"Once, there was a king who helped many people. He counseled the unfortunate, helped and encouraged and generally was constantly on call for his people and their needs. Now this king had a son who he loved very much. However, because of his own obligations to his people, the king had to send him out to be raised by someone else."
The Holy Rabbi stopped and looked into the eyes of the person he was telling this story to... "do you see?" The rabbi then ran his hand over his beard and continued. "So, he searched around and found a young man who was in his kingdom who very very intelligent, and he asked him to teach his son. The young man was afraid to disappoint the king and said he would of course do as the king requested, but what should he teach the kings son?" The rabbi smiled and stopped again. Everyone at the Rabbi's table was silent and waiting to hear, most especially the person to whom he was telling the story to... "The king said, Teach him the Aleph Beis!"
The Rabbi's Kiddish cup sat empty before him on the Shabbas table. The challah had been eaten, the dinner plates had been cleared away. Someone at the table picked up their tiny empty cup and upended it all the way hoping to bring down the last drop but it would not yield. It had been the most delicious wine ever tasted.
The Holy Rabbi said, "The Aleph is made of a Yud at the top and a Yud at the bottom. The top Yud points to God on high and the bottom to man and earth. In between the two Yuds is a Vav." All the time that he spoke, his face changed expressions, from happy to sorrowful, hopeful to chastising to instructive to questioning to mischievous to amazement. His eyes were sparkling, there is no other way to describe them. Lit up with joy and knowledge and divine truths. The long table ran down the length of the unadorned room. Along the walls were shelves of massive books; Talmudic exegesis and Rabbinical works, the Chumash and Sidders and other religious books all in Hebrew. Somewhere among them, the Zohar.
The Rabbi was not easy to understand, not only because of his mystical knowledge but also because of his accent which turned words in to other words to the ears of the english speaking guest. Sodom, of Sodom and Gomorah became Saddam, and a tale of a bed too short and a guest too long was at first mistaken for a joke, and when they realized the actual word and the meaning of the story, it became terrifiing and almost threatening. The Rabbi understood this was part of mysticism. To hear and then to rehear. To know and then to not know and to peel the layers of understanding and comprehension in varying order. Nothing is predictable. Nothing of value remains stagnant.
"It is the difference between a human being and a picture," the Rabbi explained. "A human being changes constantly, moving and altering expressions. But a picture stays always the same. You look at it once and that is all there is." Through story and revelation and illumination and even misunderstanding, knowledge becomes fluid. It rushes forward, like Abraham rushing to meet the Angels outside his tent, and then it recedes, this fluid knowledge, like the oceans tide, only to gain momentum again and again.
The Holy Rabbi stopped and looked into the eyes of the person he was telling this story to... "do you see?" The rabbi then ran his hand over his beard and continued. "So, he searched around and found a young man who was in his kingdom who very very intelligent, and he asked him to teach his son. The young man was afraid to disappoint the king and said he would of course do as the king requested, but what should he teach the kings son?" The rabbi smiled and stopped again. Everyone at the Rabbi's table was silent and waiting to hear, most especially the person to whom he was telling the story to... "The king said, Teach him the Aleph Beis!"
The Rabbi's Kiddish cup sat empty before him on the Shabbas table. The challah had been eaten, the dinner plates had been cleared away. Someone at the table picked up their tiny empty cup and upended it all the way hoping to bring down the last drop but it would not yield. It had been the most delicious wine ever tasted.
The Holy Rabbi said, "The Aleph is made of a Yud at the top and a Yud at the bottom. The top Yud points to God on high and the bottom to man and earth. In between the two Yuds is a Vav." All the time that he spoke, his face changed expressions, from happy to sorrowful, hopeful to chastising to instructive to questioning to mischievous to amazement. His eyes were sparkling, there is no other way to describe them. Lit up with joy and knowledge and divine truths. The long table ran down the length of the unadorned room. Along the walls were shelves of massive books; Talmudic exegesis and Rabbinical works, the Chumash and Sidders and other religious books all in Hebrew. Somewhere among them, the Zohar.
The Rabbi was not easy to understand, not only because of his mystical knowledge but also because of his accent which turned words in to other words to the ears of the english speaking guest. Sodom, of Sodom and Gomorah became Saddam, and a tale of a bed too short and a guest too long was at first mistaken for a joke, and when they realized the actual word and the meaning of the story, it became terrifiing and almost threatening. The Rabbi understood this was part of mysticism. To hear and then to rehear. To know and then to not know and to peel the layers of understanding and comprehension in varying order. Nothing is predictable. Nothing of value remains stagnant.
"It is the difference between a human being and a picture," the Rabbi explained. "A human being changes constantly, moving and altering expressions. But a picture stays always the same. You look at it once and that is all there is." Through story and revelation and illumination and even misunderstanding, knowledge becomes fluid. It rushes forward, like Abraham rushing to meet the Angels outside his tent, and then it recedes, this fluid knowledge, like the oceans tide, only to gain momentum again and again.
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