119 — One Small Step for a Man—A Giant Leap for this Wasser-man (Fall 1999)

As a child I didn’t encounter that many other Jews.  On my mother’s side of the family, I met only adults who were fully Americanized originally from 19th century Germany, whose connection to Judaism had only faint connections to Jewish life.  I am sure that there were children from my mother’s side of the family, but I just don’t remember any interactions with them.  My maternal grandfather had died in the early 1930s when my mom was only five years old.  His family had settled in Cincinnati, 100 miles to the northeast of my home in Louisville.  I recall one visit to Cincinnati when I was 5 or 6 and hearing about a male relative who had lived to age 95.  I claimed that age as my goal in life since it seemed like an eternity at the time!  Of course, I will turn 76 next month with 95 two decades off.  Hopefully, I will be finished writing my story by then!  If not, then I will switch my goal to match the goal of many Jews—the 120 years that Moses lived!  

My father’s parents came to America from traditional Orthodox Jewish life in Ukraine in the first decade of the 20th century. They had also become Americanized, but had stronger connections to traditional Jewish life.  I never met my paternal grandfather.  He died in his mid-fifties when my father was only 10.  [Neither of my parents had a father present in their formative years.  Maybe that explains why they couldn’t make their marriage work.  They had no model for the male parental role to emulate.] My Uncle Herman Wasserman was 17 at the time and he stepped in to help my grandmother Sarah in raising my dad, Marvin.  

Uncle Herman was an important influence in my life, more so than my father who began to  find his way to shalom late in life.  Herman was the most loving, caring, generous and gentle person I have ever met—he radiated shalom.  Friday Shabbat meals in his home with Aunt Blanche and their children, Neil and Janie, along with grandma Sarah, constituted the most powerful Jewish influence in my life.  It wasn’t the outward Jewishness that they exposed me to.  Rather it was something appealing in the way they lived.  To this day, the life I experienced with them is my most treasured Jewish memory and one of the standards by which I evaluate my own life. 

Left to right:  Jeff - Grandma Sarah - Marvin (Dad)

                            1967

Uncle Herman - Jeff - Marvin (Dad)

My high school circle of acquaintances included a half-dozen Jewish kids who were mostly from assimilated and strongly secularized Jewish families—culturally and intellectually disconnected to traditional Orthodox Judaism.  At that time, Orthodoxy represented only about 10% of American Jewish life.  Other Jewish kids that I encountered were forced to attend events and classes at the Reform congregation where my mother and step-father were members.  That didn’t work or even appeal at all to me, my Jewish acquaintances or even to my step-brother or sisters.  

I don’t remember ever attending a Bar Mitzvah (Bat Mitzvahs for girls were not a “thing” for my social circle in the 1960s).  I did attend some Bar Mitzvah parties—dances at Standard Country Club, a Jewish country club where my mother, step-father and my father had membership.  I had a few acquaintances I met there around the swimming pool and tennis courts during the summer months. Those dances featured leading local rock ’n roll bands on the Louisville scene.  The two I remember the most distinctly were The Epics and The Monarchs, both of whom had recordings in the pre-Beatles 60s on national Top 40 radio.  This was in the days when musicians had slicked-back oily hairstyles.  In spite of the “greaser” personas, I was drawn to the simplicity and rawness of the music.  

When I was in 7th grade (1961), my mother, who played piano by ear, suggested that I could quit my struggles with piano lessons.  She suggested that I could take guitar lessons instead.  That energized me and I started lessons on a $5 rental guitar.  For my birthday that year, my father bought me my first electric guitar and a tiny amplifier.  I remember the day when we went into Durlauf’s Music Shop and came out with a Gibson 330 in cherry red.  This guitar was an expensive top-of-the line model that the pros played!  I could barely play two of the six strings, but I treasured that guitar.  

Durlauf’s Guitar Shop

My guitar and me

By 1962, I was playing in a neighborhood rock bands and in 1965, we were the band playing at the country club Bar Mitzvahs, as well as school dances, parties and even at “band battles” at the Kentucky Fair and Exposition Center twice.  Three years later, we took first place and were rewarded with a big trophy and an appearance on a local TV music show.  At the peak of our success, we graduated high school and left for different universities.

