When you choose
When you choose
When you choose
To love everything and everyone
The way G-d already does,
Through the river of life
To the Soul of the universe.
L'maan tizk'ru, vaasitem et-kol-mitzvotai,
Vihyitem k'doshim l'Eloheichem.
Be mindful of my mitzvot and do them,
And you will become holy unto your God.
© 2020 Alden Solovy and tobendlight.com
It’s the Fifth night of Hanukah and I wanted to celebrate by telling this story of my encounter with a Radical Orthodox Rabbi – one I’m quite certain Jesus grew up to be under the fine hand of his mother, Mary.
I was asked to go to a local facility - one of those
"one-stop-shopping" Residential/ Skilled Nursing /Rehabilitative /
Alzheimer / Hospice facilities that are flourishing these days- to do the
baptism of a 75 year old woman who is a resident there, who had recently been
transferred to the Hospice Unit.
Her deceased husband had been Roman Catholic and had insisted on proper
instruction and baptism for their two children - one now a Presbyterian and the
other an Episcopalian.
She had always refused Communion because she had never been baptized. As she
has been preparing for her eventual death, she asked that she be baptized
because, she says, she is now ready. At the age of 75.
"I'm doing it for me, not for anyone else," she said. "I'm doing
it because I want to, because I want to see Jesus when I get to heaven."
I've visited with her a few times to make certain she understood what was being
offered. I didn't want her to think this was some kind of "Magical Mystery
Tour" but to be fully cognizant of the Sacrament of Baptism and Eucharist,
and the grace being offered to her through them.
We decided to do the Baptism on a Saturday morning, when her daughter and son
and grandchildren could be present. It was a joy and an honor and a privilege
to baptize her and then preside at her first reception of Holy Eucharist. You will
be relieved to know that at no time were any rubrics or canons injured,
violated or compromised. All the 't's' were crossed and all the 'i's' were
dotted.
As I was leaving her room, I came upon a most amazing site. An orthodox Rabbi
was heading into the Dining Room - his seven children and wife in tow -
immediately recognizable as orthodox by his beard, fedora, tzitzit or prayer
tassels, tallit or prayer shawl and teffilin or phylactery (I think I spelled
everything correctly. If not, you should excuse me. I am 'goyim' - non-Jew -
after all.)
Curious, I followed him in and saw the dining room filled almost to capacity,
with others lining up to enter. As I looked around the room, I recognized many
there who were not Jewish. The Rabbi saw me standing at the door and said,
"Come in, come in. Welcome!"
"Good morning, Rabbi," I said as I smiled.
"We're about to start the Shabbat," he said, "Come!"
He noted the look of hesitancy and surprise that crossed my face as he glanced
at my clerical collar and the cross on my neck. "It's okay," he said.
"Do you know someone here? Would you like to sit next to them?"
"No," I responded, more curious now than either hesitant or
surprised.
"Still, come in. It won't take long before everyone knows everyone."
His wife came to my side, their seven small children came too, like baby ducks
following their Mama. "There's plenty to eat. Come," she said with a
beautiful smile.
"Let me guess." said her husband, "You're Rabbi is the one from
Nazareth. Jesus, right?"
"Right." I said. "Ah, and a good, orthodox Jew he was. He knew
Torah and the Shema. But, you know that, right? You have studied his
teaching?"
"Yes," I said, surprised if not taken aback.
"Then," he said, "only one question remains: Are you
hungry?"
"A little," I offered sheepishly, "Yes, I suppose I am."
"Ah, good! Wonderful! Come, come! Ruth! Ruth! Make a place for our guest.
There, can she sit next to you? There you go," he said as he seated me next
to Ruth, adding to the rest of the table, "Isn't this wonderful? The whole
family is gathering from near and far and we are going to share a most
wonderful meal in the name of our most abundant God."
Then, he leaned and whispered into my ear, "You know, like your Rabbi, I
have a little bit of the radical in me, too. In Rabbinical School, they tried
to teach it out of me, but as you can tell, it didn't work." He laughed
and then he and his wife made themselves busy seating the rest of their guests and
finishing the preparations for the service.
Before we began, the Rabbi stood at the table and formerly welcomed us to the
Shabbat service by first apologizing for conducting the service in Hebrew -
"It's the only way I know how to say it," he said while some giggled
and others murmured assuringly, "It's okay, Rabbi. You just do your
best."
Ruth touched my arm and whispered, "Did your parents teach you
Hebrew?"
"No," I said, "I'm sorry."
"Ach!" she said, "Such a shame! I don't know what's wrong with
parents today! Tsk! Tsk!"
The Rabbi explained that what we were about to do three things: First and
foremost, we were to remember the gift of our freedom, our liberation from
bondage, gained for us by the Great Prophet Moses in ancient Egypt. "Such
a gift," said the Rabbi, "should always be remembered, always
celebrated."
Second, said the Rabbi, we were to remember the gift of the Sabbath, a time of
resting from our labors to remember and give praise to the God who created us,
who also rested from his labors. "Work, work, work!" said the Rabbi,
"Sheesh! We could work ourselves to death and never enjoy the fruits of
our labor! That's not what God wants, does he?" The congregation shook
their heads collectively as negative responses filled the air.
Finally, the Rabbi told us that we will have a taste of the Messianic times,
when God will send "An Anointed One" to bring true shalom - true,
lasting peace, without poverty or war, disease or famine - to the whole earth.
That will be a most wonderful time, won't it?" "Yes!" shouted
one of the Rabbi's children joyfully as everyone chuckled.
