The Only Man in the Room Without a Tallit

The service began thirty minutes ago.  I think.  Maybe.  Actually, I'm not entirely sure.  Somewhere off to my right some one is singing in Hebrew, but I can’t see him because I am sitting slightly behind the stage and my view is partially blocked by lace curtains.  Dozens of men milled around on my side of the room, shaking hands, greeting one another with a rousing L’shana Tova!*  Some were putting on their prayer shawls (Tallit), long white pieces of fabric usually with blue or black stripes and long tassels attached.  The Hebrew singing continues and periodically some of the men will join in with the chant, but most are paying no attention as they catch up with friends, holding conversations on business, school studies, and how their kids and grandkids are.  Though many people say, hello and L’shana Tova to me, I feel distinctly out of place and unsure of myself.

It all started a couple of weeks before the service when I asked a business acquaintance, who I knew to be Jewish, if he could recommend adult Hebrew classes for me to help me with my seminary studies.  We had a brief conversation about religious difference that culminated in him inviting me to Rosh Hoshana services at Chabad of Scottsdale. 


I showed up a thirty minutes early and hoped to see my friend.  I stood out front, off to the side and watched the line of people entering the building.  I wore a suit, figuring it was better to be overdressed than too casual, but many of the younger men were wearing casual clothes.  Being Scottsdale, I had to laugh at the man wearing cowboy boots, a western vest and a yarmulke.  Finally, this older gentleman came up to me and asked in an accented voice, “Why wait out here and don’t go inside?”  I told him that I was new and waiting for a friend.  He said, “From today on, I am your friend.  You can come inside now.”  With that, he took my shoulder and escorted me inside.  I told him, I have no kippah (yarmulke) and he laughed and said not to worry.  “What color you should want, red, black, green, blue?  We’ll get you one.”  Looking through a drawer, I found a simple black one and put it on.  He then showed me to my seat and wandered away, jovially saying, L’shana Tova to everyone he passed. 


Somehow, I was expecting something similar to Christian church services I have attended so many times.  Nope.  Nothing of the like.  Though it was a religious service, and there were many things that were similar, it’s the small differences that made it such a cross-cultural experience.  It’s even hard to explain all the differences, but they added up to an experience that was far from anything else I’d ever experienced. 


The elderly man who was my new friend, came wandering back with the Rabbi, who promptly began speaking to me in Hebrew.  Embarrassed, I told him I wasn’t Jewish and spoke no Hebrew.  He smiled friendly and told me that’s OK.  (it made me think of the old Mel Brooks movie joke, "I'm not Jewish" and the response is, "That's OK, nobody's perfect.")  My new friend told him I was waiting for my business acquaintance, whom the Rabbi knew.  The Rabbi welcomed me and wandered off, back to the stage area which was actually around the corner from my chair, so I couldn’t even see what was going on.


The service continued with the Chazzan (song leader) singing in Hebrew with brief moments of audience participation in Hebrew.  The service was laid out in a book with Hebrew on one side and the English translation on the other.  I tried to follow along, but, since everything spoken was in Hebrew, the English was only of limited help.  I finally recognized the Hebrew word melech which I know means ‘king’.  Since they use that word A LOT, it became easy enough to at least keep up.  The Rabbi also kept calling out the page numbers, so I managed to stumble along.  I still felt greatly out of place because the others knew when to stand, to sit, to take a few steps back and forward, and when to bow.  I was always a little bit behind.  This part was very comparable to a Catholic service, which, since my wife grew up Catholic, I have had occasion to experience.


The Rabbi came back and brought someone else with him.  He introduced us and told the new guy who I was waiting for and they both wandered off.  Periodically, the Rabbi would bring someone else by and let him know who I was waiting for and would introduce us.  All of this occurred while the service was going on.


Over the next hour or so, men and women continued arriving, going to their different sides of the room and beginning rounds of greeting with those participating in the service.  Slaps on the back.  Greetings of L’shana Tova.  Discussions about children.  These all continued while the Hebrew singing and audience participation continued.   And, the Rabbi and others kept bringing people up to meet me.  It made me chuckle to picture this happening at a Christian church, with people greeting each other while worship went on or while the pastor gave his sermon.  Hard to imagine.  What’s more, as the service continued over the next few hours, I noticed that people were not only coming in, but wandering out and leaving on their own schedules. 


