Monday, April 13, 2009
He's Dead (Holy Saturday)
He's dead. I can't believe it.
Dead.
man. now what will I do. He's dead. The only one who ever gave me a chance. Dead. The only one who ever told me I was good enough. That I could be like him. He's gone.
I remember, being a child, studying studying the torah. I loved the feel of the parchment, as I so carefully unrolled the scroll a little at a time. I love reading the word. I remember tracing the characters with my fingers and my lips moving as I committed each line to memory.
Then I remember, the midrash, the conversations between Rabbi and his senior students. How they'd discuss and laugh and debate which interpretation was good, was better. And how each one was striving to hear Rabbi say, 'yes! that is right! you have kept the Torah!'
ah. Good memories! then the first time that Rabbi pulled me aside. The glow inside. but only for a moment.
"Ravi, I know you love Torah. I know you try and try. I see how hard you study! yes. yes. but Ravi. You do not have what it takes to be a Rabbi like me. It's not your fault! it's not for lack of trying.
You're just not cut out to be a Rabbi! Go back to your family. There is not shame. You father is a good man and loves Torah too!"
no shame.
right.
Rabbi didn't know. It was because Father didn't make it that I had too! Now the shame was doubled. At first I thought, maybe it was just his style. Maybe I'd do better with another Rabbi! Father who at first was disappointed, liked this idea! You could see the fire rekindle in his eyes, the doubt washing away. The hope restored. "Yes Ravi! Good Good son! Try again. Maybe with a different Rabbi...."
ah Father. He died before I found a Rabbi. How I miss papa. I wish he could have seen me as a disciple! But it wasn't to be. I know papa loved me. Just like I know I disappointed him. sigh.
Well, I am a disciple. I found a Rabbi. Well I didn't find him, not really. He found me.
But now Rabbi is dead. Rome killed him. Just yesterday. I remember when he saw me, in the market place. Working for my father, who was home, too ill to work.
I'd heard him in the temple. His words were amazing, he spoke with such authority. But with compassion! He seemed to care about us! His words, they encourage!
And then. He was infront of my stall. "Ravi." he said (He KNEW MY NAME). "Ravi" "Yes Master?" I replied. "Come Ravi. Will you come? Will you follow me?"
I don't remember if I even locked the door! I just left it all and followed Him! I knew papa would be proud!
I didn't know papa had died that morning.
It felt so strange. This unspeakable joy. This burning loss. now it's just loss.
Rabbi is dead. They buried him just yesterday. I watched from a distance.
My hope. My one hope of being a disciple. Of being a Rabbi.
Gone.
Buried with Jesus.
Dead.
man. now what will I do. He's dead. The only one who ever gave me a chance. Dead. The only one who ever told me I was good enough. That I could be like him. He's gone.
I remember, being a child, studying studying the torah. I loved the feel of the parchment, as I so carefully unrolled the scroll a little at a time. I love reading the word. I remember tracing the characters with my fingers and my lips moving as I committed each line to memory.
Then I remember, the midrash, the conversations between Rabbi and his senior students. How they'd discuss and laugh and debate which interpretation was good, was better. And how each one was striving to hear Rabbi say, 'yes! that is right! you have kept the Torah!'
ah. Good memories! then the first time that Rabbi pulled me aside. The glow inside. but only for a moment.
"Ravi, I know you love Torah. I know you try and try. I see how hard you study! yes. yes. but Ravi. You do not have what it takes to be a Rabbi like me. It's not your fault! it's not for lack of trying.
You're just not cut out to be a Rabbi! Go back to your family. There is not shame. You father is a good man and loves Torah too!"
no shame.
right.
Rabbi didn't know. It was because Father didn't make it that I had too! Now the shame was doubled. At first I thought, maybe it was just his style. Maybe I'd do better with another Rabbi! Father who at first was disappointed, liked this idea! You could see the fire rekindle in his eyes, the doubt washing away. The hope restored. "Yes Ravi! Good Good son! Try again. Maybe with a different Rabbi...."
ah Father. He died before I found a Rabbi. How I miss papa. I wish he could have seen me as a disciple! But it wasn't to be. I know papa loved me. Just like I know I disappointed him. sigh.
Well, I am a disciple. I found a Rabbi. Well I didn't find him, not really. He found me.
But now Rabbi is dead. Rome killed him. Just yesterday. I remember when he saw me, in the market place. Working for my father, who was home, too ill to work.
I'd heard him in the temple. His words were amazing, he spoke with such authority. But with compassion! He seemed to care about us! His words, they encourage!
And then. He was infront of my stall. "Ravi." he said (He KNEW MY NAME). "Ravi" "Yes Master?" I replied. "Come Ravi. Will you come? Will you follow me?"
I don't remember if I even locked the door! I just left it all and followed Him! I knew papa would be proud!
I didn't know papa had died that morning.
It felt so strange. This unspeakable joy. This burning loss. now it's just loss.
Rabbi is dead. They buried him just yesterday. I watched from a distance.
My hope. My one hope of being a disciple. Of being a Rabbi.
Gone.
Buried with Jesus.