He said some silent prayers, as his wife lit the candles and then he said the
kiddush over the wine and the prayers over the bread. I got "Barukh ata
Adonia, Eloheinu Melekh ha-olam . . ." (Blessed are You, Lord our God,
King of the Universe . . .).
And you know, nothing else really mattered.
I found myself weeping (I know. I can be such a girly-girl). Never had I
experienced such radical hospitality in any religious service. My gender, my
sexual orientation, my clerical collar, not even the small cross which hung
from my neck had kept me from fully participating in that service.
I felt my heart pounding wildly in my chest and a surge of joy that must have
been like that felt by the tax collectors and women caught in adultery, the
widows and orphans, and all the other sinners when invited to Table with that
thoroughly orthodox rabbi who didn't have his radical nature "taught"
out of him.
I also understood at a deep level in my soul why that ancient "woman of
ill repute" anointed the head of her Rabbi with expensive perfume, and
wept at his feet and wiped them with her hair.
I didn't have much time to think on these things at the moment because, almost
immediately the Oneg Shabbat Service began, which followed by a wonderful
Shabbat luncheon of fish and salad and challah bread and the wine which had
been blessed, all lovingly prepared by the Rabbi's wife.
Then, we sang songs."Take Me Out To the Ball Game." "My Wild
Irish Rose." And, "Let Me Call You Sweetheart." Oh, and someone
insisted on singing "The Dreidel Song." We all joined in the singing
and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Someone else did a solo of "Sunrise, sunset" from Fiddler on the
Roof, accompanied by someone who played the sadly out of tune piano in the
corner. When the man who sang it, a big, strapping Irishman whose red hair had
turned to silver, finished, he apologized because, he said, it was the only
Jewish song he knew. It brought both the Rabbi and his wife to tears as they
thanked him.
We talked with each other and some of us danced with the children, and an
absolutely marvelous time was had by all. As we left the dining room, I heard
the Rabbi and his wife and some of his children say to everyone, "Thank
you for coming. We'll see you next month. You'll come? Good! Stay well."
You know, something happened to me in that service. It was transformational. I
do believe Jesus was there and fully approved. I saw his joy reflected in the
eyes of that orthodox, slightly radical Rabbi.
I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit in the room where we did, in fact,
experience a foretaste of the Messianic Banquet, where true Shalom, was
present.
This morning, none of us was poor. None of us was hungry. None of us was sick.
We ate and drank until we were full. When we danced, we forgot our aches and
pains, our age and even our diagnosis or that of our neighbor. We were one. We
were reconciled with ourselves, our God and each other. We were at peace.
That's what is supposed to happen at our Eucharist. Be honest. Beyond the
personal, individual sense of spiritual satisfaction at the altar rail, when is
the last time you felt like that in community?
Okay, we've got our rubrics and our canons. I get that. But, surely, as
followers of the orthodox, radical Rabbi Jesus, the Christ, we can do better
than rubrics and canons.
Surely, our Eucharists, when we remember the life, death and
resurrection of Jesus and He is truly and fully present, can be a place were,
in His Most Precious and Blessed Name, all are welcome, all can sit at table,
all can hear the ancient words of prayer and not understand with our heads, but
know them deep in our hearts and souls.
What evangelism! What a way to transform the world!
Then again, isn't that more nearly the orthodox, radical Way of Jesus?
I came home and, as I went about my weekend tasks, I found myself weeping
again. I wept for the woman I baptized this morning - for the years she was
kept from the fullness of community and family because of rubrics and canons.
I wept that some of my 'radical' nature has apparently been 'taught out of me'.
I wept because when Jesus, The Messiah, The Anointed One, comes again to bring
true Shalom to all the world, I will have some explaining to do.
I wept with deep joy and gratitude for the simple question, "Are you
hungry?" followed by the simple invitation to "Come."
I wept because I'm ashamed to admit it: I didn't know just how hungry I've
been.
I wept remembering these words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
"Cowardice asks the question: Is it safe?Shalom, chaverim. Shalom, my friends.
Expediency asks the question: Is it politic?
Vanity asks the question: Is it popular?
But conscience asks the question: Is it right?
And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but one must take it because it is right."
Here’s more on which to meditate from Alden, a radical, orthodox Rabbi, who, I am most certain, makes Rabbi Jesus most pleased and proud.
We Will Be Heard: Psalm of Protest 18
Today,
I am an immigrant,
A drag queen,
A rape survivor,
An African Methodist Church set on fire,
A mosque pelted with rocks,
A synagogue painted with hate.
I am disabled,
A woman paid half of a salary,
A Black man strangled by police.
I am Asian, Latino, Hispanic,
Native American and Multi-Racial.
Yes,
We pray for wisdom and grace
To land like a miracle
On the President,
Transforming his rhetoric of hostility and violence
Into deeds of compassion and love.
But we will not stand silent in shock and fear
Waiting idly as our rights are trampled in public
And repealed in law.
We will count the lies and the slanders.
We will protest in the streets and gather in the polling places.
We haven’t forgotten the lynchings,
The darkness of the closet,
The death by back-alley abortion.
Today,
I am Roe v. Wade,
Obergefell v. Hodges,
Brown v. Board of Education,
The child of slaves,
The child of illegals,
The child of gay parents,
The child of a vision for freedom
And the yearning for inclusion
Neglected and rejected by those in power.
Today I am an American,
A citizen of the United States,
A child of democracy,
A patriot,
Dedicated to justice,
Dedicated to liberty,
Dedicated to action,
Demanding to be heard.
© 2020 Alden Solovy and tobendlight.com.
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