(Left to right) Simon - Jeff  - Ron 

1962 neighborhood jam-session

(Left to right)  Jeff - Buzzy - Ray (drums) - Randy - Ben 

                   Battle of the Bands -1965

Jeff    Buzzy    Ben 

     Ray

Buzzy     Jeff   Ray                 

At Westport High School - 1967

With Jon (bass) and Bruce (vocals)

At Westport High School - 1967

My closest friendships were with my fellow band members and my high school basketball team.  None of them were Jewish.

So, why tell you all of this?  Well, at age 50 in 1999, I was finally in a circle of Jews.  Instead of being tossed into the pool of Jewish life as my father had tossed me into that pool in Miami [111 — Teaching Myself to Swim (Fall 1987)], I was wading into Jewish life and would learn to swim in a Jewish “circle” (Hakafa) by my own choosing and at my own pace.  After all, a journey is best undertaken one step at a time.

118 — 🎶 “Teach Your Children Well” 🎶 (Fall 1999)

    After serving the northern Chicago suburbs of Highland Park, Glencoe and Wilmette for two decades, Congregation Hakafa (Hebrew for “the circle”) still didn’t have a synagogue building.  These northern suburbs were among the most affluent of all of Illinois, so they certainly had the necessary financial resources.  Rather than investing in a building, they had opted to invest in the Jewish education—especially of their children—in response to the instruction to “teach these things diligently to your children” [Deut 6:4-7, The Koren Jerusalem Bible].  This passage which starts with the Shema is the one thing that stuck with me from my own Jewish education.  

Pegi and I had been consciously following HaShem as adults for two decades.  Abi had only recently turned 13.  She had not had much exposure to life from a Jewish perspective.  Most significantly, since Pegi and I had been hanging out in the Christian world up until this time, she had never been around other Jewish kids her age.  She had a nascent instinct concerning her Jewish identity, but that needed to grow.  As parents, we hadn’t provided her instruction as to what her budding Jewish identity was all about.  We need to “diligently” teach her the “things” she would need for her own life with HaShem.  

As I wrote this today, I was reminded of the Crosby, Stills & Nash song from 1970, that says, “Teach your children well.”  The lyrics paint a scene of living by a code while traveling the road of life.  Parents are encouraged to, “Feed them on your dreams” so that they can find their own way.  The interesting lyric which follows reverses the flow to where the children feed their parents on their dreams.  The parents inspire the child who in-turn inspires the parent as they all travel the road of life.  

You can’t teach what you don’t know and you can’t demonstrate what you haven’t experienced.  Anything else is just theory.  To teach Abi well, Pegi and I would need to learn more and experience Jewish life more deeply.  But, to just dive into the pool of Jewish life was risky.  My father had tried just tossing me in that pool, but when I came up for air, I couldn’t stay afloat for long just dog-paddling!  A better solution would to have been to start me wading in the shallow water where I could progress at my own pace.  Neither were Pegi and I ready to just dive into the deep waters of 3500 years of Jewish learning.  All of us needed to spend some time in the shallow end of the pool.  It turned out, that Hakafa was that shallow entrance to Jewish life that we all needed.  That is not to say that there wasn’t depth there—there was depth, but the approach/entrance was right at the level that we needed at that time.  It was the ideal context for us to begin our reentry to Judaism.

(To this day, this “circle of friends” continues to rent space in the Glencoe Recreation Center and Winnetka Community House, so that they can devote resources to teaching their children well.)  

In 1999, after our meeting with Rabbi Marx, we made our first visit as a family at the Glencoe Recreation Center on a Sunday morning in September.  Pegi, Abi and I were “dressed up” rather than in casual attire as we were accustomed to do when visiting any type of gathering for the first time.  Better to be overdressed than underdressed!  After parking, we were wandering through the mostly empty recreation center.  We were about 20 minutes early—better early than late!  [When we lived in Israel with 9 million other Jews we discovered that “being late” was a feature of Jewish life.  After all, each one of us is in a personal relationship with HaShem and should we rush Him just to please everyone else?]    

