Oh, for a Sabbath

Saturday my heart was beating fast the half-hour trip to Bay City. My thoughts oscillated between apprehension and a fierce attention to NPR’s Weekend Edition (Waiting for Godot is being staged in a destroyed neighborhood in New Orleans). Meanwhile I have my own appointments to keep. It was Saturday morning and I had yet to start my sermon on Zacchaeus. The week had conspired against me. Monday I spent the day trying to visit a parishioner in the hospital. Tuesday I spent the morning being selected for a Jury. Then lunch and to the office to finish reading for my class. Wednesday we had breakfast with some of our congregation, talking about not much at all. We left early because Foster was feeling sick. I then rolled 200 Pentecostal Evangels to hand out at the door that night. It was Halloween. Thursday we spent the whole day, dawn to dusk preparing, driving, anticipating and answering our ordination interviews. Friday I spent the day as juror on a drunk driving case. So much occupied my thoughts as I drove, I couldn’t imagine that this had only been one week. So much seemed so incongruous with my mission.

My mission itself was a source of anxiety. Instead of sleeping in, and watching cartoons with the kids I was off to fulfill a challenge for my masters course. I was going to a Sabbath Service at Temple Israel. I asked Steve what he thought of my going, and if he’d been going lately.

“I have not - between health and some MAJOR confusion over faith - been attending anywhere. I am not even certain there are regular services at the synagogue in BC anymore . . . Last year they were talking of selling the building, and I have been so out of touch with everything in BC that I am not sure if that went forward.

The congregation there is very, very small and very, very protective...”

He suggested I go somewhere else, but I was out of options. So with not a little trepidation, I was on my way. Somehow NPR and all my distracted thoughts made the time pass quickly. I was already in Bay City and early. I drove by the synagogue to see that the parking lot was empty. I proceeded on to The Harvest, where I should have gotten my tea before sitting down and talking with the klatch of geezers I knew from my days of working there. By the time I looked at the clock it was time to run.

I didn’t even get across the parking lot before an older lady asked, “Who are you?”
I told her, “I’m Chris Hooton, I’m from Sebewaing.” I didn’t want to give away too much. I didn’t want to be turned away as an outsider.

I went in and found it was time for Bible study. Every one I shook hands with was keenly interested in knowing my name. And here I was. In the midst of my insane week (for this week has meshed into another with only this little pit stop) I came to a community celebrating Shabbat Shalom. After Bible study, we went into the sanctuary. I stuck close to a new convert to Judaism, who helped me figure out the ropes. I put on a yarmulke, and entered. We prayed, some in Hebrew, some in English, we stood praying together silently, and we sung together. The Rabbi gave a sermon from the day’s Torah reading, “The Life of Sarah,” which is in fact about Abraham’s mourning for her. She talked about how Jew’s mourn for their dead, how to live the life now.
“Resurrection,” she said, “is a mystical part of Jewish tradition, but it is peripheral, what really matters is this life now.”

At the end of the service she read the names of those who’s yahrziet was this week. The anniversary of their deaths are marked by lighting a candle and praying the kadesh. I flipped to the English translation as relatives of the those being honored prayed. I was Surprised to find that it wasn’t a lament, but rather a song of praise to an almighty God.

After the service I stuck around for a brunch. I imagine the early church love feast looked just like it. They started by drinking a glass of wine to sanctify the day and then broke the challa with some salt, the bread harkens back to the waving of the grain offering and substitutes for temple sacrifices. I marveled at how the custom is similar to the Eucharist.

The Rabbi’s husband said, “Of course, Jesus was a Jew!”
After the meal and conversation I was given a tour of the sanctuary and an explanation of the symbolic elements.
My short Sabbath was over and I ran back home for a nap, and sermon writing.