BIBLE KIDNEY BELT

"Bible Belt."

For us liberals, the words trip off the tongue with a sneer, an epithet, a lament, an obituary for where we live. Well, let me tell you that I recently spent an evening right here in Taylors at the buckle of the Bible Belt, and I did not find the experience the fodder for cynicism whatsoever. I’m even inclined to do it again.

Some of my newfound friends who are unapologetically fundamentalist Christians are so serious about Judaism that they practice it as it was at Jesus’ time, “searching for the Hebraic roots of their faith.” These five or six families get together every Friday evening for to kindle the Sabbath lights, sanctify the wine, consecrate the bread, share a festive dinner, recite the traditional grace, and study the Torah.

That’s where I fit in. A Jewish woman regularly has her nails done by one of the group. The manicurist is always full of questions. “Why do the Jews do this? What does the Bible say about that?” The woman was typically at a loss for answers. She referred her to me.

We were soon invited to one of the group’s traditional Sabbath dinners, carefully prepared in compliance with the kosher laws: salmon, salad, rice, broccoli casserole, and in deference to the South, a Red Velvet Cake. Then we engaged in three full hours of Torah study – stimulating, reverent . . . and, no, they were quick to say, they were not damning me behind my back. That was not part of “their” doctrine, they averred.

In the course of discussion, I mentioned that I was going to the hospital the next Monday to zap a kidney stone. I’d been urinating blood for weeks, and I was routinely doubled over in pain.

“Do you mind if we pray for you?” one said. “No, of course not.” “Praying to Jesus won’t offend you?” “No, of course not.”

They did not pray one at a time, as I had expected. Instead, they beehive-buzzed around me all at once. Then, above the din I heard one pray, “May Marc be healed, but not by the hands of man!”

Well, think what you want. By the next morning, I stopped urinating blood, and by mid-afternoon, the pain was gone. Like I said, think what you want.

Monday, still in disbelief, I went to the hospital to make sure that what I felt was real. Already on my gurney in that ridiculous wisp of a gown, the doctor announced that the procedure was unnecessary, yanked the IV from my arm, and instructed me to get dressed and go home.

Hmm . . . “healed, but not by the hands of man.”

Did the episode make we want to embrace Christianity? No. But it did draw me closer to the laser-penetrating faith by which this beehive of believers lives. Could it be found in Judaism? Not in its mainstream, any more, I guess, than in mainstream Christianity.

All I do know is that I was embraced by a group of newfound friends who were neither apologetic nor restrained in offering the intensity of their spirit toward a relative stranger – me. At that point, I firmly believe that it could have risen heavenward through Jesus, Yahweh, Buddha, Krishna, or the Bab, or anyone or thing who manifests the Supreme Power.

The message: Miracles happen, sometimes even by the simple exposure to people who believe that miracles happen. It is bad theology, I know, for any parent whose child suffers from leukemia. Then, the miraculous power may be that the presence of spirit-filled people may not cure, but can heal the broken heart and the vacuousness of loss.

Otherwise, in the sagacious words of Billy Joel, I would prefer to leave a tender moment alone. I will not let your psychobabble try to explain it to me. I felt the perceptible presence of healing in that very mundane room and it healed me . . . not by the hands of man.