As we looked for signs of life or even just a literal sign to point us in the right direction, we ran into a nice looking twenty-something man wearing a kippah (skullcap).  His face lit up with a smile when he saw that we were visitors and he introduced himself as the youth rabbi.  Rabbi Bruce Elder would be a pivotal character in Abi’s life in the coming days and years.  He would later become our rabbi when Rabbi Marx retired.  So, not only did he assist us in teaching Abi, but he was instrumental in our learning as well.  For Pegi, who had not had any Jewish education, he would guide her through full immersion into Jewish living.

Noticing our business casual attire, Bruce told us that in this “circle” you just “come as you are—no need to dress up.”  That welcoming spirit was characteristic of Hakafa.  There was no need to put on airs.  Everyone was accepted as they were.  Everyone was welcome no matter their background, Jewish or Gentile, rich or poor, attractive or not, religious or secular, etc.  Hakafa invited all who desired to walk through life with God.  Consequently, Hakafa was populated with a broad range of people with diverse histories.  It was filled with the sounds of life, but it was not an echo chamber.  

I think we all struggle with how we will be perceived when we encounter others.  It is important to know that God accepts you as you are.  After all, He created you in His image and likeness:  

וַיִּבְרָ֨א אֱלֹהִ֤ים ׀ אֶת־הָֽאָדָם֙ בְּצַלְמ֔וֹ בְּצֶ֥לֶם אֱלֹהִ֖ים בָּרָ֣א אֹת֑וֹ זָכָ֥ר וּנְקֵבָ֖ה בָּרָ֥א אֹתָֽם׃

And God created humankind in his image, in the image of God did he create it, male and female he created them.

[Gen 1:26 — The Schocken Bible, Everett Fox, 1995]

As we entered the new millennium, we were together as a family in the midst of a circle of families that was part of the larger circle of families — “B'nai Yisrael" (בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל) - the children of Israel — no longer “wandering” down the path of life alone.   

117 — Meeting the Rabbi (1999)

    Pegi and I set up a meeting with the rabbi of Congregation Hakafa, Dr. Robert Marx.  I was self-conscious about my non-kosher history.  As people got to know us, would we be welcomed or shunned? After all, we had actually been missionaries and I had written my dissertation on present-day Jewish Jesus-followers!  There was every reason to suspect our motives.  

You see, this wasn’t my first encounter with a rabbi.  Of course, I had attended my father's Orthodox synagogue, Anshei Sfard on major Jewish holidays.  I never really had a conversation with Rabbi Rudman, but was present for some “hallway” conversations he had with my father as well as hearing the occasional remarks he would make from the Bema (pulpit).  He was always accommodating and seemingly genuinely happy to see me.  I remember his pleasant smile and gentle humor.  

My father rarely attended synagogue functions. When I was about 15, I was with him at the synagogue on one Shabbat (Saturday) morning.  As we were leaving, we had one of those “hallway” conversations with Rabbi Rudman.  My father was recounting all of his recent charitable work with the congregations of a number of African-American pastors in the Louisville area.  As he recounted all his activities, he asked, “Rabbi, I have been doing all these things to help out these church congregations.  What can I do to help my congregation?”  Rabbi Rudman paused and then smiling, answered, “Show-up once and a while!”

Five years later, I returned home from my Jesus Freak summer in California (chapters 3-12) just before leaving for Navy basic training.  My secular Jewish mother was pleased that I was no longer dabbling in psychedelic culture, but was not equipped to engage my theological interests.  She suggested I go see my high school rabbi at Adath Israel, Dr. Chester Diamond. 

I hadn’t seen Rabbi Diamond since my “confirmation” in 10th grade.  He tried to help me understand why Jews did not accept Jesus as Messiah, but this was 1969 and I think I was his first encounter with a dizzy Jewish/psychedelic/Jesus Freak! Years later, in 1995, I met with him again as I was starting my doctoral research on Jewish Christians. Dr. Diamond was now very experienced dealing with the impact of the Jews for Jesus phenomenon.  His perspective became an important part of my dissertation.   

