The Seven Pillars of Faith, Part 2

In Part 1, we explored a few of the benchmarks in a lifelong search for the meaning of…well…life. We visited a Catholic Church, witnessed a Yogi descending from heaven, and herded feral children at a Unity Sunday School. Part 2 continues the quest with the tale of the Wandering Jews. I knew I’d made a serious mistake when I realized my daughter didn’t know how to pronounce the word Kosher, as in KOHsher pickles. She said “Kausher,” as in KAWEsher. I’d failed as a parent but it wasn’t too late. I could enroll her in Hebrew school, if I could find one that accepted parents of mixed religions who had never been to Temple and knew nothing about traditional Judaism. Help arrived at our local Chuck E. Cheese. One of the other mothers heard my tale of woe and invited us to attend Saturday School at her house. This led to a beautiful friendship and endless acts of kindness on her part but that’s another story. I dragged a reluctant twelve-year-old and a hyperactive six-year-old up the street to L’s house and the rest is history. Here’s the history: a wise man who would have been a 7th generation Rabbi if he hadn’t had other ideas was unhappy with the direction a new Rabbi was leading his Synagogue, so the wise man left, took about 25 other couples with him, rented a room in some office building, and started holding his own services every other Friday night, with summers off because, you know, vacations. The other couples had young children so they took turns hosting Saturday school to teach whatever you teach children about Judaism. Also, they dragged their children with them to the Friday night services. Once the children had muttered their readings (whatever the Rabbi had written for them) in front of the whole congregation, they were free to fall asleep on their parents’ laps or the floor. But first they were patted on the head or pinched on the cheek by everyone they passed on their way to and from the altar, which was a folding table covered with a mantle lovingly embroidered by several of the congregation’s women. Also, there was an Ark, as well as a Torah. There has to be an Ark, right? Ours was hung from a tripod. Once I joined the congregation, I went to a craft store and bought a wooden plaque and a make believe Ten Commandments tablet, glued them together, painted the whole thing gold, and added a metal chain. It hung on the tripod above the Ark. When services were over, someone would pack it all up and haul it home, ready to be set up again in two weeks, or two months, depending. As I said, Wandering Jews. What happened after the Rabbi died is a whole ‘nother blog, but two moments stand out in memory while he still lived. The first was when the fathers got together to build a palm-covered Sukkah in my back yard because it was my turn to host Saturday school and it happened to fall on that year’s Festival of Booths. A Sukkah is a kind of shelter set up during the holiday of Sukkot, which represents the time the Jews Wandered in the desert. It’s the happy Festival of Tents. It’s the Jewish version of a campout sleepover, something I’d never experienced in my youth because my parents only celebrated High Holidays that involved indoor dining. Nonetheless, there they were, healthy menfolk tying bamboo tent poles together and covering it all with palm leaves on the lawn next to my garage while my husband, children, and I stood on the backdoor steps gazing on in something between awe and bewilderment. Once it was completed, the children were fed a little nosh inside the tent, after which they ran around the yard for an hour, and then the whole thing was dismantled for next year. Wandering. It’s amazing what you can do with a pickup truck. The really big deal moment arrived when the six-year old turned eighteen and decided he was Jewish and wanted a Bar Mitzvah. The Rabbi was even wiser by then and realized the importance of following up on this wish with alacrity, by-passing all the years of study. He promptly presented my son with a pre-written version of the speech he was supposed to have composed for himself and also a sheaf of papers printed with the service in English and transliterated Hebrew. Those in the congregation who could read and speak Hebrew would do so; the rest of us would fake it. Really, it was magical. I think we were renting a meeting hall in a Masonic Temple in Monrovia at the time. We invited friends and family, which meant there were dozens of Catholics and Protestants happily in attendance, perched upon folding chairs. My favorite part was when Uncle L kept whispering, “When did Bernie become Jewish? I never knew he was Jewish.” Sweet, kind-hearted Congregants stood with my son and read the week’s portion of the Bible in Hebrew, which ninety percent of the audience didn’t understand. I got up at one point and read whatever the Rabbi had written for me to say, in English, and lovingly placed the Tallit, the prayer shawl, over my son’s shoulders, as he read “Today I am a Man….” in English. After the service, which took FOREVER, people helped themselves to cake served on blue paper plates. It was a chocolate cake with white frosting that originally had blue lettering: “Congratulations on Your Bar Mitzvah.” I say originally because when I put the cake box on the dining room table at home I failed to notice when one of our cats walked on it. Therefore, as I lifted the box lid at the Hall, half of the icing lifted off with it. What was left was “Congra…vah” and a big splotch of brown cake where white frosting had been. I told people it was a Miracle because the splotch ended up looking like the the shape of Israel on a map. This was by no means your typical Bar Mitzvah. There was no sit-down dinner, no rented hotel, no band, no dancing, no donations for trees to be planted in Israel. Yet it certainly marked a memorable turning point in several lives. For me, this was Pillar four, and it was all due to the selfless volunteering of a band of Wandering Jews. I’d intended to conclude all seven pillars in Part 2, but look—only the Jewish one rolled out. Who’s surprised? So you’ll have to wait for Part 3 if you want to finish the book. Once again we say “Inshallah, may it be worth the wait.”