Have A Little Faith Part 14

My wife and I are wed on a Caribbean island. The sun is going down, the weather is warm and lovely. Her family reads Bible pa.s.sages. My siblings sing a funny tribute. I step on a gla.s.s. We are married by a local female magistrate, who offers us her own private blessing.

Although we come from different faiths, we forge a loving solution: I support her, she supports me, we attend each other's religious functions, and while we both stand silent during certain prayers, we always say "Amen."

Still, there are moments: when she is troubled, she asks Jesus for help, and I hear her pray quietly and I feel locked out. When you intermarry, you mix more than two people-you mix histories, traditions, you mix the Holy Communion stories and the Bar Mitzvah photos. And even though, as she sometimes says, "I believe in the Old Testament; we're not that different," we are are different. different.

Are you angry with me about my marriage? I ask the Reb.

"Why would I be angry?" he says. "What would anger do? Your wife is a wonderful person. You love each other. I see that."

Then how do you square that with your job?

"Well. If one day you came and said, 'Guess what? She wants to convert to Judaism,' I wouldn't be upset. Until then..."

He sang. "Until then, we'll all get alonnng..."

Life of Henry I couldn't help but compare the Reb and Pastor Henry now and then. Both loved to sing. Both delivered a mean sermon. Like the Reb, Henry had been shepherd to just one congregation his whole career and husband to just one wife. And like Albert and Sarah Lewis, Henry and Annette Covington had a son and two daughters, and had also lost a child. couldn't help but compare the Reb and Pastor Henry now and then. Both loved to sing. Both delivered a mean sermon. Like the Reb, Henry had been shepherd to just one congregation his whole career and husband to just one wife. And like Albert and Sarah Lewis, Henry and Annette Covington had a son and two daughters, and had also lost a child.

But after that, their stories veered apart.

Henry, for example, didn't meet his future wife at a job interview. He first saw Annette when she was shooting dice.

"Come on, six!" she yelled, throwing the bones against a stoop with his older brother. "Six dice! Gimme a six!"

She was fifteen, Henry was sixteen, and he was smitten, totally gone, like those cartoons where Cupid shoots an arrow with a boinngg! boinngg! You might not view a dice roll as romantic, and it may not seem a fitting way for a Man of G.o.d to find a lasting love, but at nineteen, when Henry went to prison, he told Annette, "I don't expect you to wait seven years," and she said, "If it was twenty-five years, I'd still be here." So who is to say what a lasting love looks like? You might not view a dice roll as romantic, and it may not seem a fitting way for a Man of G.o.d to find a lasting love, but at nineteen, when Henry went to prison, he told Annette, "I don't expect you to wait seven years," and she said, "If it was twenty-five years, I'd still be here." So who is to say what a lasting love looks like?

Every weekend during Henry's incarceration, Annette rode a bus that left the city around midnight and took six hours to reach upstate New York. She was there when the sun came up, and when visiting hours began, she and Henry held hands and played cards and talked until those hours were over. She rarely missed a weekend, despite the grueling schedule, and she kept his spirits up by giving him something to look forward to. Henry's mother sent him a letter while he was locked up, saying if he did not stay with Annette, "you might find another woman, but you will never find your wife."

They were married when he got out, in a simple ceremony at Mt. Moriah Church. He was slim then, handsome and tall; she wore her hair in bangs, and her high smile gleamed in the wedding photos. There was a reception at a nightclub called Sagittarius. They spent the weekend at a hotel in the garment district. Monday morning, Annette was back at work.

She was twenty-two. Henry was twenty-three. Within a year, they would lose a baby, lose a job, and see the boiler in their apartment burst in winter, leaving them with icicles hanging from their ceiling.

And then the real trouble started.

The Reb said that a good marriage should endure tribulations, and Henry and Annette's had done that. But early on, those "tribulations" were drug abuse, crime, and avoiding the police. Not exactly Fiddler on the Roof. Fiddler on the Roof. Both Henry and Annette had been addicts, who cleaned up once Henry came home from prison. But after their baby died and the boiler burst and Annette lost her job-and a broke Henry saw his drug-dealing brother with a fat bankroll of hundred-dollar bills-they fell back into that life, and they fell all the way. Henry sold drugs at parties. He sold them from his house. Soon the customers were so frequent, he made them wait on the corner and come up one at a time. He and Annette became heavy users and drinkers, and they lived in fear of both the police and rival drug lords. One night, Henry was taken for a ride with some Manhattan dealers, a ride he thought might end in his death; Annette was waiting with gun in hand if he didn't come back. Both Henry and Annette had been addicts, who cleaned up once Henry came home from prison. But after their baby died and the boiler burst and Annette lost her job-and a broke Henry saw his drug-dealing brother with a fat bankroll of hundred-dollar bills-they fell back into that life, and they fell all the way. Henry sold drugs at parties. He sold them from his house. Soon the customers were so frequent, he made them wait on the corner and come up one at a time. He and Annette became heavy users and drinkers, and they lived in fear of both the police and rival drug lords. One night, Henry was taken for a ride with some Manhattan dealers, a ride he thought might end in his death; Annette was waiting with gun in hand if he didn't come back.