My friend finally showed up and stopped to welcome me.  Several men came by and told him I was there looking for him.  He must have thought that I had met the whole congregation.  By that time, I may have, because of the busy little Rabbi introducing me.  He gave some explanation and guidance about what was going on and a little about what the purpose of the service was.  He invited me to stay or leave as was comfortable and then went to his assigned seat to participate.


After five hours of Hebrew singing, quiet prayer, a brief homily in English, shofar blowing and lots of standing and sitting, I finally had to go pick up my daughter from school.  I quietly left.  I was sad that I couldn't stay through the end, but I had enjoyed the experience.  Perhaps the only disappointing part of the whole experience was the blowing of the Shofar.  I expected a deep resonating tone, like something out of an old movie about Vikings.  Instead, it was shorter and high pitched, more like a child’s toy horn.  Just goes to show that we shouldn’t base our expectations on Hollywood.


My favorite observation concerned the children.  They came and went, often coming into the room and climbing up on Grandpa’s lap.  Even the rabbi held a young boy for awhile while still running the service.  How rich it must be for children to grow up immersed in their culture and not sent off to another room for a watered down version of religion.


I truly loved the respect they showed to the Torah.  As they opened the Ark each time, where there were several Torah stored, everyone would stand and become quiet.  These were no small scrolls, but very large, very ornate, and very special.  When it was finally time for the Torah reading, they brought two out and walked them around the room.  Men would touch the corner of their Tallit to the Torah scrolls and then kiss the Tallit.  I would wish that more Christians held that type of respect to the word of G-d.


Though somewhat uncomfortable, as all cultural experiences are, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  But, it made me question my own traditions.  When someone comes in and visits our church, do they have any idea what is going on?  Though our service is in English, does an outsider understand some of the words and phrases that we use that are specific to Christian faith and practice?  Have we missed out on some beautiful and rich traditions by losing the essential Jewishness that marked Yeshua, Shaul, Shimon, (Jesus, Paul, Simon), and the other disciples, and completely saturated their teachings?


In the short conversation that my friend and I had weeks before, when he invited me to the service, it was immediately clear that he misunderstood some basic concepts of Christianity, even though the Christian faith came directly out of the Jewish faith.  I’m sure that this is how he understood things from previous explanations, but still, it wasn’t quite right.  How can we better communicate our similarities and the truths of what we believe without assuming that they already understand.  What have we lost in our Christianity over the centuries, considering the first ‘Christians’ were actually Jews who believed that Meshiach had come in the form of Yeshua. 


During the service, it was painfully obvious that I was the stranger.  Being the only man in the room not wearing the Tallit and obviously out of place and unsure, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.  Though people were very welcoming and polite, it was still clear that they recognized me as a visitor.  This makes me wonder, how then can we as Christians be welcoming without making someone feel like they are the stranger?  I have to be honest, while we don’t wear any special clothing like a Tallit or kippah, it is still clear who comfortably belongs and who is just visiting. 


I am thankful to my friend for inviting me and I hope to visit again, because I want to understand the similarities and the rich history that comes from our Jewish roots.  We are separated by the belief that Meshiach has come, and by some unfortunate historic anti-semitism that must be apologized and atoned for.  But, those things don’t have to separate us today as people of G-d. 


I will continue to build my Hebrew vocabulary till I am fluent, in hopes to be a better scholar and to better understand the precious word of G-d. 


Next time I visit, though, I’ll bring my Tallit.  I actually own one that I purchased for Seder several years ago.  Maybe that way, I won’t feel so out of place, and really…. just how many chances does one get to wear a Tallit?


Till then, L’shana Tova Tikatevu.  May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.

