The first pastor of our church left rather
suddenly in 1992, five years after the church was formed. I was 31 years old,
and when the church asked if I would take his place I was happy to do so, though
I did not anticipate the troubles that would come with that transition. It's
always hard when a beloved pastor leaves a church. There is the grief that comes
from the loss of that relationship. And everyone knows that things will likely
change with a new minister. It’s a hard time for a church, a time of
uncertainty.
When our first
pastor left, a number of families left with him. I think we lost about a third
of our church in a matter of weeks. That was not a good sign, and I knew it. It
was a sign that we had been too dependent on his personality for our identity. I
tried not to take the people leaving personally, but I was young and took
everything personally. I wondered if their departure might be a sign that they
were uncertain about me. I was worried and for good reason. New churches are
fragile things. If a new church begins a downward spiral, things can fall apart
rather quickly. Some new churches don’t survive because they couldn’t weather
their first major crisis. I became anxious and found myself trying hard to keep
the remaining families happy so they wouldn’t leave as well.
In truth we were
in a difficult spot, but giving in to that kind of anxiety is always a bad move
for a minister. However, I was young and doing the best that I could at the
time.
All of this
happened about the same time that I met rabbi Jonah and his friend Robert in a
computer store. I overheard Jonah talking about some kind of Hebrew program. I
was interested and asked some questions about it myself. Before I knew it the
three of us were having coffee together.
Jonah and Robert
were both bound to wheelchairs, Jonah because of polio and Robert because of
muscular dystrophy. For the next year or so, I would go to visit them, load them
into their van – which was equipped with a wheelchair lift – and drive them
around town. We talked about theology, the scriptures, and the relationship
between our respective faith traditions. I liked them. Jonah could be a bit
overbearing at times, and he was certainly manipulative. I was aware of how he
always managed to talk me into doing things for them even as I was letting him
get away with it. I had never had friends in wheelchairs before, and I was
rather over-anxious to please them and be nice. And, as I said before, I was
young and fairly naïve about a number of things.
That Spring I thought it would be nice for our
church to have a Passover Seder together. The Passover meal is strictly a Jewish
observance, but many Christian churches - recognizing our obvious historical and
theological dependency on Judaism - will sometimes have a Seder meal as a kind
of religious education exercise.
And, I thought, who better to lead us in this
sacred meal than my own rabbi friend, Jonah? When I asked him, Jonah was
obviously pleased and readily agreed. At the time Jonah was not serving a
congregation, so I thought this would be nice for him. And I thought our church
would benefit from the cultural and spiritual exchange. I admit that I was also
hoping something like this would help solidify our sense of community as we
continued to adjust to the loss of our pastor and the families who left with
him. It was all good in my mind. There were no downsides that I could see.
As the time for
the Seder grew close, Jonah provided us with a list of supplies and detailed
recipes for the various dishes involved in the ceremony. A number of women in
our church took the recipes and prepared the food according to his instructions.
We had about 30 people planning to attend, which was roughly half of our church
at the time. The afternoon before the meal, we setup tables in a church member’s
home and made ready for Jonah and Robert’s arrival.
When I got to
their house, Jonah and Robert were dressed in their finest clothes and were both
wearing ceremonial yarmulkes. We chatted excitedly on the way, and when we
arrived everyone crowded around them both, making them feel welcome. The people
of our church sort of felt like they knew Jonah because I had mentioned him and
the things he had taught me about Judaism in several sermons.
The meal began and
Jonah carefully explained the meaning behind all of the symbols and dishes. The
Passover Seder is an allegorical meal that commemorates God leading the children
of Israel out of slavery in Egypt. Each dish has a specific meaning. The whole
thing was fascinating for about 45 minutes. Then the food was gone and Jonah
began speaking on a variety of topics, apparently whatever was coming to his
mind. Things began to drag a bit. Jonah kept talking. He got lost in what he was
saying and wasn’t paying attention to what was happening around him. I noticed
people reaching the limits of their attention spans and disconnecting. Children
were getting fussy and fidgety. People began to rest their heads in their hands
and look around the room. Being ultimately responsible for what happens at
church events like this, I began to be very uncomfortable about the
deterioration of interest in the room.
Jonah, on the
other hand, seemed to have no awareness whatsoever of the feedback their body
language was giving him. He was lost in the beauty of his tradition and spoke on
and on, his eyes partially closed and his voice a grinding monotone. Twenty
minutes turned into thirty minutes and then to forty-five. I kept looking for an
opening so that I could break in and draw this thing to a close, but there were
no pauses and I couldn’t catch Jonah’s eye.