But when Henry finally hit bottom-that night behind those trash cans-Annette did, too.

"What's keeping you from going to G.o.d?" Henry asked her that Easter morning.

"You are," she admitted.

The next week, he and Annette got rid of the drugs and the guns. They threw away the paraphernalia. They went back to church and read the Bible nightly. They fought back periodic weaknesses and helped one another get through.

One morning, a few months into this rehabilitation, there was a knock at their door. It was very early. A man's voice said he wanted to buy some product.

Henry, in bed, shouted for him to go away, he didn't do that anymore. The man persisted. Henry yelled, "There ain't nothing in here!" The man kept knocking. Henry got out of bed, pulled a sheet around himself, and went to the door.

"I told you-"

"Don't move!" a voice barked.

Henry was staring at five police officers, their guns drawn.

"Step away," one said.

They pushed through his door. They told Annette to freeze. They searched the entire place, top to bottom, warning the couple that if they had anything incriminating, they had better tell them now. Henry knew everything was gone, but his heart was racing. Did I miss anything? Did I miss anything? He glanced around. He glanced around. Nothing there. Nothing there- Nothing there. Nothing there- Oh, no.

Suddenly, he couldn't swallow. It felt like a baseball was in his throat. Sitting on an end table, one atop the other, were two red notebooks. One, Henry knew, contained Bible verses from Proverbs, which he had been writing down every night. The other was older. It contained names, transactions, and dollar amounts of hundreds of drug deals.

He had taken out the old notebook to destroy it. Now it could destroy him. An officer wandered over. He lifted one of the notebooks and opened it. Henry's knees went weak. His lungs pounded. The man's eyes moved up and down the page. Then he threw it down and moved on.

Proverbs, apparently, didn't interest him.

An hour later, when the police left, Henry and Annette grabbed the old notebook, burned it immediately, and spent the rest of the day thanking G.o.d.

What would you do if your clergyman told you stories like that? There was part of me that admired Henry's honesty, and part that felt his laundry list of bad behavior should somehow disqualify him from the pulpit. Still, I had heard him preach several times now, citing the Book of Acts, the Beat.i.tudes, Solomon, Queen Esther, and Jesus telling his disciples that "anyone who loses his life for me shall find it again." Henry's gospel singing was inspired and engaged. And he always seemed to be around the church, either up in his second-floor office-a long, narrow room with a conference table left over from the previous tenants-or in the small, dimly lit gymnasium. One afternoon I walked into the sanctuary, unannounced, and he was sitting there, hands crossed, his eyes closed in prayer.

Before the weather turned cold, Henry occasionally cooked on a grill by the side of the church; chicken, shrimp, whatever he could get donated. He gave it out to whoever was hungry. He even preached sometimes on a low crumbling concrete wall across the street.

"I've spread as much of G.o.d's word on that wall," Henry said one day, "as I have inside."

How is that?

"Because some people aren't ready to come in. Maybe they feel guilty, on accounta what they're up to. So I go out there, bring them a sandwich."

Kind of like a house call?

"Yeah. Except most of 'em don't have houses."

Are some of them on drugs?

"Oh, yeah. But so are some folks coming in on Sundays."

You're kidding. During your service?

"Whoo, yeah. I'm looking right at them. You see that head whoppin' and boppin' and you say, 'Umm-hmm, they had something powerful.'"

That doesn't bother you?

"Not at all. You know what I tell them? I don't care if you're drunk, or you just left the drug house, I don't care. When I'm sick, I go to the emergency room. And if the problem continues, I go again. So whatever's ailing you, let this church be your emergency room. Until you get the healing, don't stop coming."

I studied Henry's wide, soft face.

Can I ask you something? I said.

"Okay."

What did you rob from that synagogue?

He exhaled and laughed. "Believe it or not-envelopes."

Envelopes?

"That's it. I was just a teenager. Some older guys had broken in before me and stolen anything valuable. All I found was a box of envelopes. I took 'em and ran out."

Do you even remember what you did with them?

"No," he answered. "I sure don't."

I looked at him, looked at his church, and wondered if one man's life ever truly makes sense to another.

I take home a box of the Reb's old sermons. I leaf through them. There is one from the 1950s on "The Purpose of a Synagogue" and one from the 1960s called "The Generation Gap."

I see one ent.i.tled "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head." It is from the late 1970s. I read it. I do a double take.

It is an appeal to fix the collapsing roof.

"Our roof sheds copious tears after each rain," the Reb wrote. He mentioned sitting in the sanctuary when a "sodden wet ceiling tile" fell and just missed him, and a wedding celebration in which two days of rain "created unwanted gravy on the chicken." During a morning service, he had to grab a broom and puncture a buckling tile to allow the rainwater to gush through.

In the sermon, he beseeches members to give more to keep their house of wors.h.i.+p from literally caving in.

I think about Pastor Henry and his roof hole. It is the first time I see a connection. An inner-city church. A suburban synagogue.