Please know that these are observations from an outsider and not meant to be flippant or in any way disrespectful.  Any accidental affronts, misuse of terms, or misunderstanding of the events described are unintentional, coming solely from my ignorance and only reinforce my desire for understanding.  Please accept my apology if there are any such offences.  Thank you for sharing your faith and traditions with me.  Thank you to Jerry, Nathan, the Rabbi whose name I missed, to the Orthodox Jewish young man who gave me his seat, and the dozens of wonderful people who were so welcoming to me.  Thanks also to Chabad of Scottsdale for the experience.  May you each be blessed by the King and Creator of all.

     *L’shana Tova means Happy New Year in Hebrew

Para Cruzar la Frontera

Dispenseme por favor cualquier error en el texto español abajo. Todavía soy aprendiendo el idioma.

Ahora, estudio para mi Grado de Maestro en Seminario. Tengo que aprender griego y hebreo como parte de mis estudios. Tengo entusiasmo de esto, pero también tengo miedo. Yo ya he pasado años para tener fluidez en español y yo sé cuán dificil que puede ser.

Ha sido el cruce de muy difícil la frontera al dominio de otro idioma. De hecho, no ha sido tanto un cruce de la frontera. Ha sido más como chocar por la frontera. Ha habido mucho dolor.

Empecé aprender español en grado 4^th y siguió aprendiendo por el colegio. He estudiado el idioma para más de doce o quince años. En la escuela, yo aprendí muchas palabras, pero nunca aprendí a comunicar. No fue hasta que empezara que asisten servicios de una iglesia en español que atravesé la frontera de fluidez.

Principio, empecé asistir cada semana y entonces luego sólo podría asistir cada pocos meses. Pasaría tres o más horas con un grupo de personas que sólo podría hablar español. Fue muy difícil. Muchos veces, yo regresé a casa con un dolor de cabeza de la concentración que fue requerida.

Asisto ocasionalmente los servicios ahora porque estoy muy ocupado, pero cada semana, hablo con el Pastor español, Alfredo. Yo lo ayudo con su inglés y él me ayuda con español. Ahora, tengo el vocabulario y capacidad para hablar como un niño de diez años de edad. Puedo hablar bien en temas normales, pero información técnica es todavía difícil.

Lo mejor cosa sobre communicando con Alfredo es que compartimos una fe y el conocimiento de la Biblia. Cuándo estamos atascados para una palabra en ingles o español, la persona que lucha citará un verso de Biblia con la palabra o el concepto en ello y el otro puede comprender. Por ejemplo, él hablaba de una mancha en la ventana y no comprendí la palabra que él utilizaba. El citó de Efesios 25-27. Entonces comprendí la definición de mancha. Otro tiempo, hablaba con él sobre los Palos Verdes árboles en la propiedad y no podría recordar la palabra para espinas. Pude utilizar el 2 Corintio 12:7 y entonces, él me enseñó el espina de palabra. Estos son justo dos ejemplos del muchos veces que hemos utilizado este método para comunicar.

Te recomiendo a aprender una segunda lengua. Lo ayudará a expandir su mente, pero también expandir su vista del mundo. Para crucer las fronteras culturales son muy útiles en rompiendo libre del egoísmo y una mente-cerrado. También lo ayuda a aprender empatía, la paciencia, la bondad, y la generosidad. Te fuerza a ver el mundo de un vista diferente.

Regresaré a mis estudios ahora. Espero que usted haga también.

Pero el fruto del Espiritu es amor, gozo, paz, paciencia, benignidad, bondad, fe, mansedumbre, templanza: contra tales cosas no hay ley. Galatas 5:22-23

ENGLISH TRANSLATION:

I am now studying for my Masters Degree at Seminary. I have to learn Greek and Hebrew as part of my studies. I am excited about this, but also scared. I have already spent years to become fluent in spanish and I know how hard that can be.

It has been very difficult crossing the border to fluency in another language. In fact, it hasn’t been so much a crossing of the border. It has been more like crashing through the border. There has been much pain.

I began learning Spanish in fourth grade and continued learning through college. I have studied the language for more than twelve to fifteen years. In school, I learned many words, but I never learned to communicate. It wasn’t until I began attending church services in Spanish that I broke through the border of fluency.

I began attending weekly at first and then later I could only go every few months. I would spend three or more hours with a group of people where I could only speak Spanish. It was very difficult. Many times, I went home with a headache from the concentration that was required.

