Tales Of A Village Rabbi
I recall that the day was sunny, cool, and beautiful. I had sat down at my desk to return phone calls and write some letters and my rabbi’s article for our temple publication. I was well into my agenda when the intercom buzzed. The temple secretary informed me that a person was here to see me on an important matter. In my entire career I never turned anyone away who did not have an appointment. A gentle knock on the door followed—and in walked the most handsome, the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He was dressed in leather from head to toe— except that his leather cap was in his hand. It was not old creased leather—it was shiny and a bit stiff. I could hear leathery brittleness as he moved closer to my desk. He had a luminous smile that lit up my study and a smile that simply radiated a pearliness rarely seen. He also seemed extraordinarily friendly and sweetly naïve.
I shook his hand and introduced myself. In his haste to get to his important matter, he overlooked giving me his name. He got right to the point: “Rabbi, would you please bless my new motorcycle?” I was a bit stunned. I had never blessed any kind of machine before. I didn’t really want to. I couldn’t help but react cynically in days gone by to the big churches in town that blessed pets and other animal companions—or Bishops who blessed the recreation and fishing boats at the docks of the Hudson and elsewhere. But there was something so guileless, so ingenuous about him and the way he asked for the blessing. It was not in me to say “no.”
I answered that I would bless him-a living human being-but not his motorcycle, an inanimate object. I would wish for the best for him: for sunny days and happy journeys, for strength, good judgment, good fortune, and good health. But I could not bless his motorcycle. “Please,” he asked, “come downstairs and see it.” I was happy to go with him. In spite of the fact that his gleaming, shiny bike, with every possible chrome feature added to it, was in my parking spot in front of the Temple entrance (I often came to work by subway), I had to admit it, his motorcycle was an object of beauty. One could feel the love, the handwork, the care, the elbow grease, the polish lavished upon it. “You see,” he said, “it lives!” Something deep in my own animist soul agreed, but my rationalist Weltanschauung won out. I put my hand upon his shoulder. I blessed him as kindly and as lovingly as I could. I even put my other hand on his gleaming, inanimate, “significant other”-and ended with a moment of silent prayer before the final “amen.” When I had finished and informally wished him all kinds of good luck and happy riding, he climbed on the vehicle with a look of pride and satisfaction. He started up—a deep roaring, reverberating sound (probably illegal for the city)—and gunned it in neutral a few times. Above the din, he shouted, “Thanks Rabbi!” and roared off on 12th Street into the sunset. I couldn’t help but smile. I never saw him again. When I see gleaming “bikes” along the highways, I am reminded of the “wonder” of 12th street! It was a fitting jump-start for the Rabbi in the Village.