In 1978, I was a chaplain in the Rhodesian Army stationed at Llewellyn Barracks in Bulawayo [Chap 50 — “Muck” and Mire].  This was the national training center for all the Rhodesian draftees.  I was responsible for conducting weekly services for them.  Of the several hundred trainees, there were five who were Jewish.  I didn’t feel that they should have to participate in Christian services, but neither was I equipped to help them.  So, I asked the rabbi from the Bulawayo synagogue [https://zjc.org.il/bulawayo-hebrew-congregation/] to visit them during “Padre’s Hour” on Wednesday afternoons.  He quickly identified me as a Jew—even though I was serving as a Christian chaplain.  He invited Pegi and me to the Friday evening synagogue services followed by a Shabbat meal with his family. 

We were welcomed into his home to meet his wife, children and her brother (also a rabbi) and sister-in-law who were visiting from Israel. I had been concerned that my identification with Christianity would be a source of tension.  To the contrary, we were warmly received.  It was just what I had experienced at my Uncle Herman’s Shabbat table during my teens—good food, interesting conversations and a feeling of being part of the family.  There was no tension, only warmth and kindness.  Even when our after dinner conversation turned to theological topics, our different perspectives were gently and respectfully validated as genuine.  

A humorous moment came as our lively discussions continued into the late evening.   Earlier that morning, I had received an alert of an imminent terrorist attack on the Bulawayo power station.  Alerts such as these were common in 1978, so I was “alerted” not alarmed.  But, as we conversed, suddenly the lights in the house all went out!  Now I was alarmed—huddling with  Pegi as we slid off the sofa to shelter on the floor.  

In the faint light of the street lights that had not gone dark, we saw the two rabbis and their wives calmly sitting as they gazed down at us.  The rabbi then said, “Oh, I am sorry.  Our lights are on a timer since we don’t turn lights on or off on Shabbat.”  I chuckled as I remembered the biblical prohibition of kindling a fire on Shabbat (Exod 35:3).  Wow, I was really distant from my Jewish roots!

We had a good laugh about this and as we decided to call it a night, the Israeli brother-in-law invited us to be their guests in Israel for a few months to learn more about what it meant to be Jewish.   I wasn’t ready yet, but the seed that was planted in my soul that evening began to take root and continued to grow until we moved to Israel 45 years later.

When my father died in 1992, we sat Shivah (7-day mourning period) at his brother Herman’s home.  It had been 25 years since my last Shabbat with Uncle Herman.  This was the occasion that we met the new rabbi of Congregation Ashei Sfard.  This was my first encounter with an Hasidic-Orthodox rabbi who had learned from the Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (1902-1994), the seventh leader in the Chabad-Lubavitch dynasty, affectionately known as “The Rebbe”—probably the most influential Jewish leader of the 20th century.  I was vaguely aware of Chabad movement as one of outreach to secularized Jews like me.  Even though I knew that Chabad was warm and friendly to Jews and gentiles alike, I really didn’t know what to expect from this thirty-something, severe looking man with his full beard, black suit and black-hat.  I was very conscious that we moved in different circles!   Feeling like a fish out of water, I found him to be refreshing pleasant and patiently helpful as I stumbled through reading the Kaddish (Mourner’s Prayer).

As we sat with Rabbi Marx in 1999, I was more conscious than ever of my own lack of Jewish knowledge and experience.  My doctorate in World Religions included deep dives into Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, African Traditional Religions and Islam, but only one 3-credit class on Judaism. I was made an adjunct professor of biblical Hebrew just because I was Jewish.  My Hebrew language studies (20 credits undergraduate/6 credits graduate), meant that I was qualified to teach how to read the Bible in the original language.  However, it didn’t mean that I really knew much about living as a Jew!  

In addition to his rabbinic education and six decades of experience leading a congregation, Rabbi Marx was Yale-educated with a doctorate in Philosophy.  It sounds kind of funny to say that he had was a Doctor of Philosophy in “Philosophy”!  And I was a Doctor of Philosophy. in World Religions (minus Judaism). What little knowledge of Judaism that I had was intellectual and theological.  Rabbi Marx was able to relate to me intellectually and theologically—just what I needed!

