WISDOM
The Rabbi’s Gift

05/02/2011

There was a famous monastery which had fallen on very hard times.  Formerly its many buildings were filled with young monks and its big church resounded with the singing of the chant, but now it was deserted.  People no longer came there to be nourished by prayer.  A handful of old monks shuffled through the cloisters and praised their God with heavy hearts.

 One the edge of the monastery woods, an old rabbi had built a little hut.  He would come there from time to time to fast and pray.  No one ever spoke with him, but whenever he appeared, the word would be passed from monk to monk:  “The rabbi walks in the woods.”  And, for as long as he was there, the monks would feel sustained by his prayerful presence.

One day the abbot decided to visit the rabbi and to open his heart to him.  So he set out through the woods.  As he approached the hut, the abbot saw the rabbi standing in the doorway, his arms outstretched in welcome.  It was though he had been waiting there for some time.  The two embraced like long-lost brothers.  Then they stepped back and just stood there, smiling at one another with smiles their faces could hardly contain. 

After a while the rabbi motioned the abbot to enter.  In the middle of the room was a wooden table with the Scriptures open on it.  They sat there for a moment, in the presence of the Book.  Then the rabbi began to cry.  The abbot could not contain himself.  He covered his face with his hands and began to cry too.  For the first time in his life, he cried his heart out.  The two men sat there like lost children, filling the hut with their sobs and wetting the wood of the table with their tears.

 After the tears had ceased to flow and all was quiet again, the rabbit lifted his head.  “You and your brothers are serving God with heavy hearts,” he said.  “You have come to ask a teaching of me.  I will give you a teaching, but you can only repeat it once.  After that, no one must ever say it aloud again.”

The rabbi looked straight at the abbot and said, “The Messiah is among you.”  For a while, all was silent.  Then the rabbi said, “Now you must go.”

The abbot left without a word and without ever looking back.

The next morning, the abbot called his monks together in the chapter room.  He told them he had received a teaching from “the rabbi who walks in the woods,” and that this teaching was never again to be spoken aloud. Then he looked at each of his brothers and said, “The rabbi said that one of us is the Messiah.”

The monks were startled by this saying.  “What could it mean?” they asked themselves.  The Messiah is one of us?  Could he possibly have meant one of us monks here at the monastery? If that’s the case, which one?  Do you suppose he meant the abbot?  Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbot.  He has been our leader for more than a generation.  On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas.  Certainly Brother Thomas is a man of light.  Certainly he could not have meant Brother Elred!  Elred gets crotchety at times.  But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people’s sides, when you look back on it, Elred is virtually always right.  Often very right.  Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Elred.  But surely not Brother Phillip.  Phillip is so passive, a real nobody.  But then almost mysteriously, he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him.  He just magically appears by your side.  Maybe Phillip is the Messiah.  Of course the rabbi didn’t mean me.  He couldn’t possibly have meant me.  I’m just an ordinary person.  Yet supposing he did?  Suppose I am the Messiah?  Oh God not me.  I couldn’t be that much for You, could I.

As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah.  And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

Because the forest in which it was situated was beautiful, it so happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate.  As they did so without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place.  There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it.  Hardly knowing why, they began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray.  They began to bring their friends to show them this special place.  And their friends brought their friends.

Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks.  After a while one asked if he could join them.  Then another, and another.  So within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the rabbi’s gift, a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm.

(In those days, the rabbi no longer walked in the woods.  His hut had fallen into ruins.  But, somehow or other, the old monks who had taken his teaching to heart still felt sustained by his prayerful presence.)

 

 

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