YOU NEVER KNOW
I make no apologies for my devotion to Chasidism, particularly to the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, its tireless outreach and nonjudgmental welcome to Jews of all callings and backgrounds. Moreover, it asks nothing in return.
Do I agree with every point of the movement’s theology and lifestyle? No, but enough to make me an adherent. In fact, we often joke about how a rabbi so seemingly atypical, in a decidedly un-Chabad town like Greenville, is so devoted to the work of Chabad. Hence my title, “Closet Lubavitcher”!
Their most recent, now deceased, Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Schneerson, is understood by all Lubavitchers as irreplaceable. Do they consider him a miracle-worker? Perhaps, or at least a great cosmic influence. Is he the Messiah? This is the subject of tremendous controversy, even condemnation, in the secular media and other Jewish movements. Let’s simply say that many Lubavitchers openly declare him the Messiah, while for others the idea hovers as a distinct possibility.
Two years before his death, the Rebbe became my “savior.” In a scant 30 seconds, he stroked my arm and offered me guidance at the most dismal time of my life. Those few words, I now realize now, marked the beginning of my emotional and spiritual restoration and intervened in my imminent suicide.
That was then. Now, let me tell you about my recent transcendent, or spooky, experience – depending how you look at it – with the Rebbe:
A few months ago, I spent a week in New York working on a project. By serendipity, my driver to the airport was a young Lubavitcher. At the sight of my yarmulke, he asked whether I had ever visited the Ohel (Rebbe’s tomb)? I told him that I had not, but if we had time, I would certainly like to pay my respects. Knowing that people flock to the Ohel to ask for the Rebbe’s intercession, and remembering his life-saving advice for me 13 years earlier, it was the least I could do.
Arriving at the Ohel, my driver recommended that I write a “pan,” an acronym for “pidyon nefesh,” a “redemption of the soul,” to place on the Rebbe’s tomb. What could it hurt, I thought. So, I prayed for universal peace and for the safety of my family.
Then, I asked for something out of the ordinary: Three years earlier, I had departed my congregation in Greenville under acrimonious, some would say crazy, circumstances. Many congregants were left angry and estranged. Little by little, some had forgiven me, and our relationships had slowly resumed. For others, the anger still burned.
But, the Goldberg’s (name changed), with whom we were particularly close and whose friendship we especially cherished, stopped talking to us and refused all pleas of forgiveness – would not even answer calls, notes, emails, coming to the door or responding to mediators.
So, I prayed on my pan that there would be reconciliation with congregants who were still estranged and particularly for forgiveness from the Goldberg’s. I dropped the shredded pan, as is the custom, on the Rebbe’s tomb and noted that it was 6:00, time to leave for the airport. Shortly thereafter, I called Linda to tell her that the plane was departing on time.
“You’ll never guess who called,” Linda announced. “The Goldberg’s.”
Astonished, I asked her if there had been any particular reason.
“No. An incredible surprise. They just wanted to say hello.”
“And do you remember about what time they called?”
“It must have been around 6:05.”
Please understand my purpose. My personal feelings aside, relating this wonder-story is not to convince anyone to believe in miracles, nor to believe that the Rebbe is the Messiah, nor that I was at all worthy of Divine intercession.
I have only one purpose: It is to tell people smug or doubting that we never know. We expect, and we never know. We are so often thwarted. Life wearies us, and we never know. The sun may yet shine from the abyss. To the arrogant and smug who claim to know, this epitaph: You never know. If you did, you might not bother to show up.
A serendipitous ride to the Ohel? I think not.
October 26, 2005
October 25, 2005
NEUROTIC SALAMI
Please believe me when I tell you that kosher salami contributes to child abuse.
In the American-Jewish world of the 1950’s, sending ones child to nursery was a sign of dishonor. It inferred that daddy did not earn enough to allow mother to stay home and raise the toddlers, for she, too, was obliged to bring home a paycheck. The Wilson’s were not wealthy, but my parents scrimped to have my early years at home.
At nursery, youngsters were fed bland lunches and treats like jelly sandwiches, cookies and milk. At home, Jewish children were fed a nourishing fodder-trough of leftovers: brisket, meatloaf, casserole, sausage and beans . . . unintended early training for obesity, diabetes and heart disease.
My personal favorite at age four was salami with mustard on chewy rye. You must know that back then, no self-respecting American-Jewish household ate soft, neonatal salami. Rather, it was hung in the kitchen until it was wrinkled and chewy enough to loosen three molars.
Salami or not, from time to time, my mother would ignore me as lunch hour approached, talking on the phone to a childhood friend. I would whine for my lunch, which brought an ominous glare.
Once – and only once – after whining repeatedly, I reached up for the alluring salami and bit a huge chunk out of it. At this, my mother whacked me across the kitchen, bouncing me off the wall and forcing the purloined salami from my mouth. All the while, she kept up her conversation, never changing her tone of voice.
At the end of her conversation, she reminded me that she rarely hit me, but that this occasion – “playing with food,” she called it – deserved special treatment and clobbered me twice again.
51 years later, as we sat at my mother’s deathbed, we reminisced about incidents from childhood and laughed. She had remarkably clear memory for a woman who would die just days later. But guess what? She had nary a recollection of the punishment she meted out for her only child’s craving for a chunk of salami. Three whacks may have turned me neurotic, but at least my manners have gotten significantly better.