Pegi and I set up a meeting with the rabbi of Congregation Hakafa, Dr. Robert Marx.  I was self-conscious about my non-kosher history.  As people got to know us, would we be welcomed or shunned? After all, we had actually been missionaries and I had written my dissertation on present-day Jewish Jesus-followers!  There was every reason to suspect our motives.  

You see, this wasn’t my first encounter with a rabbi.  Of course, I had attended my father's Orthodox synagogue, Anshei Sfard on major Jewish holidays.  I never really had a conversation with Rabbi Rudman, but was present for some “hallway” conversations he had with my father as well as hearing the occasional remarks he would make from the Bema (pulpit).  He was always accommodating and seemingly genuinely happy to see me.  I remember his pleasant smile and gentle humor.  

My father had rarely attended synagogue functions. When I was about 15, I was with him at the synagogue on one Shabbat (Saturday) morning.  As we were leaving, we had one of those “hallway” conversations with Rabbi Rudman.  My father was recounting all of his recent charitable work with the congregations of a number of African-American pastors in the Louisville area.  As he recounted all his activities, he asked, “Rabbi, I have been doing all these things to help out these church congregations.  What can I do to help my congregation?”  Rabbi Rudman paused and then smiling, answered, “Show-up once and a while!”

Five years later, I returned home from my Jesus Freak summer in California (chapters 3-12) just before leaving for Navy basic training.  My secular Jewish mother was pleased that I was no longer dabbling in psychedelic culture, but was not equipped to engage my theological interests.  She suggested I go see my high school rabbi at Adath Israel, Dr. Chester Diamond. 

I hadn’t seen Rabbi Diamond since my “confirmation” in 10th grade.  He tried to help me understand why Jews did not accept Jesus as Messiah, but this was 1969 and I think I was his first encounter with a dizzy Jewish/psychedelic/Jesus Freak! Years later, in 1995, I met with him again as I was starting my doctoral research on Jewish Christians. Dr. Diamond was now very experienced dealing with the impact of the Jews for Jesus phenomenon, and his perspective became an important part of my dissertation.   

In 1978, I was a chaplain in the Rhodesian Army stationed at Llewellyn Barracks in Bulawayo [Chap 50 — “Muck” and Mire].  This was the national training center for all the Rhodesian draftees.  I was responsible for conducting weekly services for them.  Of the several hundred trainees, there were five who were Jewish.  I didn’t feel that they should have to participate in Christian services, but neither was I equipped to help them.  So, I asked the rabbi from the Bulawayo synagogue [https://zjc.org.il/bulawayo-hebrew-congregation/] to visit them during “Padre’s Hour” on Wednesday afternoons.  He quickly identified me as a Jew—even though I was serving as a Christian chaplain.  He invited Pegi and me to the Friday evening synagogue services followed by a Shabbat meal with his family. 

We were welcomed into his home to meet his wife, children and her brother (also a rabbi) and sister-in-law who were visiting from Israel. I had been concerned that my identification with Christianity would be a source of tension.  To the contrary, we were warmly received.  It was just what I had experienced at my Uncle Herman’s Shabbat table during my teens—good food, interesting conversations and a feeling of being part of the family.  There was no tension, only warmth and kindness.  Even when our after dinner conversation turned to theological topics, our different perspectives were gently and respectfully validated as genuine.  

A humorous moment came as our lively discussions continued into the late evening.   Earlier that morning, I had received an alert of an imminent terrorist attack on the Bulawayo power station.  Alerts such as these were common in 1978, so I was “alerted” not alarmed.  But, as we conversed, suddenly the lights in the house all went out!  Now I was alarmed—huddling with  Pegi as we slid off the sofa to shelter on the floor.  

