2-in-1 Yada Yada (55 page)

Just then the blonde hair swung around, and Stu caught my eye. Getting up, she moved back to join us, booklet in hand, long hair falling over one shoulder of her neatly tailored navy pantsuit. Suddenly I felt underdressed in my khaki culottes, knit top, and sandals. “Hi, Jodi . . . Denny,” she said, bestowing a bright smile on us as she settled into the seat next to Denny. “Seen Ruth yet?”

I shook my head. But just then we heard Ruth's voice over all the other murmured conversations going on.
“There
you are! Outside I'm standing, looking for you. How did you get past me?”

I smirked at Denny—
yeah right, she just got here and waited outside
for thirty seconds
—then gave Ruth a hug as she plopped into the folding chair next to me, her hands clutching a roomy leather bag, her Bible, and the booklet, all of which she unceremoniously dumped on the empty chair next to her.

“Ben coming?” Denny craned his neck and looked around hopefully.

“Ben, Schmen.” Ruth practically rolled her eyes. “Gave up attending temple years ago, he did—except for the occasional holiday— but set foot inside Beth Yehudah? He acts like God might strike him dead. But”—she leaned across me and winked at Denny—“he weakened when I told him
you
were coming today, Denny. He likes you.”

“Maybe we could call him after the service and meet at the Bagel Bakery for lunch or something.” Denny grinned at Ruth so wide his dimples showed. If it were anybody but frowzy Ruth, I'd swear he was flirting. But more likely he was thinking about that lox-and-cream-cheese bagel he had the last time we were there.

Now Ruth did roll her eyes.
“Goyim.”
She lowered her voice.

“It's
Shabbat,
Denny. It won't open till sundown.”

I stifled a giggle, glad it was Denny who stuck his foot in his mouth, since I, too, had totally forgotten that the Bagel Bakery was closed on Saturday. Too bad. That would've been fun.

Several men and women were picking up instruments and testing microphones, and a middle-aged man wearing a gray suit with a white, fringed prayer shawl draped around his shoulders set up a portable lectern. Looked like things were about to get started. “What do the words on the table say?” I whispered to Ruth.

“ ‘Holy to the Lord'—same as on the ark.”

Ark? I peered closer at the upright chest thing. It didn't look like the ark of the covenant pictured in my Sunday-school pictures as a child, which always lay horizontal, like an old-fashioned hope chest.

A sudden long blast of a horn from the back of the room made me jump. I turned and stared. A tall young man with a dark beard was blowing a long, curved ram's horn—the “shofar” I'd heard about. Again and again he blew the horn, as if he were standing on a hillside, summoning all within the sound of the horn. Goose bumps popped out all along my arms.

As if on cue, the man at the front in a prayer shawl raised his arms and called out, “Wake up! Yeshua, our God and King, is coming soon! Wake up!” The sound of the horn died away, along with my goose bumps. “The Lord has given us these days for joy and thanksgiving—a new year! The blowing of the shofar also calls us to a season of repentance, a time to examine our hearts and confess our sins that we might be prepared for His return. Let us give thanks.” The leader held up the booklet. “Please turn to page 53 and read responsively.”

I fumbled for the booklet I'd been given and opened to the first page. Page 192? Then I heard Ruth hiss, “The back—it reads back to front.”

Oh. I turned the book over. Sure enough, the back cover said, “Mahzor for High Holy Days.” By the time I flipped to page 53, the leader had already started to read: “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”

Then the congregation chimed in: “His mercy endures forever.”

“To Him alone who does great wonders.”

“His mercy endures forever . . .”

After the responsive reading, an African-American woman, her head wrapped in an African-print cloth, stood up and began to sing—in Hebrew, I supposed, since the words were not English—accompanied by a tambourine, guitar, and piano. A Christian Jewish African-American? I had supposed that all Messianic Jews were probably Jewish first, but what did I know? I closed my eyes and let the unknown words sink in. The tune had a distinctly Israeli flavor, and I could almost imagine an Israeli folk dance. Then the Hebrew words flowed into English: “Blessed are those who know the sound of shofar, who walk in the light of Your presence, Oh Lord.”

