I’ve been away for several days, at what some might call a
retreat, but what I think was more like an “advance” – as in forward
motion. The workshop was for clergy of all
denominations. Most of us were from the
Bay Area. I was the only rabbi among the
18 participants.
The focus of the workshop was, first, to give us new
listening skills, to help us understand and hopefully improve on the way we, as
individuals, listen to other people. The
second part of the workshop helped us define the Big Picture, the Big Goals
that we as clergy have for ourselves and our congregants. Obviously, these are not materialistic
goals. We were talking about ways to
make an impact on peoples’ lives.
There was another aspect to this week that I wanted to share
with you. I was the only Jewish person
there, so I was the only one who was affected by the fact that the workshop
fell during the middle of Passover.
Well, things are either problems or opportunities, so I turned this into
an opportunity.
The central symbol, once again, is matza. The bread of our affliction. I surely felt this on the morning that the
retreat center served French toast for breakfast. I love French toast. It is my special breakfast treat when I am
traveling, and there it was: big fat pieces, serve yourself, warm syrup
nearby. The nun I had breakfast with
that morning had several pieces, with a nice slice of ham on the side, while I
ate matza and cottage cheese.
Now, there are a couple of twists on this scene. The one that was not a surprise, at least for
me, is that I did not feel badly about this.
I really didn’t feel, “Poor me, I can’t have French toast.” I think that is because when we give up a moment’s
pleasure for the sake of something bigger, something we hold more dear, then we
are lifted up. We don’t feel we have
sacrificed, or are somehow diminished, but instead we feel we are growing, that
something is added. Perhaps this is why
we sometimes speak of the freedom that can be found within what seem to be
restrictions.
The other twist on this scene was how nonchalant everyone
was about Helen and her matza. I admit,
this surprised me. I had gone to the
workshop with a plastic shopping bag of Passover food: matza for breakfast, gefilte fish and
horseradish for the evening that vegetarian lasagna was on the menu, some
Kosher-for-Passover instant soup “just in case,” and more matza for the breaks. Oh, and not to forget, macaroons for dessert.
I had my little shopping bag because it was Passover, which
is to say, I had it for myself. But I
couldn’t help thinking that my matza would be a subject of conversation during
the workshop meals. A teaching
opportunity! A chance to put aside my
embarrassment about being different and to go public, amid strangers, with who
I am.
As I say, I was surprised.
No one seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn’t ask questions. It seemed perfectly all right, perhaps even
natural, that the Jewish person among them was eating matza. One person wasn’t aware that Passover lasted
a full week, but when I explained that it wouldn’t end until Friday evening,
she said, “Oh. Could I have a bit of
your matza?”
The subject of this workshop was communication and vision
among clergy, but there was an unspoken sub-theme that I, most of anyone, was
aware of. The theme was the theme of
Passover: the movement from slavery to freedom.
I, the lone Jew, sat among men and women of many other faiths, eating my
matza, clearly identifying myself, clearly asserting myself, within the freedom
that we have in this country to practice publicly our religious beliefs.
There was a time when we wanted to be like the Goyim, which
is to say, like the people of other nations.
We wanted this because we didn’t have it. We were persecuted for our differences. We maintained our religious traditions
because they gave meaning to our lives, because they defined us, and because we
didn’t have much of a choice.
We live in a world of choice now, a world of freedom. I’m really not sure anyone would have noticed
if I hadn’t eaten matza at this workshop.
I am sure that no one was bothered that I did.
One of the ministers at the workshop had been to Israel
during a sabbatical several years ago.
He had spent some time on a kibbutz and clearly felt a kinship with
Judaism. During a break he told me a
Chasidic story:
One of the rabbi’s faithful
students complained that certain people around town were staying up until dawn
playing cards, night after night.
“That is good,” said the wise
man. “Like all people, they want to
serve God, but they don’t know how.
Right now they are learning to stay awake and to persist in doing
something. When they are accomplished in
this, all they need to do is turn to God. . .
What excellent servants they will make for the Holy One then!”
Stories of the
Spirit, Stories of the Heart
Later I realized that this story is a Passover story. In its own way, it is about the possibilities
of choice and of freedom.
The workshop ended at noon today. I rummaged for lunch in my shopping bag as I
drove home. An apple, a piece of matza,
a macaroon for dessert. We begin the
seder by holding up a piece of the middle matza and saying, “This is the bread
of our affliction.” But the rhythm of
the seder, the work of the seder, is to bring us from affliction to
freedom. As Jewish Americans, this
indeed has been our story. We have
freedoms that our ancestors never dreamed of, including the freedom to be
Jewish.
Driving home today, after three days of being fully Jewish
in a non-Jewish world, I ate a piece of matza, and it was the bread of
freedom. Amen.
Dear Helen Saturday, April 22, 1995
It’s not even eight in the morning yet. I was up for our regular 7:15 Mastery
Foundation conference call – today mostly a celebration of the workshop of the
past week – and thought I’d take one more minute to read your homily before I
run off to the next thing.
I am surprisingly moved by it. By the time I put it down, there were tears
in my eyes. The simple story of matza
and the profound story of life. When I
got to the image of holding up the middle matza and saying, “This is the break
of our affliction,” of course, I thought of the moment in the mass when the
priest holds up the bread and says, “Christ, our Passover, is sacrificed for
us. Therefore, let us keep the
feast. Alleluia.”
But most of all, and this is the part that made me cry, I
thought of each of us holding up our own lives, with all the joy and pain of
it, and saying, “This is the bread of our affliction.” Life itself, that most precious of all gifts,
the bread of our affliction transformed into the bread of our freedom.
This is it, life right now, this – not something else, just
this. This sadness, this dinner with a
new friend, this work to do, this kiss, this meeting, this traffic jam, this
idiot to deal with, this child to hold, this bag of trash to take out, this
shopping to do, this whatever it is at this moment – this is the bread, the
substance of everything, the stuff of life.
This is it. Celebrate it, hate
it, rail against it, complain about it, embrace it, laugh at it, take it on,
ignore it, share it with others, but this is it. Alleluia.
What an exquisite image.
I’ll never be the same at communion again. Thank you for giving it to me. Thank you for dinner last night. And thanks to you and to God for your walking
into my life.
Faithfully,
Ann Overton
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