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There is a story, perhaps a myth. Typical of mythic stories, it
has many versions. Also typical, the source of the version I am about to tell is obscure. I cannot remember whether
I heard it or read it, or where or when. Furthermore, I do not even know the distortions I myself have made in it.
All I know for certain is that this version came to me with a title. It is called “The Rabbi’s
Gift”.
The story concerns a monastery that had fallen
upon hard times. Once a great order, as a result of waves of antimonastic persecution in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries and the rise of secularism in the nineteenth, all its branch houses were lost and it had
become decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the decaying mother house: the abbot and
four others, all over seventy in age. Clearly it was a dying order.
In the deep woods surrounding the monastery there
was a little hut that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a hermitage. Through their many years of
prayer and contemplation the old monks had become a bit psychic, so they could always sense when the rabbi was in
his hermitage. “The rabbi is in the woods, the rabbi is in the woods again,” they would whisper to each other. As
he agonised over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to the abbot at one such time to visit the hermitage
and ask the rabbi if by some possible chance he could offer any advice that might save the
monastery.
The rabbi welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when
the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. “I know how it is,” he
exclaimed. “The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue
anymore.” So the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and quietly spoke of
deep things. The time came when the abbot had to leave. They embraced each other. “It has been a wonderful thing
that we should meet after all these years,” the abbot said, “but I have still failed in my purpose for coming here.
Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying
order?” “No, I am sorry,” the rabbi responded.“I have no advice to give.
The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.”
When the abbot returned to the monastery his
fellow monks gathered around him to ask, “Well, what did the rabbi say?” “He couldn’t help,” the abbot answered.
“we just wept and read the Torah together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving - it was something
cryptic - was that the Messiah is one of us. I don’t know what he meant.”
In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks pondered this and wondered whether there was any
possible significance to the rabbi’s words. 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 of us? 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 holy man. Everyone knows that
Thomas is a man of light. Certainly he could not have meant Brother Eldred! Eldred 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, Eldred is virtually
always right. Often very right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Eldred. 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? O 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 now 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 centre of light and spirituality in the realm.
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