After the song, people stood and turned sideways, facing the wall.
What in the world?
“East, toward Jerusalem,” came the whisper in my ear. The Hebrew words rolled easily off the tongues of people around us:

She-ma Yis-ra-el: A-do-nai e-lo-heinu, A-do-nai e-chad!
Ba-ruch shem ke-vod mal-chu-to le-o-lam va-ed!

And then the leader boomed out in English:

Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is One.
Blessed be his glorious name whose kingdom is forever and ever.

This declaration—the “Shema,” Ruth informed me—was followed by a prayer from the leader, and then the instrumentalists started up again. The beat was decidedly bouncy. A young woman kept brisk time with the tambourine, and everyone began to sing: “Oh come, let us sing! Let us rejoice! Messiah has come! And He brought joy!”

I grinned at Denny. Celebrating that “Messiah has come!” was no doubt a Messianic addition to the traditional Rosh Hashanah service.

As the song continued, a few people at the front grabbed hands and began a line dance around the room. More people popped up and joined them—a mix of young and old, skipping feet, and bobbing yarmulkes of all different colors. When the line passed by the middle aisle, someone reached out to Stu, who was sitting on the aisle seat, and she joined them, her long hair flying as she quickly picked up the steps.

It looked like fun! I was tempted to join them, too, but dancing so soon after getting off my crutches was not a good idea. I'd probably fall down and make a fool of myself. And then it was over, and Stu collapsed, laughing, back in her seat. Lucky her.

A few more songs, and then the congregation was invited to turn to the “Avinu Malkenu” in the
mahzor.
I noticed that on the right-hand pages, everything was printed in Hebrew script; the English translation was printed on the left. First the leader sang the Hebrew in a sing-song chant, and the congregation responded, also in Hebrew. I could hear even children's voices saying the Hebrew words and shook my head in amazement. Were they actually reading those exquisite squiggles and dots? I could imagine learning French or Spanish or any other language that had a similar alphabet to English—but Hebrew? Whew.

The Hebrew song-chant was followed by the English, simply spoken:“Our Father, our King, forgive and pardon our iniquities . . .”

After the Avinu Malkenu, two young men wearing prayer shawls strode toward the wooden chest sitting on the table. As if on signal, the congregation stood. They opened the box and reverently took out the Torah, dressed in a silk purple sheath with golden tassels, a brass plate hanging by a chain on the front—an “ephod,” I guessed, like the priests used to wear in my old Sunday-school pictures—and topped with a crown. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath in a collective hush as the two young men removed the crown, then the ephod and the purple silken cloth, so the scroll could be unrolled.

“The Torah is read with great respect every Shabbat,” Ruth murmured, almost causing me to miss the leader saying,
“Ba-ruch
Adonai ham-vo-rach . . .
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has chosen us from all the peoples and has given us Your Torah.”

One of the young men began to read in Hebrew from the huge scroll in a sing-song chant. Then the leader read the words in English from his Bible: “On the first day of the seventh month hold a sacred assembly and do no regular work. It is a day for you to sound the trumpets . . .” I noticed Ruth had her Bible open to Numbers 29. Other scriptures were read, then the Torah was redressed, and the two young men began to parade it slowly around the room and up the middle aisle. As they did so, people leaned out of their seats to touch it as it passed.

Ruth's breath brushed my ear. “The Jewish people hold the Torah in high reverence.”

I couldn't imagine parading the Bible around Uptown Community. In fact, half the congregation didn't even
bring
their Bibles to church, much to Pastor Clark's dismay. Yet as I watched the Torah being carried about the room, I felt wrapped in awe.

How little I really knew about the roots of my own Christian faith or my spiritual ancestors, even though I'd been raised on Old Testament stories along with the New.

When the Torah had been safely shut once more within the “ark,” the leader began his sermon. I saw Denny hunch forward, elbows on his knees, chin on his hands, listening intently as the man in the prayer shawl began to explain the meaning of the various Jewish feasts and how each one prophetically pointed toward the coming of the Messiah.