I rarely attend the church service now because I am very busy, but each week, I spend some time speaking with the Spanish Pastor, Alfredo. I help him with his English and he helps me with Spanish. At this point, I have the vocabulary and speaking ability of a ten year old child. I can speak well on normal topics, but technical information is still difficult.

The best part about communicating with Alfredo is that we share a faith and knowledge of the Bible. When we get stuck for a word in either language, the person who is struggling will often quote a Bible verse with the word or concept in it and the other one is able to understand. For example, he was talking about a smudge on the window and I didn’t understand the word he was using. He quoted from Ephesians 25-27. I then understood the definition of mancha. Another time, I was speaking to him about some Palo Verde trees on the property and could not remember the word for thorns. I was able to use the 2 Corinthians 12:7 and he then taught me the word espina. These are just two examples of the many times that we have used this method of communication.

I encourage you to learn a second language. It will help you to expand your mind, but it will also expand your view of the world. Crossing cultural frontiers is very helpful in breaking free of selfishness and a closed-mind. It also helps you learn empathy, patience, kindness, and generosity. It forces you to see the world from a different point of view.

I will return to my studies now. I hope you will too.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Galatians 5:22-23

First Friday

My wife, daughters, and I took a walk through the First Fridays Artwalk in Phoenix last week. What an incredible experience! Not only is it good exercise (we eschewed the shuttle and walked from the Phoenix Art Museum), but it is an incredible experience in humanity.

First Fridays take place, coincidentally, on the first Friday of each month from 6:00pm – 10:00pm in downtown Phoenix. Local art galleries, museums, churches, and small businesses along Central and Roosevelt streets open up in the evenings and the world comes to their door. Add to this, street performers, costumed folks, vendors and the fact that it costs nothing to visit, and you have an event worth checking out.

The best part about First Fridays is the people. Two rich older Scottsdale socialites stood in the a gallery, rubbing elbows with a couple of tough looking lesbian chicks viewing paintings that were obviously the work of the fluttering Spanish artist standing out front. A skinny dude dressed like a dime-store cowboy complete with a bushy handlebar mustache walks by a young girl sporting a purple mohawk, chains, and more piercings than I can count. Two Sedona type ladies wearing hemp skirts and too much turquoise jewelry pass by an asian girl dressed like a cupie doll. A black man with dreadlocks piled high enough to be seen from outer space hands wearing suit hands fliers to a group of young Hispanic kids walking by. A middle-eastern man sells gelato from the storefront of a gallery where he lives with a native-american artist who makes silver jewelry. A lone girl dances by herself, swaying to music that only she can here from the iPod plugged into her ears. A group of several dozen people amble along made up to look like zombies, carrying signs proclaiming “Lose Weight on the Undead Plan” or “Zombies are People Too.” They are preceded by a group of guys and girls dressed up like the Ghostbusters, complete with Proton Backpacks. People of every color, shape, age, and economic group intermingle peacefully.

First Fridays are also about the music. As you walk the east route down Roosevelt, you wade through pools of music. Our first steps took as past an urban church with young street rappers alternate laying down the best rhymes while sharing their testimonies about Christ releasing them from the bondage of drugs and gangs. Next was man playing the pan pipes, selling his CD’s. A little farther down, in front of a small record store that still sells vinyl was a female heavy metal group complete with a generator and screaming electric guitars. Just across the street was a group of men in kilts playing the bagpipes and on up a ways, a white teen played a snare drum and high hat while a black teen played acoustic guitar and sang love ballads. There was a man sitting at an organ playing big band music and from a local cathedral, the sounds of an a cappella chorus rang out like a chorus of angels. The dreadlocked man in a suit had a large boom box playing reggae and many of the galleries had some sort of peaceful music playing with the exception of the Victorian house with the flashing disco lights that had throbbing techno music coming from inside. A homeless guy sat in the median tapping on an old bongs in a desultory way with a tin can placed in front for donations. A little further up, another guy played blues on a saxophone with a hat in front of him (he received a lot more donations).

Vendors sold everything from homemade jewelry to hemp clothing to tamales, to protest t-shirts while street performers did all kinds of crazy things from magic to the guy who jumped barefoot into a pile of glass.

