3.

Rabbi Goldberg

Friday, March 8 - 11:45a.m.

Mike stopped at a phone booth and called the phone number professor Bailey had written down. A man answered. Once again he wasn’t sure how to begin, but he knew one thing: If he tried to explain himself on the phone, this guy would think he was nuts. He decided on a simple approach. “Hi. Is Rabbi Goldberg there?”

“Speaking.”

“Hi. My name’s Mike Tomson and I got your phone number from Professor Bailey at UNLV. She said that you might be able to help me. Can we meet?”

Friday, March 8 - 12:30p.m.

Mike would have loved to walk the eleven blocks to Rabbi Goldberg’s house, but he wasn’t about to attempt it on crutches. He called another taxi. As he sat in the back seat of the taxi, his mind wandered. He thought about ancient times, long before the modern convenience of cars. People must have done a lot of walking back then. Breaking an ankle could have been life-threatening. Even with camels and mules, the shortest trip by today’s standards would have been a major ordeal, especially in harsh climates like Nevada.

How did people travel the silk road from India through the Himalayas and into China on foot? The task seemed almost impossible a few thousand years ago, yet that kind of travel is mentioned all over the ancient world. I’m glad I’ve got my Harley, he thought, I sure wouldn’t want to walk from Las Vegas to Phoenix for a gig.

When he got out of the taxi, he noticed some anti-Semitic graffiti written at a nearby bus stop, probably targeted at the Jewish people in the neighborhood. What he didn’t understand was the hate behind the graffiti. Mike never thought of people in groups; people were just people. Some were good and some were bad, but just being Jewish, black, gay, female–whatever–didn’t make you a bad person. So where does the hate come from, he wondered. Why can’t people accept each other’s differences and get along? Less judgement and more love, he thought. That’s just common sense.

Part of his open-mindedness was because his father was a Russian Jew and his mother was Catholic, so he got a bit of both worlds. They got along remarkably well. Very little fighting compared to most marriages, he thought. At least until he offed himself. He had a lot of his dad’s Jewish mannerisms, but he was raised Catholic, at least until he stopped going to church. His mother made him go to church until he was eighteen years old, then she told him it was his decision. He stopped going because it seemed silly to go to church to pray. He had his own private conversations with God and God was everywhere, not just in church. Besides, he didn’t need a church to tell him what to pray, especially by reciting prayers he didn’t even understand.

He verified the address he had written down on the scrap of paper and walked up to the door. It was a weathered old door, and he noticed a tiny metal box nailed to the threshold. He lifted his hand to knock, but to his surprise, the door opened by itself, revealing the face of a gentleman. He was about sixty-five years old, bald on top with patches of white hair on either side and a bushy white beard. “Come in, come in,” he said, “You must be Mike. Welcome to my home. I’m Louis Goldberg. Would you like something to drink?” Mike accepted a glass of water and sat down in an old, comfortable chair in the den. The home was filled with antique cherry furniture, but it had the musty smell of an older home.

Goldberg could tell from Mike’s looks and mannerisms that he had Jewish heritage, but he didn’t remember seeing him before in the Jewish community. Maybe he just moved into town, or maybe he’s not a practicing Jew, he thought. “I don’t remember seeing you in a synagogue before. Are you new to the area?”

Mike was uncomfortable at first. He wondered if he would lose Goldberg’s respect by admitting he wasn’t a Jew. He decided it didn’t matter. “Actually, Rabbi, I’m not Jewish. My dad was a Russian Orthodox Jew. . .” he paused uncomfortably, remembering the circumstances of his father’s death, then he continued. “My mom is Catholic, but I wouldn’t call myself Catholic either.”

Goldberg was amused, but not judgmental. “Ah, caught between worlds,” he said, implying that Mike’s religious situation might be more complex and needy than either an ordinary Jew or Christian. He asked, “What can I do for you? Are you here to discover your cultural heritage?”

Mike was embarrassed about what he was about to ask, but it helped that he had already gone through this once before with Professor Bailey. It also helped that Dr. Goldberg was a man. “I got your number from Professor Bailey at UNLV. She thought you might be able to help me.”

Goldberg looked at Mike with a big grin. “Ah–Alice. She’s a smart one, you know. We’ve spent many hours arguing politics and religion. She should have gone into comparative religion instead of linguistic sciences. A waste if talent, if you ask me. What can I help you with?”

“She said you might be able to help me identify some words that might be in Hebrew.”

“Now that’s a strange request. Usually I help people with personal problems. You know, ‘I’ve lost my faith,’ or, ‘I think my wife is cheating on me.’ That kind of thing. I’ve never acted as a Hebrew translator before. It should be a piece of cake. What are they?”

Mike took the now crumpled piece of paper from his pocket again. “This is what they sounded like: ‘Eel-eye, eel-eye, lemma saw-buck thawny.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Goldberg asked, “Do you mean, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’”

Mike said, “Yeah, that sounds right. What does it mean?”

“It’s usually translated as, ‘My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?’. . . If I recall my ‘Comparative Religions’ class correctly, that was what Jesus Christ said when he died. What does it mean to you?”

“Is that really what Jesus said?” Mike asked.

“You’re asking me? A Jew?” Goldberg joked. “I wasn’t there, you know. I have precious few gray hairs on top this old head–short ones I might add–but I’m not that old.” The Rabbi was smiling, getting a big kick out of his kidding. For a moment, Mike felt uncomfortable about his long hair, but Goldberg gave him a warm smile. “That’s what they say, anyway. Jesus was a Jew, you know. If you want to know about Jesus, you should be talking to Alice Bailey, the woman who sent you here. She’s fluent in both Greek and Aramaic, the languages of the Bible. I’m surprised she pawned you off on me. She should have recognized the words immediately, unless she was just trying to get rid of you. So are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

A half hour later, Mike had told him the whole story. “What do you think, Dr. Goldberg?”

Goldberg paused to stroke his white beard. “Well, I suppose it might be something you heard when you were a boy. A suppressed memory or something. Did your father speak Jewish when you were young?”

“Not that I remember.”

“It’s hard to say why you yelled it on stage, but I can tell you one thing: If I’m right, there’s only one way to find out what’s really going on, and that is to see another hypnotist. Do yourself a favor. See a reputable one this time. Avoid those stage hypnotists. They’re only out to make a buck.”

Mike chatted with Goldberg a half hour longer, then he called another taxi and left. The fresh hot air felt good after the musty air of Goldberg’s home. He hobbled into the hot, dirty taxi and told the driver, “The strip,” but somehow he felt like he was not in a taxi but a roller coaster. It felt like he was on a different kind of ride, and it was headed for more than just the strip.

Excerpt from The Gospel According to Mike

He said, “All men and women are priests and priestesses; see what can you learn from them. Every day is the Sabbath; remember to keep every day holy. All ground is holy ground; treat the Earth as sacred. All actions are sacraments; do what honors God. All food is Eucharist, accept it and give thanks. All words are prayers; use them to spread love, not fear or hate. All sounds are hymns; rejoice in God’s joy. For all of creation sings the exaltation of God whether you choose to listen or not.”