struck me suddenly at my Thanksgiving supper.

As we sat contentedly digesting vast quantities of butter and schmaltz-laden food, one of our guests, Elena Berliner, asked, "I'm curious. What are we each thankful for tonight?"

We were an eclectic gathering. My husband and his family are of recent German descent. The Helmstaedters, who also shared our table, originated in Holland and still visit their Dutch cousins. I am a Jew. My children and Elena, who asked the question, are the descendants of both Jews and Germans. The responses to Elena's question caused me to meditate quietly once again on Kristallnacht. "I'm grateful for Obama's victory!" shouted my husband. Others chimed in. "I'm thankful we're not going to become Nazis!" "I'm so glad I don't have to flee the country!" "I'm happy for my kid's sake that things are going to change." "I'm thankful we can gather together to openly celebrate our diversity." "I'm glad we can marry each other."

My 85 year-old father-in-law, the son of German immigrants, looked over at his Jewish grandchildren and then said, "I'm thankful for every one of you young people who knocked on doors, made phone calls, helped out at the polls, and worked to support our democracy. I'm proud of you."

As a Jew, I felt it my duty on November 9th to observe the anniversary of Kristallnacht despite my ebullience over recent events. I watched a film about a "Righteous Gentile" sent to me by its director, Dr. Steven Martin. Dr. Martin is a Christian Pastor. He told Elisabeth's story from an ecumenical perspective. The voices in the film are largely Christians, speaking to other Christians about choosing the tenets of one's faith over the edicts of its elders. While it is obvious that the director is both devout, and troubled by the behavior of many purportedly Christian leaders, his faith does not exclude non-Christian viewers, and he asks questions in a non-judgmental, deeply personal fashion.

Elisabeth of Berlin is a PBS documentary about Elisabeth Schmitz, a forgotten and unassuming schoolteacher, an ordinary woman, who, when faced with extraordinary circumstances, behaved heroically. Elisabeth of Berlin is not an action film (In fact, ilike its namesake, it is slow moving and thoughtful). It is highly unlikely that Matel will create an Elisabeth Schmitz action figure. Yet, Elisabeth of Berlin forces each of us to deliberate on several questions:

• What responsibility does my religious order bear, in the face of state-sponsored terror, to publicly resist the state?
• What responsibility must I, as a religious person, shoulder to force my religious order to publicly resist totalitarianism and state-sponsored terror?
• What acts must I, as a person of faith, privately commit in order to resist? Must I resist the leaders of my religious order as well?

Elisabeth Schmitz was a German school-teacher when the Nazis issued a series of edicts from 1933-1938 removing Christians of Jewish descent from civil service and clerical posts. Her church, The Confessing Church, publicly decried maintained that all Christians, regardless of descent, were entitled to be treated as German citizens. Elisabeth believed that all humans deserved protection. Despite the potential consequences, she moved in with a close Jewish friend, a doctor who had lost her job as a result of the Aryan Clause. Friends interceded on Elisabeth's behalf to prevent her arrest. She bought her friend's secluded house at fair market value, enabling the woman and her husband to flee from Europe, and began using her residences to shelter Jews.

After Kristallnacht, Elisabeth wrote a letter of resignation to her school stating that her conscience would no longer permit her to teach required Nazi ideology. Again, friends interceded to prevent her arrest. She purchased a mimeograph machine, and used to to print 200 copies of a 24 page epistle that she distributed anonymously, urging the leaders of the Confessing Church to take a stand against the Nazi's treatment of Jews and other non-Christians. Her epistle found its way into the hands of a number of influential resistors. It was eventually credited to another woman. Elisabeth grew increasingly isolated from other people. When she died, only eight people attended her funeral. Then, a few years ago, a handwritten draft of her epistle was found in the basement of her church. Dr. Martin produced Elisabeth of Berlin to help us remember the courageous acts of an obscure, and to all outward appearances, ordinary woman.

Elisabeth's story is important on this 70th anniversary of Kristallnacht and on this first post-Obama Thanksgiving because it reminds us that ordinary people can influence the course of history against overwhelming odds. Because we can, we must.

Possibility is an obligation to all persons of conscience.

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