Please believe me when I tell you that kosher salami contributes to child abuse.
In the American-Jewish world of the 1950’s, sending ones child to nursery was a sign of dishonor. It inferred that daddy did not earn enough to allow mother to stay home and raise the toddlers, for she, too, was obliged to bring home a paycheck. The Wilson’s were not wealthy, but my parents scrimped to have my early years at home.
At nursery, youngsters were fed bland lunches and treats like jelly sandwiches, cookies and milk. At home, Jewish children were fed a nourishing fodder-trough of leftovers: brisket, meatloaf, casserole, sausage and beans . . . unintended early training for obesity, diabetes and heart disease.
My personal favorite at age four was salami with mustard on chewy rye. You must know that back then, no self-respecting American-Jewish household ate soft, neonatal salami. Rather, it was hung in the kitchen until it was wrinkled and chewy enough to loosen three molars.
Salami or not, from time to time, my mother would ignore me as lunch hour approached, talking on the phone to a childhood friend. I would whine for my lunch, which brought an ominous glare.
Once – and only once – after whining repeatedly, I reached up for the alluring salami and bit a huge chunk out of it. At this, my mother whacked me across the kitchen, bouncing me off the wall and forcing the purloined salami from my mouth. All the while, she kept up her conversation, never changing her tone of voice.
At the end of her conversation, she reminded me that she rarely hit me, but that this occasion – “playing with food,” she called it – deserved special treatment and clobbered me twice again.
51 years later, as we sat at my mother’s deathbed, we reminisced about incidents from childhood and laughed. She had remarkably clear memory for a woman who would die just days later. But guess what? She had nary a recollection of the punishment she meted out for her only child’s craving for a chunk of salami. Three whacks may have turned me neurotic, but at least my manners have gotten significantly better.
October 08, 2005
NO, I CAN'T DO THE SPLIT
Being a student in yeshiva was my first exposure to the personalities of young men from various regions of the States. New Yorkers were pushy. Californians had a more casual attitude. Kids from Boston were a little snobby.
Then there were the boys from the South. The southern United States had seceded from the Union over the inferiority and enslavement of blacks. The South lost, but many pundits would say that 150 years later they are still fighting the war.
Some bigotry still rears its ugly head, but more is focused on a deprecatory attitude toward “servants” – janitors, automobile attendants, ticket takers, waitresses – no “please” nor “thank you,” just, “Hurry up! Who do you think you are?”
Once upon a time, going to an ice cream parlor with Alan, a yeshiva bochur from the Deep South, was particularly embarrassing. The sweet young waitress approached our table. Alan ordered “a banana split . . . with no banana.” The waitress looked at him. “We don’t have that on the menu,” she said quizzically.
“Nonetheless,” Alan said, as though speaking to a recalcitrant kindergartener, “certainly the kitchen can make one up especially for me.” Again, a completely befuddled look from the waitress.
I tried to clarify the situation. “Just bring the man this banana split,” as I pointed to the menu, “and take off the banana.”
Alan of the South glared of me and chided, “I am perfectly capable of explaining to the servant precisely what I want, without your interference.”
Finally, I pretended to go to the bathroom, caught the waitress’s eye, handed her five dollars and asked her to bring out the “banana split without the banana,” just as I had explained to her.
The five dollars made up for Alan’s refusal to leave her a tip because “it would teach her not to be so uppity toward the upper class.”
I only pray that in his life to come Alan of the South would make the mistake of ordering “kirschtort . . . with no cherries” from a muscular waiter named Bruno.
Being a student in yeshiva was my first exposure to the personalities of young men from various regions of the States. New Yorkers were pushy. Californians had a more casual attitude. Kids from Boston were a little snobby.
Then there were the boys from the South. The southern United States had seceded from the Union over the inferiority and enslavement of blacks. The South lost, but many pundits would say that 150 years later they are still fighting the war.
Some bigotry still rears its ugly head, but more is focused on a deprecatory attitude toward “servants” – janitors, automobile attendants, ticket takers, waitresses – no “please” nor “thank you,” just, “Hurry up! Who do you think you are?”
Once upon a time, going to an ice cream parlor with Alan, a yeshiva bochur from the Deep South, was particularly embarrassing. The sweet young waitress approached our table. Alan ordered “a banana split . . . with no banana.” The waitress looked at him. “We don’t have that on the menu,” she said quizzically.
“Nonetheless,” Alan said, as though speaking to a recalcitrant kindergartener, “certainly the kitchen can make one up especially for me.” Again, a completely befuddled look from the waitress.
I tried to clarify the situation. “Just bring the man this banana split,” as I pointed to the menu, “and take off the banana.”
Alan of the South glared of me and chided, “I am perfectly capable of explaining to the servant precisely what I want, without your interference.”
Finally, I pretended to go to the bathroom, caught the waitress’s eye, handed her five dollars and asked her to bring out the “banana split without the banana,” just as I had explained to her.
The five dollars made up for Alan’s refusal to leave her a tip because “it would teach her not to be so uppity toward the upper class.”
I only pray that in his life to come Alan of the South would make the mistake of ordering “kirschtort . . . with no cherries” from a muscular waiter named Bruno.
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