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‘Us’ and ‘Them’
At a preschool Hanukkah celebration—held in a nice liberal church—an atheistic Jew wonders where he fits in, and what to tell his daughter
My mother told me this story about her mother. It takes place in Germany in 1918, after she’d read that article by Martin Buber:
That summer she worked as a counselor at a children’s summer camp. One fine summer day, she told me, she was sent with a cart and a donkey and the children’s shoes to the cobbler for repair. On her way she passed a house and saw a plaque saying, “Martin Buber.” So she left the cart and the donkey and the children’s shoes and went into the house and declared (to Buber): “Here I am!” Her words. And she stayed. She apparently offered to work as a secretary, but my mother was no secretary. She was a gardener—I think she was being trained at the time as a gardener, which was a very serious profession at the time—so she worked as a gardener, first at the Bubers’, then later also at his friends’ houses, on his recommendation.
Later on they all found themselves in Israel. Prof. Martin Buber, Prof. Hugo
Bergman, and others, living next door to one another in Jerusalem and teaching at the Hebrew University. They were all my mother’s friends. So was my father’s cousin, who lived in the next house there in Jerusalem, and in whose house I spent many happy childhood days, away from the maddening, unbeloved kibbutz.
7. The rabbi was telling the story of Hanukkah in the Riverside Church Weekday School. I love the Riverside Church Weekday School, and not because some of my earliest memories are of the playground on the fourth floor when I attended the school, at age 4, or because Riverside Church features in a short story of mine as a romantic, if phallic, prop, or how when flying over Manhattan one can see the church standing alone and far away from all the other skyscrapers of midtown, a moral beacon, or even that the church’s theater has for decades been host to progressive performances of dance and theater including dance performances of my mother’s dance company way back when. I love it because, its name notwithstanding, it has a Hanukkah celebration and posters in the lobby announcing its support for Occupy Wall Street and is about as progressive and affirming of liberal values as it is possible to be while occupying an enormous limestone edifice built with Rockefeller money. It is located on a street named after Reinhold Niebuhr, who once credited Buber as being “the greatest living Jewish philosopher.”
8. The rabbi wore a kippah and spoke in an open, sing-song voice, not patronizing but not oblivious to the nature of her audience. I was tuned in, trying to glean facts. I have always been spectacularly obtuse about the facts of Jewish history as they are relayed by religious rituals. For example at Passover, which I grew up celebrating and still do, we used editions of a haggadah that my mother had annotated. I was highly tuned to the pencil markings, especially where they vociferously crossed out the words “The chosen people.” And yet I must have sat through 30 of these ceremonies before one day saying, “Wait a second. Avadim hiyenu. We were slaves. We were slaves? Slaves? We were actually slaves?”
The rabbi had brought a menorah that sat behind her on the windowsill, the marvelous view out of the church’s sixth floor unspooling before us. I feel confident in saying there is no pre-school anywhere whose classrooms have more romantic and glamorous views. The rabbi stood with a large picture book in her hands, turning the pages and telling the story of the ransacked temple, the desire to restore it. She used the word “clean.” She said the temple was “very dirty.” This opened, for me, a previously unexplored dimension to the unfailing oil lamp—it was the light by which the temple was restored. For the first time I had a notion of Hanukkah as a celebration of tidiness, cleanliness, and good housekeeping, something that could be sponsored by Clorox and Purell.
9. The word flew by but I caught it, excited, as though it were the prize I was waiting for. Shouldn’t I have been standing there with an open heart? I was! I was! I swear! But here was a religious observance and I am not religious. I can’t help but litigate, feel contrary. Let’s call it a form of engagement. When I heard it I responded like a lepidopterist leaping with his net, and brought back the prized species, the word “us.”
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http://sehacecamino.com Nancy
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