2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  “I’ll see what I can rustle up.” Amanda still had a birthday “coupon” for a new comforter for her bed. Maybe we should get new sheets, too, and pass on her old ones to—

  I stopped myself. Why did I always think in terms of passing on the old ones? Maybe you should get new sheets for Florida’s kids, Jodi Baxter. Would you want someone else’s old sheets for your kids?

  At least it sounded like things were coming along with Carla. Yet I still felt overwhelmed for her. What Florida said was true: they needed a bigger apartment, and Carl needed a job yesterday. Maybe I should ask Denny to talk to Pastor Clark about Carl.

  The TV was still going in the living room when we hung up. Should I check up on anyone else? I’d talked this week to everybody who hadn’t been at the robbery, and most everybody who had . . .

  Except Adele.

  Had anybody heard from her? Should I call? Just to see how she’s doing after Sunday night? That would be reasonable, wouldn’t it?

  Instead, I headed back into the house, hung up the cordless, and pulled out my school bag. Really, I needed to review my lesson plans for Friday.

  THE WEEKEND SLIPPED by, and I never did call Adele.

  When I got home from school on Friday, I was too bushed to even think about going to Rosh Hashanah services with Ruth that night. And when Denny got home, he’d immediately gone out to the garage to work on the car—“while I’ve still got some light”— so the car wasn’t available anyway.

  I did check e-mail to see if Ruth got any response to her invitation, but this weekend must have been too soon for most folks, because only Stu said she’d like to come, probably on Saturday. Why wasn’t I surprised? Stu always seemed to be first up to the plate. Several other Yada Yadas said they’d try for Yom Kippur.

  I had to admit I was curious about Ruth’s Beth Yehudah Congregation. Did we have anything going Saturday? I’d never been to a Jewish service before, even though there were a lot of synagogues in Rogers Park. Of course, this would be a Christian celebration of the Jewish holiday. Would it be mostly like church? Or like going to synagogue?

  Only one way to find out.

  I printed out Ruth’s invitation and went hunting for Denny. Found his legs sticking out from underneath the minivan. “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “Nope,” came a muffled voice. “Just changing the oil.” He pulled himself out from under the car, oblivious to the little black smudges dotting his face. “What’s up?” He stood up and leaned under the hood to change the oil filter.

  “Um, wanna do something different tomorrow—you and me?”

  “Sure. As long as it’s cheap.”

  Can’t get any cheaper, I thought, unless they take an offering.“Well, it’s Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and Ruth invited—”

  “Ah. I get it. Another date sponsored by Yada Yada.”

  I couldn’t see Denny’s face under the hood. Was he having a problem with this?

  “We don’t have to go; it was just an idea. Or I could go alone.” I knew that sounded whiny, but I did want to go, and I wanted Denny to go with me. “Unless you have a better idea.”

  “Not really.” He appeared from under the hood and started wiping his hands on a rag. “Just feels like a lot. We visited Delores’s church two weeks ago—which I enjoyed, don’t get me wrong. Then Yada Yada meets at our house last week and turns into a three-ring circus. Next week it’ll be Yada Yada again, and aren’t your folks coming the weekend after that for your birthday?”

  I didn’t answer, just watched as he scrunched back under the car to cap the dripping oil. He was right; it did feel like a lot. On the other hand, if we didn’t plan our Saturday, he’d end up in front of the TV watching a string of games—baseball, football—it didn’t seem to matter who or where, as long as there were two teams fighting over a ball.

  He reappeared, dragging out the container of old oil. “On the other hand—”

  “Denny!” I shrieked. “That’s the plastic pitcher I use to make iced tea!” I whacked him on the head with the rolled-up paper in my hand. “I can’t believe you used that!”

  “Oh.” He grimaced. “Sorry. Couldn’t find the old milk jug I usually use, and this was sitting on the back porch . . .”

  I rolled my eyes. He looked really funny holding that iced-tea pitcher full of cruddy old oil, probably considering whether he could wash it out. I started to laugh.

  He grinned—relieved, I’m sure. “Okay, let’s go celebrate the Jewish New Year with dear ol’ Ruth Garfield. On one condition: we go to the Bagel Bakery afterward and get some more of that lip-smacking lox and cream cheese. Just tell me what I’m supposed to wear. Unless”—he dipped a finger into the old oil and advanced toward me—“you’d like to go ‘Goth’: a black smudge here and there . . .”

  “Don’t you dare!” I flew out the door toward the house. Maybe Denny agreed to go because he felt guilty using the good plastic pitcher. Whatever. I gave him a chance to come up with a better idea, didn’t I?

  I’d better call Ruth. I had no idea where to go, what to wear, or what to expect.

  17

  Assured by Ruth Garfield that anything we wore would be fine (“Just not jeans or shorts—or halter tops, oy vey!”), Denny and I left a note the next morning for Josh and Amanda, who hadn’t yet appeared in the land of the living, and set out in the Dodge Caravan for Beth Yehudah, Ruth’s congregation.

  “We’re looking for what?” Denny said when I read him the directions. “Lincolnwood Presbyterian? I thought this was a Messianic congregation.”

  “It is. Beth Yehudah meets in a Presbyterian church on Saturday, so there’s no conflict.”

  As we drove west from Rogers Park into Lincolnwood— indistinguishable from Chicago proper, as were all the other towns rimming the Windy City’s borders—we saw numerous Jewish families walking to their local synagogue. Most of the men and boys wore yarmulkes; a few Orthodox could be identified by their traditional black-brimmed hats, prayer-shawl fringes dangling beneath their suit coats, and corkscrew curls in front of their ears. Children held their parents’ hands or skipped ahead. Definitely a holiday feel.

  I felt nervous, like I was intruding on their Sabbath. What did I know about Rosh Hashanah? These were Jewish holy days. Yet we’d been invited, I reminded myself as Denny pulled into the parking lot of Lincolnwood Presbyterian—a modern A-frame structure with lots of colored-glass windows in odd shapes. And these were fellow Christians, albeit Jewish ones. Maybe it wouldn’t be so different.

  We didn’t see Ruth when we first came in, but a friendly greeter pointed us to the large “Fellowship Room,” where most of the people coming in seemed to be headed. Folding chairs were set in rows facing a small oak table at the front, on which stood a tall wooden something—like a polished oak chest, up on end—with doors. Both table and chest had the same Hebrew inscription.

  Another greeter handed us a booklet—the order of service, I supposed—and I nudged Denny into a row of chairs just shy of the middle, so we could watch what other people did but be close enough to see what happened up front.

  I looked around, trying to spy Ruth. It all looked very ordinary— just a typical church building, a typical multipurpose room in the basement, and even the requisite keyboard, drums, and guitars off to one side at the front. As I scanned the people who were already sitting in the folding chairs, I noticed a familiar blonde head a couple of rows ahead of us. Sheesh. Stu had twice as far to drive as we did, and she still got here early.

  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 ancest
ors, 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?