Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (32 page)

O come, let us adore Him…
”

Here, Father Donne and his parishioners paused, looked around at the stunned hall full of Jews, and at the top of their voices, chorused the last line:

“
Christ the Lord!
”

A collective groan came from the guests, amplified through the loudspeakers with my own sigh. So much for my hoped-for interfaith camaraderie.

I stood, intending to calm the gathering storm.

Before I could speak, Father Donne raised his hand. “We would have liked to heed your call for brotherhood,” he declared. “We would have liked to make the effort for peace. But not on this most sacred day of the year. Because Christ is the Lord! And today He was born to Mary and the Holy Father!”

“
Please, Father Donne.” I took a few steps forward. “Why can’t we concentrate on what’s common to all of us, the faith in one God?”

“
Because this is a Christian holy day!” His voice was rising, his thin face tight with righteous indignation. “For too long we have watched cheap commercialism and gaudy ornaments dilute the spirit of a true Christmas!” He pointed toward the exit door. “Right outside this Jewish temple you’ve constructed a glaring example of the abomination that’s been visited upon our most sacred day with growing frequency and aggression! Flickering lights, hewn trees, caricatured saints, and imported snow!”

Only now it occurred to me that his own church bore no decorations whatsoever. The man was a prude, and I had invited him to a dance. “I’m sorry, Father, that you feel that way, but—”

“
What would you feel,” he interrupted me, “if we invited you to a pig roast on Rosh Hashanah? Or decorated our church with a thousand glowing crosses on Yom Kippur?”

“
It’s not the same,” I said meekly.

“
Isn’t it? Why? Is your Jewish star less sectarian than our cross? Is your Rosh Hashanah holier than our Christmas? Don’t you know that tonight we celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ?”

“
Yes, but why—”

“
Tonight we celebrate the beginning of His mission on earth, His coming, which you rejected!” With his arm stretched, his finger pointing, he turned slowly, covering the whole room. “You rejected the true Messiah! You caused His suffering! You turned your backs on Him and have continued to defy Him for two thousand years! And now you dare to be squatters in His domain? To usurp His day of Christmas?”

“
We do not!” Rabbi Rachel entered the Gathering Hall in a wheelchair, pushed by Cantor Bentov. Her left leg was in a cast. She pointed at me. “This man does not represent the King Solomon Synagogue!”

Her entrance shocked everyone, especially me.

“
Dr. Dinwall had no right to besmirch our sanctuary with pagan symbols and insult you in the process!” The rabbi swiveled her chair to face the priest. “Please accept our apology.”

Father Donne responded with a cryptic, one-shoulder shrug.

“
It is true,” she continued, “that we do not share your faith and therefore have no right to partake in your Christmas. We’ll turn off all the Christmas lights immediately and have the place cleaned up by tomorrow morning.”

“
So be it.” Father Donne beckoned his companions, and they headed to the door. But before exiting, he stopped and turned to us. “Do you think I’ve gotten so upset because of a foolish party in this little…
shtetl?
” He uttered the last word in derision, clearly aware of American Jews’ pride in their professional and financial achievements barely a generation or two removed from that pitiful Eastern European Jewish existence, so aptly depicted in
Fiddler on the Roof
. “Do you think I would bother to come here because of one man’s futile attempt to alleviate his guilt for betraying his Savior?”

“
I resent that statement!” My voice was louder than I intended, the mike still attached to my shirt. “That was uncalled for!”

He looked at me, shaking his head. “I came here to give you a message on behalf of all good Christians: We’re sick of Jews composing stupid songs that cheapen our holiest of days! We’re tired of Jews fluffing up their department stores to lure the faithful away from God’s true worship or dressing up fat men in red coats and cotton beards to seduce our children with toys they don’t need! I came here to tell you that we’re tired of Jews concocting devious ways to carve off pounds of flesh from our Holy Christmas!”

His words affected me like a punch to the chest, delivered while I was expecting an embrace. I wanted to yell at Father Donne that the only flesh I carved was that of my patients, most of them good Christians whom I brought back from the dead. I wanted to tell him how wrong he was, but I couldn’t speak, all my energy and willpower directed to fight off a sudden tide of nausea while thinking furiously:
A chair! I need a chair!

I started toward my seat and would have collapsed halfway there, but Mordechai must have noticed the look on my face and rushed forward to help me. Debra held up a glass of water for me, and I gulped it down.

The hall was dead silent. Everyone was looking at me.

“
I’m fine.” My voice sounded odd even to me. “Really, I’m fine.”

“
But I’m not fine!” Rabbi Rachel shifted in the wheelchair. “I must say, Father Donne, that your words are very painful. How can you blame the Jewish people for commercializing Christmas? Are we the inventors of free markets?”

“
Yes, you are,” he said with a passing grin, “the instigators of commercialism and capitalism, as well as communism, socialism, liberalism, globalism—”

“
And monotheism,” I said.

“
Yes,” Father Donne conceded, “our faith is the divine evolution of yours. Which is why I would not have come here tonight to protest your greed alone.”

“
There’s more?”

“
The ultimate insult is that, while you profit from twisting the true spirit of our Christmas by converting the faithful into obsessive consumers, you simultaneously work to destroy the very holiday that enriches you.”

“
That’s a blood libel,” Rabbi Rachel said. “What facts do you have to support such a vile accusation?”

“
Facts are hard to come by when an evil deed is accomplished so insidiously.” He paused, looking around with a knowing expression. “You chip away at the Christian character of this great country until little is left. You, a tiny heretical minority in this United States of America—
One Nation Under God!
—have been manipulating the Congress and the courts to cleanse Christianity from our soil.”