Then again, our congregation ultimately came up with the money. And Henry couldn't even ask his.

NOVEMBER.

Your Faith, My Faith When I was a teenager, the Reb did a sermon that made me laugh. He read a thank-you letter from another clergyman. At the end, it was signed: "May your G.o.d-and our G.o.d-bless you."

I laughed at the idea that two Almightys could be sent the same message. I was too young to realize the more serious shadings of that distinction.

Once I moved to the Midwest-to an area some nicknamed the "Northern Bible Belt"-the issue became weightier. I had strangers tell me "G.o.d bless you" in the grocery store. What should I say to that? I interviewed athletes who credited their "Lord and savior, Jesus Christ" for touchdowns or home runs. I worked volunteer projects with Hindus, Buddhists, Catholics. And because metro Detroit boasts the largest Arab population outside of the Middle East, Muslim issues were a regular part of life, including a debate over a local mosque broadcasting Adhan, Adhan, the daily call to prayer, in a largely Polish neighborhood that already rang with church bells. the daily call to prayer, in a largely Polish neighborhood that already rang with church bells.

In other words, "May your G.o.d and our G.o.d bless you"-and whose G.o.d was blessing whom-had gone from funny to controversial to confrontational. I found myself keeping quiet. Almost hiding. I think many people in minority religions do this. Part of the reason I drifted from my faith was that I didn't want to feel defensive about it. A pathetic reason, looking back, but true.

One Sunday, not long before Thanksgiving, I took the train from New York, entered the Reb's house, greeted him with a hug, and trooped behind him to his office, his metal walker leading the way. It now had a small basket in front, which contained a few books and, for some reason, a red maraca gourd.

"I have found that if the walker looks like a shopping cart," the Reb said, mischievously, "the congregation is more comfortable."

His eulogy request now sat like a term paper in my mind. On some visits, I felt I had forever to finish it; on others, I felt I had days, not even weeks. Today, the Reb seemed well, his eyes clear, his voice strong, which rea.s.sured me. Once we sat, I told him about the homeless charity and even the rescue mission where I'd spent the night.

I wasn't sure I should mention a Christian mission to a rabbi, and the moment I said it, I felt guilty, like a traitor. I remembered a story the Reb had told me once about taking his old-world grandmother to a baseball game. When everyone jumped and cheered at a home run, she stayed seated. He turned and asked why she wasn't clapping for the big hit. And she said to him, in Yiddish, "Albert, is it good for the Jews?"

My worry was wasted. The Reb made no such value judgments. "Our faith tells us to do charitable acts and to aid the poor in our community," he said. "That is being righteous, no matter who you help."

Soon we had tumbled into a most fundamental debate. How can different religions coexist? If one faith believes one thing, and another believes something else, how can they both be correct? And does one religion have the right-or even the obligation-to try to convert the other?

The Reb had been living with these issues all of his professional life. "In the early 1950s," he recalled, "our congregation's kids used to wrap their Jewish books in brown paper before they got on the bus. Remember, to many around here, we were the first Jewish people they had ever seen."

Did that make for some strange moments?

He chuckled. "Oh, yes. I remember one time a congregant came to me all upset, because her son, the only Jewish boy in his cla.s.s, had been cast in the school's Christmas play. And they cast him as Jesus.

"So I went to the teacher. I explained the dilemma. And she said, 'But that's why why we chose him, Rabbi. Because Jesus was a we chose him, Rabbi. Because Jesus was a Jew Jew!'"

I remembered similar incidents. In elementary school, I was left out of the big, colorful Christmas productions of "G.o.d Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" or "Jingle Bells." Instead, I had to join the school's few other Jewish kids onstage, as we sang the Hanukah song, "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel, I Made It Out of Clay." We held hands and moved in a circle, imitating a spinning top. No props. No costumes. At the end of the song, we all fell down.

I swear I saw some gentile parents hiding their laughter.

Is there any winning a religious argument? Whose G.o.d is better than whose? Who got the Bible right or wrong? I preferred figures like Rajchandra, the Indian poet who influenced Gandhi by teaching that no religion was superior because they all brought people closer to G.o.d; or Gandhi himself, who would break a fast with Hindu prayers, Muslim quotations, or a Christian hymn.

Over the years, the Reb had lived his beliefs, but never tried to convert anyone to them. As a general rule, Judaism does not seek converts. In fact, the tradition is to first discourage them, emphasizing the difficulties and suffering the religion has endured.

This is not the case with all religions. Throughout history, countless millions have been slaughtered for failing to convert, to accept another G.o.d, or to denounce their own beliefs. Rabbi Akiva, the famous second-century scholar, was tortured to death by the Romans for refusing to give up his religious study. As they raked his flesh with iron combs, he whispered his final words on earth, "Hear, oh Israel, the Lord our G.o.d, the Lord is One." He died with the word "one" on his lips.

That prayer-and the word "one"-were integral to the Reb's beliefs. One, as in the singular G.o.d. One, as in the Lord's creation, Adam.