photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
The last Christian died on the Cross.
Nietzsche
Nietzsche
Come, Rabbi, Follow Me
by Don Plansky
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The chapel is stripped of decoration. I cannot find an altar. There is no Cross. There are no stained glass windows to seduce the eye into a First Century Palestinian idyll.
The Communion is so clipped and perfunctory it’s as though it did not take place at all. Several young men in white dress shirts carry trays out into the Congregation. On the trays are little squares of what might be Wonder Bread, as well as water in tiny, corrugated, disposable cups like the kind used to wash down medicine. The bearers of “the body and blood” are dutiful but joyless. I do not partake; instead I pass the tray to the Sister on my left. She asks if I’m okay. “I’m fine,” I say. The Sister on my right just smiles and tells me she’s from Arizona.
Although I do not belong to any Christian Dispensation, something seems amiss. If the idea of this sacrament is to reenact The Last Passover Seder of Christ the Lord, Where is the matzah? Where is the wine? Where is the altar before which the sacred mystery of Holy Communion is to be enacted?
I feel as though I’ve walked into the heart of Protestant America, but this is a Mormon service. Is Mormonism just another Protestant sect? I’m not so sure despite all appearances. I’m in a chapel where all are invited to worship on Sundays. The Mormon Temple, “the home of the Lord,”[1] is closed on the Sabbath. Only in the Temple can “celestial marriages” be consecrated and the Mormon rite of vicarious baptism take place. I would only be allowed into the foyer of the Temple. Only qualified members of the Mormon Church may enter into the inner sanctum of the Temple precincts.
Every verse is sung of the hymn that concludes this afternoon’s chapel service. I’m sure I stand outside of all God’s tender mercies as I distractedly mumble the closing words, “If with our Lord we would be heirs,” at the final Amen-cadence of Come, Follow Me. Each verse has been sung slightly more tepidly than the last, until the final C Major chord. I look at my watch. Many of the songs sung here are the same as those sung in Protestant churches. These hymns have no power to transport me to heavenly realms.
By the third verse I had begun to hum to myself the Chorale Prelude Herzlich tut mich verlangen (My heart is filled with longing) in which the divine words “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” are made flesh by the devout Lutheran composer, J. S. Bach.
The Communion is so clipped and perfunctory it’s as though it did not take place at all. Several young men in white dress shirts carry trays out into the Congregation. On the trays are little squares of what might be Wonder Bread, as well as water in tiny, corrugated, disposable cups like the kind used to wash down medicine. The bearers of “the body and blood” are dutiful but joyless. I do not partake; instead I pass the tray to the Sister on my left. She asks if I’m okay. “I’m fine,” I say. The Sister on my right just smiles and tells me she’s from Arizona.
Although I do not belong to any Christian Dispensation, something seems amiss. If the idea of this sacrament is to reenact The Last Passover Seder of Christ the Lord, Where is the matzah? Where is the wine? Where is the altar before which the sacred mystery of Holy Communion is to be enacted?
I feel as though I’ve walked into the heart of Protestant America, but this is a Mormon service. Is Mormonism just another Protestant sect? I’m not so sure despite all appearances. I’m in a chapel where all are invited to worship on Sundays. The Mormon Temple, “the home of the Lord,”[1] is closed on the Sabbath. Only in the Temple can “celestial marriages” be consecrated and the Mormon rite of vicarious baptism take place. I would only be allowed into the foyer of the Temple. Only qualified members of the Mormon Church may enter into the inner sanctum of the Temple precincts.
Every verse is sung of the hymn that concludes this afternoon’s chapel service. I’m sure I stand outside of all God’s tender mercies as I distractedly mumble the closing words, “If with our Lord we would be heirs,” at the final Amen-cadence of Come, Follow Me. Each verse has been sung slightly more tepidly than the last, until the final C Major chord. I look at my watch. Many of the songs sung here are the same as those sung in Protestant churches. These hymns have no power to transport me to heavenly realms.
By the third verse I had begun to hum to myself the Chorale Prelude Herzlich tut mich verlangen (My heart is filled with longing) in which the divine words “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” are made flesh by the devout Lutheran composer, J. S. Bach.
