Nothing in Exodus forbids one from seeing Torah as religion. At least not if one uses conventional definitions for those terms. But by using secret definitions known only to the ‘inner circle’ of enlightened ones, I suppose one can reinvent Scripture to mean anything one’s heart desires, the fatal flaw of most forms of mysticism. I do not subscribe to that school of Biblical interpretation, and by God’s grace, I never will.
In any event, I am sorry we have had such a complete communication failure. But I understand it happens. I really don’t see why you couldn’t at least propose some working definition of religion we could use to talk about this. I can’t read your mind and I don’t know your secret code. If you want to reopen the conversation at a later time, that’ll be fine. Just know I’ll still be looking for my definitions of terms.
Peace,
SR
Myra Tettelbaum was a widow who lost both her husband and only son in the war. Alone on the last night of Chanukah, she sat at the kitchen table and peeled potatoes for latkes.
A loud knock at the door startled her so badly, she dropped the potato on the floor.
“Who’s there?” Myra wiped her hands on the apron around her hip as she made her way to the door.
A deep, gruff voice replied. “Assyrian!”
Myra rolled her eyes. “This one’s always early,” she muttered while opening the door.
The Assyrian greeted her with a large grin, with a bottle of oil in one hand and a box of Chanukah candles in the other. “I was only following—”
“Yeah, I know. You were only following orders.” Myra pointed at the table. “Stove is right over there.”
The Assyrian’s sword jangled loosely from his hip crossing the kitchen floor. “I think I got the hang of it this time!”
Before Myra could explain where he could find an apron, another pounded on the door.
“Who’s there?” Myra suspected it would be another familiar guest.
“It is I, Fair Oh. I brought my own potato peeler.”
Myra opened the door and let Fair Oh into the tiny apartment. “Don’t step on my cat’s tail this time. The vet bill was astronomical last year.”
Fair Oh nodded at the Assyrian heating the oil on the stove and sniffed the air. “Mmm, I love latkes,” he said with a smile as he hurried over to the table.
Myra pushed the door closed. “Wait! Please let me in,” cried a voice. “It’s me, Martin. Maimondes finally let me into his study group and he’s teaching me so much. Please? The latkes smell so delicious.”
“Martin LUTHER?” Myra’s eyes widened.
“Yes yes, that’s me. Mrs. Tettelbaum, I’m so sorry about all the mean things I said! I was only trying to save you all!”
Myra turned to the Assyrian. “Is he really studying?”
The Assyrian nodded. “He’s still taking things a little too literally, but Maimondes is his rabbi now and everyone says he’s improving.”
Myra sighed and opened the door to let Martin Luther in. “Behave yourself. I got my eye on you.”
Martin Luther hurried to the table and sat next to Fair Oh. “I will. Most definitely. I promise I will.”
“Get your own potato peeler from the drawer,” Fair Oh said with his jaw clenched.
A short knock on the door followed. Myra looked up at the ceiling. “This better not be who I think it is.”
More rapping on the door. “Mrs. Tettelbaum, I came to help peel potatoes. It’s me, Paul.”
Martin Luther foamed at the mouth and banged on the table. “Quick Mrs. Tettelbaum! Hide your purse! He’ll take every dime! He’ll steal the silverware! He’s a tax collector! Don’t believe anything he says! Don’t let him in! Please Mrs. Tettelbaum!” Spittle flew all over the table.
Fair Oh wiped some spit from his eye. “Get ahold of yourself.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” said the muffled voice behind the door. “I’ve been here longer than you. Listen to the rabbis, Mrs. Tettelbaum!”
Martin Luther banged the table hard enough, a potato rolled off. “He stole from our people!”
“Lashon hara! Lashon hara!” Paul chanted from behind the door.
The Assyrian laughed and said, “Keep that up and The Management will reassign you both to be roommates.” A drop of hot oil splattered on his arm. He yelped, then whispered an apology.
“He doesn’t like it when you talk for Him,” Fair Oh said. The potato peeler slipped in his hand and pricked his finger deep enough to draw blood. He raised the finger to his mouth, then quickly lowered it before he could taste one drop.
“You mean He/She,” Mrs. Tettelbaum scolded.
Fair Oh shrugged and whispered an apology. “My brand new potato peeler,” he said as he threw it in the garbage.
Myra gave him a quizzical glance. “Just in case,” Fair Oh said, and reached for another potato peeler.
Martin Luther scowled. “How can Paul peel potatoes when he only has one hand?”
“Knock it off! You know those turkeys didn’t know what they were doing or reading!” Paul pounded on the door. “It says to go forth and multiply! I wanted them to stop killing our people!”
“It says not to stray from your community,” Martin Luther insisted.
Myra paced in front of the door. “I lost my husband to you, and my son wanted to be just like his father. Baruch Hashem, they both turned out to be such good people that they’re not here to see you two acting like this. Irma will make sure my son goes to yeshiva this time. Paul, if I let you in, you will figure out a way to grate the potatoes with your good hand and Martin Luther will help you.”
Martin Luther slumped in the chair. “Fine. You still should hide the silverware.”
The Assyrian motioned to his sword and declared there would be no thievery as long as he was there.
“That’s enough!” Myra stamped her foot. “You all are brothers and you should act like it.”
Myra opened the door and let Paul in. He sat next to Martin Luther with a thud, and grabbed a peeled potato from the stack Fair Oh made. Martin held the grater over a bowl and Paul raked the potato back and forth.
Two firm knocks on the door were followed by a demanding voice. “Frau Tettelbaum, my friend and I would—”
“NOOOO!” all four yelled.
A man’s sobs drifted through the door. Another man tried to comfort the other, saying something about yes, it did feel like eternity in there but maybe another go round would do the trick. The sobbing man’s voice insisted he repented for everything at the end, and he didn’t understand why no one would let him in.
Soon the tiny apartment filled with people. Myra let in someone named Sadat, a King of England, a Roman, a Spaniard, a US president, and many others. The potatoes were peeled and grated, while others made apple sauce.
It got so crowded that Myra barely had enough room to open the door. The Assyrian let out a delightful squeal when he realized he was called to leave. “Baruch Hashem! I’m not going to screw it up this time!” he shouted. “I’m going to study Torah and do great things!”
“Don’t forget to have children this time!” Myra laughed. The Assyrian assured Hashem first, and everyone else second that he would. Martin Luther reminded him about charity, and Paul smiled and said he hoped the Assyrian would be a doctor this time.
After everyone had their fill of latkes and applesauce, the tiny apartment slowly emptied. Yet there was one more knocking at the door.
“Devorah, one of the great Judges!” Myra’s shock made her jaw drop. “What are you doing here?”
Devorah peered beyond Myra, her eyes searching for lit candles. “Am I too late? It’s Shabbat. I can’t not observe Shabbat!”
Myra reassured her that it was Chanukah and there wasn’t any need to light Shabbat candles. “Phew! I’ll never make that mistake again! They’re crazy down there. They still haven’t figured out they’re all Jews yet!”