What a crazy and awesome experience. And, here is where the lesson comes in –

This is what I picture eternal life to be like. As I read the Book of Revelation in the Bible, I don’t see that we will spend an eternity wearing white robes and sitting on clouds playing harps. Where that silly idea came from, I don’t know, but it just won’t seem to die. No, I see eternal life here on earth in a great city with all of the different types of people and cultures in the world, living, loving, and serving together in a truly diverse society. (Revelation 5:9 and Revelation 21:1-27)

As I looked out on the crowds at First Friday, I could see God everywhere. He was in the art and the music. God Himself is an amazing artist and musician. He lavished color, texture, and sound on His creation. I believe that our varied artistic abilities are just one example of the ways in which we are made in His image. He was also in the people. It is much easier for me to see Jesus hanging out in these crowds than to see him in many of the churches I have been to. God loves these people where they are, he wishes only that they come to him. He doesn’t expect them to put on a suit and sit rigidly in pews on Sunday morning, he wants them to put on His love and go into the world around them.

I invite each of you to visit First Friday. Immerse yourself in the crowd. Get a little crazy. Dress differently than you normally would. Get out of your comfort zone. Buy something from a vendor and drop some money in the hat in front of a street performer. Talk to the weirdest looking person that you can find. Your probably the weirdest person they can find too. Experience the wonders of diversity and pray for those around you. Be sure to get that gelato – trust me, it’s worth it.

First Fridays link for info: http://www.artlinkphoenix.com/ or http://phoenix.about.com/cs/enter/a/firstfriday.htm

The next First Friday event is November 6, 2009. Maybe I'll see you there. I'll probably be wearing my kilt.

Spiderman and Jesus

A few years ago, I traveled with a group of guys to a Promise Keepers convention. There were thousands of men going into a stadium to hear about Christ and to be challenged to change their lives. Primarily due to misunderstanding of the message, there were many people protesting the conference. Because of the possible threat of violence from these groups, the stadium had hired outside security for crowd control.

As we entered the arena, I passed one of these fellows. Spiderman. No, not Peter Parker, but a 6 feet tall biker type. Shaved head. Muscular with a shirt that said Security on it, black jeans and combat boots. Both ears pierced multiple times. Oh yeah, and tattoos. Lots of them. Both arms were sleeved in tatts. But, what drew the eye was the spider web tattoo that covered his face and head. Centered on his upper lip, the spider web went down his neck around his cheeks, over his forehead and back over his shaved pate. Spiderman. If you saw him coming at you down the street, you’d be afraid. In a dark alley, you’d run for your life.

All I could think at the time was, “You’d think Promise Keepers would do a better job of vetting the people working at their events.” Why would they let a guy like that work at one of their events?

Later, while the event was going on, I got up to use the restroom. As I returned to the seating area, they had started singing, “Amazing Grace.” There, in the back of the seating area, I saw him again. Spiderman. This great big biker type, covered with tatts and piercings was stomping to the music with his hands raised to heaven and his head bowed. With tears streaming down his face, he was sweetly singing the words to Amazing Grace – “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, to have saved a wretch like me, I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind but now I see…”

Jesus tells a parable of a religious man and a sinner who went to the temple. The religious man stood proudly and prayed loudly, thanking God that he wasn’t like the sinner and reminding God of all of the ways the religious man had served God this week. The sinner on the other hand stayed far off and tore his clothes and beat his breast crying out, “God, have mercy on me a sinner.”

I never met Spiderman personally, but I’m pretty sure of which one he was in this parable and which one I was. I don’t know what his story was, but his history was written all over his face and body.

Because I don’t have my sins and scars on the outside of my body, it’s easy to forget that I have a history too. It’s a lot easier to pretend that I’ve got it all together and don’t need nearly as much grace as those sinners do.

The lesson Jesus teaches me time and time again is that I am a wretch who is broken and screwed up beyond belief. And, I need His grace as much as any other tattooed sinner out there. I belong on my knees, tearing my clothes, beating my breast, and weeping at my condition. “God, have mercy on me a sinner.”

Thank you, Spiderman.