In the Wilderness, Brother

BBooookk FFoouurr IInn tthhee WWiillddeerrnneessss By Deane H. Shapiro, Jr., Ph.D. s we sing the final chorus of Jacob's Ladder, the minister intones over the song, "My children, as you leave from our tent of meeting and head into the wilderness that awaits, remember Jesus' love is always a sanctuary in your hearts." "We are climbing higher, higher...." "His love will protect and guide you as you go forth to heal and bring God's word to others. Do not forget to take an internal census of what you need to do to heal yourself; and to take an external census of who is in need. "Go forth, messengers of the harvest, in peace and love." * * * "Beth, you look great." I turn and see Al pick Mery up and swing her around, her legs lifted from the floor like a merry-go round. Beth? What is that about? What gives him the right to still call her Beth? Careful. Take a breath. I feel a rage in me. I remember a story mom told of when she first started to date after the divorce. Dad came over, saw the guy, tried to fight him, lost. Then he went to get his gun from his car. Mom called the police. I don't want to kill anyone; but thoughts of maiming flitter through my mind. My father is an unpredict- able, even dangerous person. Am I also? Take another breath. Calm yourself down. You know you don't think clearly when you are angry. Dad always said in a fight, try to get the other person enraged, because people make stupid 1076 ill-advised mistakes when they are angry. Try to think of something witty. Like what? "Hi, I play the flute." I sound like a moron. "You seem to really feel the music." Idiotic. "I like the way your combo competes, combines, collides." Cool and cute, but maybe too much like a critic? Maybe I should just say, "I read music. Mery says I don't really know how to feel it, much less let loose and improvise." Awfully judgmental, Johannes. Why should you put yourself down because she does? "So, is this the new lucky guy?" He reaches over to shake my hand in some grip that I'd never seen or experienced before. He senses my awkwardness, and so lets his hand come to rest on my shoulder. "Welcome. Beth's a great gal. I've heard a lot about you. You are really lucky to be with her." I smile wanly. I've heard nothing about you and am com- pletely ambushed. Why does he keep calling her Beth? Whoever she is, she seems to be focusing more on Al than on me. A thousand questions flood my mind. Why did their relationship end? Does he know about "La Causa?" Do they still play music together? Is it more fluid and fun than when she plays with me? I want to act cool and hip, but feel analytical and uncomfortable. I don't feel like the lucky guy. Finally I say, simply, "Great playing, nice to meet you." I nod to Al, then turn to the blonde guitarist, and say the same thing, "Great playing." I try to think of a flirtatious riff, to show Mery that I can handle myself calmly and suavely in this situation. But I can't think of anything. I take an internal census, and see that there is nothing left. I turn back to Mery who is having an animated conversation 1077 with Al. I stretch my arms out wide, then enfold them around her. It's the very opposite of the open, allowing gesture of the totem pole. It's a possessive embrace, from a desperate and needy place. And she seems to sense it. Rather than putting her head on my shoulder, she squirms away. I feel checked. I can't think of any more moves. I tell Mery I need to get some fresh air, and will meet her outside when she is ready. I nod briefly at Al as I turn to exit the church. I feel totally alone. A panicky feeling starts to resur- face, like the one I had last night walking alone along Geary. Ominous dark shadows. Strange days. The banks of the river of my mind are overflowing, almost as if I'm free falling. I want something to grab onto, believe in, trust in. I don't know where to turn. * * * "Teshuvah is to turn, or return to G-d." "Yes, that's exactly what I want. Would it be possible for me to meet your rabbi?" He looks askance at me, and asks, "Are you FFB?" I'm wondering if this is like one of Dad's secret FBI codes. I have no idea what he's talking about. I shrug my shoulders and ask, "What's FFB." "Frum--observant-- from birth. Have you always observed kosher and all the laws?" Again, I think of the Christmas tree. Sunday School. How about lox and bagels at Sunday brunch? I decide that's pretty close to observing the Sabbath. After all, sharing a family 1078 meal, even if on the wrong day, seems like a good thing. "My family felt that time together on a weekly basis was important." "How did you spend this time?" I describe in some detail the content of the brunch, leaving out nothing: the chicken liver and eggs, Wolferman English muf- fins, strawberry jam, soft scrambled eggs. Finally, he stops me. "Enough. Let me describe our Sabbath. See if this is what you really want. For 25 hours, we don't do work, as it is com- manded. It is a time of joy, and we don't lift, use a car, touch money, use a water heater, or write with a pen. We unscrew the light bulbs in the refrigerators, put tape on the buttons on door frames so they are presses in, and the knobs do not require turn- ing, set our ovens set at warm so we do not have to turn them on to cook food. We even tear our toilet paper into usable pieces the day before, so we don't have to do that work on the Shabbat." I ask him if it's ok if I write this down. He nods, and I pull out a file, labeling it "Frum." I understand the toilet paper and work premise, but I do wonder if the act of defecating itself might be considered work, especially if you are the least bit constipated. But I'm not sure it's exactly the most appropri- ate question. "On Shabbat, the Torah says we must refrain from 39 categories of activities. One is not to carry anything except in an enclosed area. Therefore, in our ingenuity and with G-d's guidance, we have created in our community a small filament (erus) thread which surrounds our area. This allows us to carry what we need within its confines. We check it weekly because if the filament breaks, the area would not be usable, and we would have broken the divine law. 1079 "Do you see how carefully we take G-d's law?" I'm impressed. Grandpa always said that in the law, and in life, effort equals success. And effort involves precise, careful, systematic discipline. Grandpa also said it was ok to push the envelope, as long as you didn't break it. These guys are not only precise and careful, they even create their own envelope! * * * I wander if the cunning part of Johannes which resides in Ortho-John isn't also impressed at ways in which there are ways to be found around any law. Of course, it must be asked are they doing it to observe the law, and keep in sight, or as a way to get around the law and keep their comforts. More importantly, I also question whether G-d couldn't have made his intentions a little clearer, and why he left it to humans to figure out exactly what was ok or not. Did G-d not envision toilet paper, door knobs, and stoves when G-d created the seventh day? But that's between me and G-d. Is this the best way to serve G-d? Cutting toilet paper? I have a bit of an uneasy feeling, like sometimes when I would get lost in the details of a math problem, and forget the larger picture, where I was. For me, I always like to have the endpoint in sight. Could the endpoint be not the acts themselves, but the mental training involved in learning to do every action with the intention of keeping our focus on G-d. Of course, if you get lost in the behavior of the acts, then you've started focusing on the finger rather than the moon. So, I return to my interrupted question: 1080 "That all sounds wonderful. I'm sure I can observe it all faithfully. I'd love to meet your rabbi, is that possible?" "What is your blood?" I look at him not understanding. "Type O, I guess. But I'm not sure. Why do you ask?" He looks at me with a combination of anger and condescension, Perhaps the faintest inkling of humor. "Jewish blood. We'll need to see records of your parents’, grand- parents' blood. Not just on your mother's side. There can be no impurities." What irony: Our universal Type O blood trying to fit in and flow in such a particularistic setting.

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