***
I withdraw into myself. Let Bach’s Chorale transport me to First Century Palestine until I stand as an eyewitness to The Last Supper. As always, I am outside the community of the faithful. They look much as Leonardo depicts them—distinct individuals, lively and flawed—, and grouped in perfect symmetry: on the Rabbi’s far right are Bartholomew, James the Less and Andrew; the next group of three includes Judas, Peter and John (the youngest apostle); on the Rabbi’s far left are Simon, Thaddeus and Matthew; and grouped nearest him at his left shoulder are Philip, James and Thomas.
But this is not, after all, the moment Leonardo depicts in his painting, after the Rabbi says, “One of you shall betray me,”[2] but rather, some earlier, less troubled moment of the Passover Seder. The conversation is boisterous and lively. It reminds me of the time when I got together with some friends for a Seder. We began talking in a personal and serious way about being Jewish or just being human. At one point we decided not to bother opening our Haggadahs[3] and instead simply let the conversation find its own way. It was the best Seder I ever attended.
As I appear to be invisible to the Rabbi and the Twelve, I step a little closer. The Rabbi, full of animation and mischief, taps Thomas on the shoulder, and says, “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God.”[4] All the twelve save Judas burst out laughing at this delicious bit of hyperbole. I chuckle myself, though I notice that Judas Iscariot, plunged in shadow, head bent, is clutching a small sack in his right fist.
At one point, the Rabbi, looking infinitely forlorn, leans to his right, and whispers to the beloved disciple, Yohannan ben Zavdai (John the Apostle), “The foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place even to lay his head.”[5] Sad and funny, I think to myself. He must be Jewish!
I approach him after the others depart.
“You are a good man, Rabbi,” I say.
“Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.”[6]
“Of course, you are right,” I say. “May I call you ‘Yeshua’?”
“That’s my name,” he says.
“Forgive me for eavesdropping, but it sounds like you may need lodging for the night.”
He nods almost imperceptibly.
“I have a modest accommodation around the corner. Come, Rabbi, follow me.”
But this is not, after all, the moment Leonardo depicts in his painting, after the Rabbi says, “One of you shall betray me,”[2] but rather, some earlier, less troubled moment of the Passover Seder. The conversation is boisterous and lively. It reminds me of the time when I got together with some friends for a Seder. We began talking in a personal and serious way about being Jewish or just being human. At one point we decided not to bother opening our Haggadahs[3] and instead simply let the conversation find its own way. It was the best Seder I ever attended.
As I appear to be invisible to the Rabbi and the Twelve, I step a little closer. The Rabbi, full of animation and mischief, taps Thomas on the shoulder, and says, “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God.”[4] All the twelve save Judas burst out laughing at this delicious bit of hyperbole. I chuckle myself, though I notice that Judas Iscariot, plunged in shadow, head bent, is clutching a small sack in his right fist.
At one point, the Rabbi, looking infinitely forlorn, leans to his right, and whispers to the beloved disciple, Yohannan ben Zavdai (John the Apostle), “The foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place even to lay his head.”[5] Sad and funny, I think to myself. He must be Jewish!
I approach him after the others depart.
“You are a good man, Rabbi,” I say.
“Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.”[6]
“Of course, you are right,” I say. “May I call you ‘Yeshua’?”
“That’s my name,” he says.
“Forgive me for eavesdropping, but it sounds like you may need lodging for the night.”
He nods almost imperceptibly.
“I have a modest accommodation around the corner. Come, Rabbi, follow me.”
***
I know that my irreverent reverie in a Mormon chapel must soon be brought to a close. Even in a daydream, I may only borrow the Rabbi for a brief time. He must follow the will of his Father.
He does not belong to me. I will only pass a few hours with him. I must let him go. I could not live in a world without Chartres Cathedral, Leonardo’s The Last Supper and Bach’s B Minor Mass. I know many will be inspired by his example.
As we approach the door to my house, I ask him hesitantly, “Master, some say you are God. How do you know that you’re God?”
The Rabbi’s melancholy is lifted and, with a twinkle in his eye, he says, “Simple. When I pray to God, I find I’m talking to myself.”[7]
He does not belong to me. I will only pass a few hours with him. I must let him go. I could not live in a world without Chartres Cathedral, Leonardo’s The Last Supper and Bach’s B Minor Mass. I know many will be inspired by his example.
As we approach the door to my house, I ask him hesitantly, “Master, some say you are God. How do you know that you’re God?”
The Rabbi’s melancholy is lifted and, with a twinkle in his eye, he says, “Simple. When I pray to God, I find I’m talking to myself.”[7]