More war

In Napier, where P is attending a conference. We're staying in a pleasant-enough motel, with a clear view of the wide empty bay, low tame hills lining the horizon.The sun has slipped behind them, leaving behind a flush of gold. Above, an irregular layer of dark clouds covers the sky like a lid. 

War in Israel, again. With Iran. Iranians are not Arabs, friendliness is a genuine possibility with them, less of a struggle. Witness Salma Abu Gosh. I shall write about her soon, maybe here.

Tonight we'll have dinner with a friend who lives nearby. Maybe we'll talk about the war, maybe not. I sometimes forget about it, briefly, and feel guilty, for not having thought of people, keeping them alive in my mind, a talismanic protection. I wrote my sister a brief email just now. Maybe she'll answer tonight.

 

A Rabbi's Rabbi

I attended an international Jewish conference in Australia a few years' ago, rabbis of all stripes in attendance. The guest of honour was an eminent rabbi from a far-away country, who spoke with rare humility and insight. I managed to wangle a seat near him at lunch, and had a lively conversation with him. I liked him very much. 

That Friday evening, Kabbalat Shabbat was celebrated in a beautiful, modern synagogue. Beautiful, but - from my perspective - jarring: shaped like a Greek amphitheater, the seats upholstered in a violent red, people sitting high above the bimah, higher than the service leaders, higher than the Ark where the Torah scrolls are kept, the repository of teachings guiding a Jewish life. The service included an entire pop band. No time, no space for reflection. Uncomfortable, I peeked at the Rabbi, sitting some distance away. He was still, attentive. I tried to calm my restlessness, resisting the urge to leave.

Following the service, dinner was served to everyone in the elegant dining room. After the meal, as I crossed the room to visit a friend sitting elsewhere. I met the Rabbi, who put his arm round my shoulders and said quietly: "How are you feeling?"

"Like a fish out of water," I whispered.

"So do I." 

I've wondered if he regretted speaking so openly, but it's a moment I remember with affection, for his trust. Or had he noticed my restlessness during the service? Was this a gentle way of reproving me: "Feel like a fish out of water, but don't judge..." 

I managed to find him on his own the next day and quickly gave him a copy of my novel, There was a garden in Nuremberg.

. 

I also gave him the address of our congregation. He warned me not to expect a visit. Understandably: such a small congregation, so far away.

Three years later, he's on Youtube, again a guest of honour, lecturing at an institution of interfaith study in Boston. I recognise the simplicity with which he tells how once upon a time, in his homeland a Cardinal organised an interfaith gathering. 

I'd heard of this eminent Cardinal, who once said, "Who am I to judge?"

That meeting became an important event for the Rabbi, for he requested that the Cardinal become his teacher. 

The Rabbi said: "He became my Rabbi."