Passover—the Lamb whose blood saved the people. Day of First Fruits—the resurrection.
Shavuoth,
or Pentecost (which traditionally celebrated the giving of the Ten Commandments)—the coming of the Holy Spirit, who now writes God's law on our hearts. Rosh Hashanah—yet to be fulfilled in Yeshua's second coming. And finally, Yom Kippur—when the Book of Life will be opened and read.

I was fascinated. I knew Jesus had broken the bread and passed the wine at Passover, saying, “This is My body. This is My blood.” But I'd never really given any thought to the other Old Testament festivals as having anything to do with me.

“The days between now and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement,” Beth Yehudah's leader continued, “represent the time we have been given to intercede for our people, that their names would be written in the Book of Life. Just as the prophets of old, we too must identify with the sins of our people—the sins of Israel and the sins of the church—and repent, calling on God for His mercy and forgiveness.”

I felt Denny jerk upright beside me. I tried to catch his eye. Was something wrong? He seemed distracted, distant.

After the sermon, the instruments came out once more, thrumming a rhythmic song that reminded me of a slow dance in heavy boots: “Come back people . . . children of Abraham . . . open your eyes, your redemption is nigh.” I closed my eyes, wondering what it meant to be part of a people by shared history and faith, rather than the American version of Christianity I grew up with: “just me and God.” How presumptuous was
that?

At the end of the service, the shofar blew again as we opened our
mahzors
and read the “Tekiah” (one long blast on the shofar) . . . the “Shevarim” (three short blasts) . . . and the “Teruah” (a string of staccato blasts that left the horn blower gasping).

After the service, people stood and chatted in little groups, while kids darted here and there.
“L'Shanah Tova,
Jodi,” Ruth said, giving me a hug. “Happy New Year!” Stu squeezed past Denny's knees and claimed her hug from Ruth's plump arms.
“L'Shanah
Tova,
Stu.” Ruth beamed at us both. “Thank you so much for coming! You have no idea how much it means—”

Ruth stopped midsentence and peered behind me at Denny, who was still sitting in his chair like a brooding sculpture. The Thinker, with clothes on. “Denny? School's out—you can get up now.” She frowned. “You okay?

Denny looked up and blinked. “What? Oh. Sorry. Just thinking.” He rose hastily and gave Ruth a hug. “Forgive my manners. Thanks for inviting us—well, for inviting Yada Yada.” He jerked a thumb at Stu and me. “Hope you don't mind me tagging along.”

I smirked at him.
That's okay, Denny. You don't have to admit I
dragged you here.

“Well, come on,” Ruth ordered, heading toward a table in the back. “You can't leave till you've had some apples dipped in honey—traditional, you know.”

APPLES DIPPED IN HONEY might be traditional, but it didn't make it as “lunch.” Denny and I were famished. We splurged on huge burgers at a new Steak 'n Shake on Howard Street, so it was almost two o'clock by the time we got home. I tried asking Denny what he'd been thinking so hard about after the sermon, but all he said was, “Oh, all that stuff about ‘repenting for the sins of the people.' Don't know what I think about it.”

Didn't know what I thought of it either. Seemed one thing for Old Testament prophets to pray “on behalf of the people,” but nobody else could repent of my sins, could they? Didn't I have to repent my own self? Wasn't that what “personal salvation” was all about?

Willie Wonka dashed past us as we came in the back screen door, as if he'd been waiting a long time for somebody to let him out. The back door was standing open—had the kids gone out and left the house unlocked?

Then I noticed the In Use button on the kitchen answering machine was blinking and the cradle was empty—somebody was talking on the phone somewhere. “Helloooo?” I called, dumping my tote bag on the dining-room table. “Amanda? Josh?” Then I saw a note in Josh's scrawl on the table. “Getting a haircut. Back by supper.—J”

A haircut? Denny usually cut Josh's hair with his old electric clippers. But if Josh wanted to use his own money to get his hair cut, more power to him. So it must be Amanda on the— “Uh, hi Mom. Hey, Dad.” Amanda appeared in the doorway between the hall and dining room with the cordless in her hand. “You guys went to church on
Saturday?”

“Uh-huh.” Denny waggled his eyebrows. “Yada Yada let me tag along.”

“Oh, stop,” I said. “It was interesting, Amanda. You would have enjoyed it.” I tipped my head toward the phone in her hand.