In the faint light of the street lights that had not gone dark, we saw the two rabbis and their wives calmly sitting as they gazed down at us.  The rabbi then said, “Oh, I am sorry.  Our lights are on a timer since we don’t turn lights on or off on Shabbat.”  I chuckled as I remembered the biblical prohibition of kindling a fire on Shabbat (Exod 35:3).  Wow, I was really distant from my Jewish roots!

We had a good laugh about this and as we decided to call it a night, the Israeli brother-in-law invited us to be their guests in Israel for a few months to learn more about what it meant to be Jewish.   I wasn’t ready yet, but the seed that was planted in my soul that evening began to take root and continued to grow until we did move to Israel about 45 years later.

When my father died in 1992, we sat Shivah (7-day mourning period) at his brother Herman’s home.  It had been 25 years since my last Shabbat with Uncle Herman.  This was the occasion that we met the new rabbi of Congregation Ashei Sfard.  This was my first encounter with an Hasidic-Orthodox rabbi who had learned from the Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (1902-1994), the seventh leader in the Chabad-Lubavitch dynasty, affectionately known as “The Rebbe”—probably the most influential Jewish leader of the 20th century.  I was vaguely aware of the Chabad movement as one of outreach to secularized Jews like me.  Even though I knew that Chabad was warm and friendly to Jews and gentiles alike, I really didn’t know what to expect from this thirty-something, severe looking man with his full beard, black suit and black-hat.  I was very conscious that we moved in different circles!   Feeling like a fish out of water, I found him to be refreshingly pleasant and patiently helpful as I stumbled through reading the Kaddish (Mourner’s Prayer).

Now as we sat with Rabbi Marx of Congregation Hakafa in 1999, I was more conscious than ever of my own lack of Jewish knowledge and experience.  My doctorate in World Religions had included deep dives into Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, African Traditional Religions and Islam, but only one 3-credit class on Judaism. I was made an adjunct professor of biblical Hebrew just because I was Jewish.  My Hebrew language studies (20 credits undergraduate/6 credits graduate), meant that I was qualified to teach how to read the Bible in the original language.  However, it didn’t mean that I really knew much about living as a Jew!  

In addition to his rabbinic education and six decades of experience leading a congregation, Rabbi Marx was Yale-educated with a doctorate in Philosophy.  It sounds kind of funny to say that he had was a Doctor of Philosophy in “Philosophy”!  And I was a Doctor of Philosophy. in World Religions (minus Judaism). What little knowledge of Judaism that I had was intellectual and theological.  Rabbi Marx was able to relate to me intellectually and theologically—just what I needed!

During our meeting Pegi and I shared the broad outline of our journeys from childhood to middle age.  No, I didn’t bore him with all the details that I have written here!  He understood that the journey had taken us through many struggles, but that those very struggles had led us to the present.  The past was the past.  What we experienced in the past had brought us to where we were.  Where we had been wasn’t the point.  It was where were now and more importantly, it was where we were heading.  

Rabbi Marx assured us that we were welcome to join with a mixed multitude of fellow-travelers who had “interesting” histories themselves. And so, began the next phase of the journey that had begun in the late 60s.  We were no longer alone—we were together with Bnei Yisrael (בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל - children of Israel) journeying to the place of God’s promise. 

My perspective today after another three decades is this:  It is not even where you are.  It is who you are wherever you are.  Who you are will take form as you move towards HaShem.  Keep looking to Him and let your past be your past.  That is spiritual growth.  That is what I understand from the first of the Ten Commandments:

לֹֽ֣א־יִהְיֶ֥͏ֽה־לְךָ֛֩ אֱלֹהִ֥֨ים אֲחֵרִ֖֜ים עַל־פָּנָֽ͏ַ֗י׃ 

You shall have no other gods besides Me.

I prefer to translate “besides Me” עַל־פָּנָֽ͏ַ֗י more literally, “before My face.”  In other words, don’t let anything be a roadblock to your approach to the very face/presence of God.  The  journey is not only about self-discovery, self-connection, self-improvement or becoming “religious.”  The goal of the journey is to draw close to HaShem.  Just keep moving forward!

Together with other wandering Jews in the “circle” of Hakafa, we were ready to continue our journey under the gentle guidance of Rabbi Marx.