Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem inception

“That’s impossible! Any human being could tell the difference!” Lemmy clenched his fist. “Even a child knows that killing innocent people is evil!”

“But what if the people being killed aren’t human? What if they have been stigmatized for generations as evil, as pests, as the cause for all social and economical problems? What if eliminating them is your national duty, dictated by the state’s top authority?”

“A man has a mind to question authority.”

“Do the men of Neturay Karta question Rabbi Abraham Gerster’s authority?”

This argument shocked him, but before he could become angry, he noticed the hint of a smile on Tanya’s lips and understood she was trying to provoke him. “My father speaks for God. Do you believe in God?”

“That’s a trick question.” She took his hand. “Come, let’s have cake.”

They shared a lemon tart she had bought at a kosher bakery near Meah Shearim. It was January 1, 1967-her thirty-ninth birthday.

When he left, she gave him two thin volumes: Night and Dawn, both by author Elie Wiesel. He read them both that night, and was left agonizing over a quandary that went to the core of his faith: Why had God allowed the Nazis to do this? What was God’s purpose in causing so much suffering?

O ne afternoon, Rabbi Gerster posed a question from the podium: “Talmud says: Create a rabbi for yourself, and acquire a friend. I’ve always wondered: Why create a rabbi, but acquire a friend?”

Redhead Dan, sitting somewhere in the middle of the hall, raised his hand. “A friend could be acquired with gifts or favors. But a rabbi’s blessing isn’t for sale.”

“I disagree,” Cantor Toiterlich declared from the front row. “Talmud wouldn’t direct us to buy friends!”

Benjamin stood up. “Maybe acquire means that it’s mutual. But the relationship with one’s rabbi is created by one’s submission to a spiritual leader.”

“Well put, young man!” Rabbi Gerster took a contemplative stroll across the dais, the men’s eyes following him. “But as a rabbi, I’d rather have mutuality. So let me tell you a story.” He leaned on the lectern, looking around the hall. “A few years ago, a man named Aaron traveled a whole day from Haifa to talk to me. Temimah brought us tea, and I inquired of the sights he’d seen along the way, how the country was changing.”

Everyone knew of the vow he had taken not to leave Jerusalem until the Old City was freed from the Arabs.

Lemmy whispered in Benjamin’s ear, “Obedience to the rabbi-that’s the answer.”

Benjamin nodded, but it was clear he wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on Rabbi Gerster, up on the dais. Everyone’s face wore the same delighted expression. Lemmy imagined himself up at the podium. Could he be like his father, captivate hundreds of brilliant, inquisitive Talmudic scholars? And even if he could, did he want to?

“Finally,” the rabbi continued, “Aaron told me his problem. He was a God-fearing Jew, who worked hard as a bookkeeper to raise five children with his righteous wife, Miriam. One Friday night, he got out of bed to use the bathroom, and noticed that his wife wasn’t breathing!”

The men groaned, their bodies leaning forward in suspense.

“Complete silence on Miriam’s side of the bed!” Rabbi Gerster turned to the ark and made like he was begging for relief of Aaron’s agony. “So, even though it was Sabbath, he turned on the lights and discovered that his wife wasn’t even in bed!”

An explosion of laughter rocked the hall.

“Aaron wasn’t laughing! He ran through the house in panic, opening every door, turning on the lights in every room, until he found her asleep on the couch. He woke her up, and she started yelling at him for turning on the lights during Sabbath!”

He waited for the laughter to calm down.

“The rest of that night, Aaron couldn’t sleep, because all the lights were on. The following night he still couldn’t sleep, because Miriam refused to return to their bedroom. His snoring interfered with her sleep, she argued, and she could no longer bear children, so why share a bed? Aaron begged, yelled, threatened a divorce, but Miriam was deaf to his pleas. So he took her to their rabbi, who had married them many years before, circumcised their sons, blessed their daughters, and led them through life with his wise advice and knowledge of Talmud.”

“Ah!” The men sighed in relief.

Rabbi Gerster clapped his hands. “Guess how the good rabbi from Haifa ruled. For Aaron?”

A forest of hands appeared.

“For Miriam?”

Lemmy looked around. No hand rose in support of the wife. The blood rushed to his face. Talmud didn’t command marital slavery! He knew what Howard Roark would do now!

He raised his hand.

No one saw the lonely hand in the rear of the hall, except for his father, who ignored it and announced, “Mazal Tov! You voted wisely!”

The men applauded.

“Talmud commands a wife to serve her husband’s bodily needs, notwithstanding her incapability to bear children anymore. It’s part of the marriage. After all, Sarah, the mother of our nation, gave birth to Isaac when she was a hundred years old. It can happen.” Rabbi Gerster looked down and sighed. “It’s all in God’s hands.”

The silence was charged. Everyone knew of the rabbi’s pain at his wife’s inability to bear him more children.

“You voted wisely,” he repeated, “but you guessed poorly!”

The crowd groaned.

“Their rabbi told Aaron to let her be. Now what do you say to that?”

The men shook their heads. They all had wives.

“It’s true,” the rabbi explained, “that a wife must serve her husband. Miriam sinned, but a sinner cannot be forced to repent. That’s the essence of Judaism-a free choice to sin or to repent. It’s between you and God. And that’s what I told Aaron when he came to me for a second opinion.” He caressed his beard. “But then I thought, does Talmud allow a second opinion when you don’t like your rabbi’s ruling?”

No one responded.

“ Create. Acquire. Don’t you see it?” Rabbi Gerster looked around the hall. “Friendships you acquire with kindness, generosity, or intellectual interaction. We are friends with our grocer, tailor, and barber, and we are friends with our study companion. Friendships vary by the nature of reciprocal exchanges. We go through life acquiring and losing friends. But a rabbi? ”

Lemmy watched the nodding heads spread like a wave of comprehension.

“Every Jew must create his rabbi by embracing faith and knowledge. It is a permanent bond of trust, spirituality, confidence, and obedience to your rabbi’s authority. Create! Your rabbi will conduct your marriage ceremony, pronounce your food kosher, settle your disputes, educate your children, and marry them to their chosen spouses. The relationship with your rabbi is like the relationship with your child. And let me ask you: When our child behaves disagreeably, do we go out to seek a new and better child? Of course not! Once we create the parental bond, it’s inseparable, for better or for worse. Similarly, the bond of obedience to our rabbi is unbreakable.” Rabbi Gerster paused, looking from one side of the crowded synagogue to the other. “And when I called to check on Aaron a few months later, he told me that Miriam had fallen sick, and he took care of her, which renewed their feelings for each other-better than ever!”

The men exhaled in relief. A story with a sweet and instructive ending was a perfect appetizer for the warm dinner that awaited each of the men at home, prepared by their loyal wives. The chandelier above the dais, while not lit up, glistened in red reflections of the setting sun, signaling the end of a day of studying.