“
With all due respect!” Larry Emanuel stood up, his deep voice full of the authority that had helped him rise to top management. “The legal concept of separation of Church and State comes from the Constitution. You can’t blame us for it! There wasn’t a single Jew among the founding fathers!”

“
I have read the Constitution.” The priest pulled a little booklet from his pocket and waved it. “It doesn’t say anything about erasing the Ten Commandments from our public institutions! About forbidding prayer to His grace in our public schools! About scrubbing off any mention of His name from our public life!” Father Donne was yelling now, his voice growing hoarse. “This was a Christian country until our courts succumbed to evil
misinterpretations
of the Constitution, cooked up by clever Jewish lawyers!”

“
That’s complete nonsense!” Larry yelled. “You’re twisting history for the sake of bigotry!”

“
And even now,” Father Donne continued, “our own elected officials fearfully send out cards that say:
Happy Holidays!
What holiday is it, whose name may not be mentioned? What holiday is it, that its very mention would be offensive? What holiday is it, that a coalition of enemies have concerted an attack on its very spirit?”

His rhetorical questions earned no response from the stunned hall.

Supporting myself on Mordechai’s arm, I rose to my feet. “Your accusations, Father, are yet another sad example in a long Christian tradition of blaming the Jews for every plague, natural disaster, and economic crisis. Just like the Romans did to a Jew named Joshua, you crucify us again and again for crimes we didn’t commit.”

He waved his hand in dismissal and exited through the double doors ahead of his parishioners. But a moment later, while everyone was still hushed, the priest poked his head back in and yelled, “
Merry Christmas!
”

God Rest You Merry Gentlemen

“
See what you’ve done?” Rabbi Rachel glared at me while Cantor Bentov wheeled her all the way to the podium and turned her to face the hall. “I’m not angry at Father Donne,” she continued. “He has the right to feel resentful over this. How in the world could anyone expect this to end well?”

The “anyone” in her question was me, so I answered. “Why shouldn’t we expect our Christian neighbors to join us in prayer? Don’t we believe in the same God?”

“
You want them to join us after you insulted them?”

“
I did not!”

“
Christmas Nosh?” The rabbi sneered. “Do you realize how demeaning it sounds to a devout Christian to be invited to a tongue-in-cheek
Nosh
only hours before their solemn Midnight Mass?”

“
It wasn’t meant as mockery.”

“
Then as what? A poke in the eye?”

“
An opportunity to bring us together, Jews and Christians.”

“
Dr. Christian Dinwall, what’s gotten into you?
Satan?
”

Rebecca tensed up, and I thought she would lash out at the rabbi, but she didn’t.

“
You’re playing Scrooge without even knowing it!” Rabbi Rachel shook her head in dismay. “Let me illuminate it for you: How would you feel if they invited us to celebrate Debra’s wedding with a cozy Swingers Night?”

A few people chuckled, but most only sat in silent discomfort. They were members of the synagogue who respected the rabbi as spiritual leader and me as lay leader. The two of us doing battle in front of them was inappropriate, I knew, and no one would have the guts to take sides.

Except maybe Aaron Brutsky, who stood up and said, “First of all, Rabbi, we’re sorry to see that you’ve been injured. On behalf of the congregation, we wish you a quick and full recovery.”

She reclined her head. “Thank you, Aaron.”

“
In the meantime,” he continued, “we should return to the main purpose of this evening, which is to celebrate Debra’s marriage and take joy and comfort in God’s blessings.”

Cantor Bentov looked at her. “May I?”

“
Of course,” Rabbi Rachel said. “Go ahead, gentlemen.”

“
Hold on,” I said, “about our Christian guests.”

Rebecca hissed, “Rusty!”

“
I want to remind you of the Prophet Isaiah,” I continued, “who quoted God: ‘
My house shall be a prayer house for all the gentiles.
’ God wants us to invite non-Jews to pray with us, because His house, this synagogue, is for people of all nations and faiths. We shouldn’t give up on Shalom.”

“
You’re taking the quote out of context,” the rabbi said. “The paragraph, at Isaiah fifty-six, verses six to eight, starts by referring to those gentiles who have joined Judaism to serve God, observe His laws, and be bound by His covenant. Only they are invited to pray at our temple. You’re taking undue liberties!”

Her animosity was shocking, as if our long friendship had been shattered by an offense she could not forgive. Was she still upset over the Warnick vote at Judy’s house? Did she really believe the congregation was better off living hand-to-mouth in a contiguous state of pleading for small donations and overdue membership fees?

“
It’s pathetic,” the rabbi continued, “trying to bridge over two thousand years of hate with an invitation for a kosher dessert.”

“
And how else,” I asked, “could we end the hate, if not by reaching out to them? Isn’t it better to get together and break bread than to break bones?”

“
Clever wordplay won’t change deep-rooted reality. Didn’t you hear what Father Donne said? Any day but Christmas!”

“
Why?”

“
Because their infant lord was born on this day! Their
faith
was born—”

“
We can share their celebration without sharing their faith.”

“
You want us to celebrate this terrible day in a synagogue? Have you forgotten the terror which Christmas Day has brought on Jews in the past two millennia? The wholesale expulsions of Jews from their homes, the Inquisition cellars, the burnings at the stake? Have you forgotten the pogroms that priests instigated every Christmas, sending mobs to kill Jews nonstop until the New Year? Have you forgotten the Christmas revelers who screamed
Jesus killers!
as they barred the doors on whole congregations and burnt down the synagogues over their heads?” Rabbi Rachel pointed in the general direction of Father Donne’s church and cried, “Their Christmas is our Memorial Day!”

With her last words hanging in the air, she turned her wheelchair and rolled to the side door, which led to the foyer and the synagogue offices.