Finally, just when
I thought the people in the room couldn’t stand it any longer, Jonah paused and
took a deep breath. Apparently he had reached the end of his long discourse.
When everyone sensed he was coming to a close, they reconnected with him. There
was no ill will in the group. After all, he was rather elderly and our guest.
But still, I could tell that everyone was happy this was finally coming to an
end. And so was I.
Jonah looked
around the room very deliberately, as if taking measure of the people. Then -
and I will never forget this moment if I live to be a hundred - he carefully
pressed the fingertips of his two hands together in front of him, and said, “Now,
let me explain to you why it is simply not possible that Jesus could be the
messiah.”
Having relaxed a
bit as he seemed to be coming to a close, these words hit me like a
sledgehammer. I felt a rush of panic. I looked around the room to see mouths
dropping open. Children were looking curiously at their parents. “Mommy, what’s
that man saying about Jesus?” One or two people looked a little angry. A man
named Steve, one of our few new members, crossed his arms and looked like
someone had suggested to him that our church take up communism and maybe devil
worship while we were at it.
If this happened
now, I would have stopped him. I would have simply stood up and said, “Jonah,
thank you for coming. Time is late and we’d better bring this to a close. Blah
blah blah.” No problem. But I was young and nice and anxious, and I had not
imagined myself in this position. So Jonah spoke for five or six minutes and
explained to us all the reasons why a central truth of Christianity simply could
not be true.
I really don’t
remember anything that he said. I was too busy looking at the faces of the
people and wondering how many of them might not come back. It was one of the
most awkward and uncomfortable things I’ve ever sat through. When Jonah finished
his diatribe, the evening was over. I felt absolutely miserable. I was the new
pastor of this small, still-grieving church, supposedly a gatekeeper of the
content of our worship, and I had set this whole thing up. I wondered if there
might be an emergency business meeting later that night which would result in me
being asked to leave.
I loaded the two of them into their van in the
darkness. I didn’t know what to say. I was hurt and angry that he would put me
in such an awkward position. I stared straight ahead as I pulled the lever that
lifted their chairs up into the van. As I pulled out of the driveway, Jonah
said, “Well, I think that went pretty well, don’t you?” I said nothing. I just
drove them home.
Apparently it never occurred to Jonah that it
might be somewhat offensive to show up as a guest at a Christian church, be
given a platform, then say such difficult and frightening things in a group of
families with children. I really don't think he had any idea that what he had
said was painful for the group. He was lost in the beauty of his tradition and
blundered clumsily through ours without thinking much about it.
As it turned out, almost everyone thought it
was rather funny. Some saw how bad I felt about the whole thing and felt badly
for me. Nothing came of it. Well, Steve and his family left the church, but they
were probably going to leave anyway. And honestly, I really didn't mind seeing
them go. Steve was a pretty angry guy. Something or other would have eventually
pissed him off anyway.
Nothing like that ever happened again with
Jonah. He and Robert and I remained friends. I never said anything to him about
the event. Maybe I should have, but I don't know what that conversation would
have done for anyone.
And maybe it was a good thing for us to have
experienced after all. Because Christianity is the dominant religious expression
in our culture, Christians are usually on the other side of these situations. We
are often the ones who pray at gatherings of Christians, Jews, and others and
use the name of Jesus in ways that must make our friends uncomfortable. At every
turn, the words and symbols of Christianity blare out of radios and shout from
the street corners. Secular people and those of other faiths are often left to
stand in silence while our words of faith swirl uncomfortably around them.
Having once been on the painful side of a
collision between religious traditions, my suggestion is for all of us is to
cultivate a healthy sense of humor and a deliberate tolerance in mixed
companies. Our philosophies, theologies, and religious practices are bound to
collide sometimes. It's going to happen. And sometimes when it happens, no one
meant any harm. Most of us are guilty of mental lapses now and then. Our
continued good will and the cultivating of cooperation between religions is far
more important than any theological point you might want to make.
And if perchance someone from another tradition
says something that rubs you the wrong way, remember that they have no power
over you and your faith. Let the event be something that we learn from and not
something that tears us apart.
rlp
Note: I first wrote about
Jonah and Robert in this story.
Later I wrote this.
When Jonah died, I wrote about that too.
Passover Seder
