Read Jacob the Baker: Gentle Wisdom for a Complicated World (Jacob the Baker Series) Online
Authors: Noah benShea
“
T
ell us the truth about life!” someone asked Jacob.
And Jacob responded. “Language is only a lie told about the truth.”
“Can you show us a miracle, Jacob?” they asked.
And he answered. “A miracle is often the willingness to see the common in an uncommon way.”
“How can we have more, Jacob?”
And Jacob answered. “The only way I can take a breath is by releasing my breath. In order to be more, I must be willing to be less.”
THE REASON FOR RELIGION IS NOT REASON
A
student, clearly troubled by something Jacob had said, followed him as he left the bakery.
“Jacob, did you say that what is holy has no beginning or end?”
“Yes.”
“But that is not possible,” said the student.
“That is because only the possible can be measured,” said Jacob.
The student struggled to understand. “Jacob, you are not making sense.”
Jacob nodded in agreement, then placed his hands in front of the student, covering her eyes.
“You see,” said Jacob, “reason explains the darkness, but it is not a light.”
A
community leader came to see Jacob, hoping to find peace of mind, an ease for his burden.
The man was troubled by a repetitive dream that he did not understand.
“Jacob, in my dream, I have traveled a long distance and am finally arriving at a great city. But, at the entrance to the city, I am met by a tall soldier who says that I must answer two questions before I am admitted. Will you help me?”
Jacob nodded.
“The first question the soldier asks is ‘What supports the walls of a city?’ ”
“That is easy,” said Jacob. “Fear supports the walls of a city.”
“But what supports the fear?” asked the man. “For that is the second question.”
“The walls,” answered Jacob. “The fears we cannot climb become our walls.”
A
neighbor of Jacob’s needed to start on a journey, but it was the middle of the night.
Afraid to begin, afraid not to begin … he came to Jacob.
“There is no light on the path,” he complained.
“Take someone with you,” counseled Jacob.
“Jacob, what do you mean? If I do that, there will be two blind men.”
“You are wrong,” said Jacob. “If two people discover each other’s blindness, it is already growing light!”
AN ETERNITY IS ANY MOMENT OPENED WITH PATIENCE
A
mother and father came to Jacob and asked to speak with him about patience.
“Tell us what we need to know in order to be more patient.”
“Go away,” said Jacob. “I have no time for you!”
“Well,” said the couple, “how do you think that makes us feel?”
“Ah,” said Jacob, smiling. “That is the first lesson in learning how to be patient with others.”
T
wo men approached Jacob and asked him to decide which of them was wise.
“I know what is right,” said the first man.
“I know what is wrong,” said the other.
“Good,” said Jacob. “Together you make one wise man.”
ANGER CANNOT BE PEELED WITH ANGER
A
middle-aged man contorted his face and waved a message of Jacob’s that the man had found in a loaf of bread.
“What do you mean by this?” he asked, and he proceeded to read,
“The fist starves the hand.”
Jacob took all of the man’s anger, consumed its force, and transformed it, returning peace in his voice and manner.
“When our hand is made into a fist, we cannot receive the gifts of life from ourselves, our friends, or our God.
“When our hand is closed in a fist, we cannot hold anything but our bitterness. When we do
this, we starve our stomachs and our souls. Our anger brings a famine on ourselves.”
The man was quiet. Those around him whispered back and forth what the man had said and what Jacob had answered. They urged the man to move on. But, Jacob wasn’t done.
“Put down this fury,” Jacob’s eyes pleaded. “Anger locks a man in his own house.”
A
t the end of the school day, the children came and sat on the flour sacks. Jacob would sit across from the children, and they would talk.
As Jacob told his stories, he would from time to time shut his eyes. It was as if he were remembering what to say, not by searching through his mind, but by remembering what he saw. Somewhere, he had a perfect picture, and the words he spoke were a description of this vision.
“What do you see when you shut your eyes, Jacob?” asked a little girl.
“Well,” Jacob said, “once upon a time there was a man who had a vision and began pursuing it.
“Two others saw that the first man had a vision and began following him.
“In time, the children of those who followed asked their parents to describe what they saw.
“But what their parents described appeared to be the coattails of the man in front of them.
“When the children heard this, they turned from their parents’ vision, saying it was not worthy of pursuit.”
Jacob leaned toward the little girl who had asked the question.
“So, what do we discover from this story?”
The children were quiet.
“I’ll tell you,” said Jacob.
“We discover children who deny what they have never experienced.
“We discover parents who believe in what they have never experienced.
“And, from this, we discover the question is not ‘What do I see when I shut my eyes’ but ‘What do you see when you open yours?’ ”
IT IS ONLY A FOOL WHO HAS NEVER FELT LIKE ONE
“
W
hen I shut my eyes,” one of the boys snickered, “I don’t see anything.”
“What you see is your ignorance,” said Jacob, turning his head toward the child. “And when we cannot find our ignorance, you can be sure we have lost our wisdom.”
The boy’s sarcasm dissolved into innocence. “I was making a joke,” he said, “and now I think you’re laughing at me.”
“Let me tell you a story,” said Jacob, his voice calming the boy as the story began.
“Once there was a fool who set out for the king’s palace. Along the way, people pointed
and jeered at the fool. ‘Why should a man like you be going to see the king?’ they laughed.
“ ‘Well, I’m going to be the king’s teacher,’ answered the fool with great assurance. But his conviction only brought even greater laughter from the people along the path.
“When the fool arrived at the palace, the king thought he would make short work and great jest of this man. So, the king had the fool immediately brought to the royal court.
“ ‘Why do you dare to disturb the king?’ demanded His Majesty.
“ ‘I come to be the royal teacher,’ said the fool in a very matter-of-fact manner.
“The king twisted with laughter. ‘How can you, a fool, teach me?’
“ ‘You see,’ said the fool, ‘already you ask me questions.’
“The court froze silent. The king gathered himself and stared at his ridiculous opponent. ‘You have offered me a clever response, but you have not answered my questions!’
“ ‘Only a fool has all the answers,’ came the reply, balanced on a shy smile.
“ ‘But, but,’ now the king was sputtering, ‘but what would others say if they knew the king had a fool for a teacher?’
“ ‘Better to have a fool for a teacher than a fool for a king,’ said the fool.
“When he heard this, the king, who was not a bad man, confessed, ‘Now, I do feel like a fool.’
“ ‘No,’ said the man across from him, ‘it is only a fool who has never felt like one.’ ”
The children laughed, and Jacob felt as if he were standing in front of the little heater in his home.
PRAYER IS A PATH WHERE THERE IS NONE
A
child was filled with a question, which like an itch demanded to be scratched.
“Jacob, what I don’t understand is how you are to decide whether to follow what you feel is right or what you think is right?”
Jacob touched his own chest and said, “My heart knows what my mind only thinks it knows.”
The answer pushed the boy to another question.
“What if neither my heart nor mind can help me find the way?”
And Jacob answered, “Prayer is a path where there is none.”
A
n old friend of Jacob’s was accused of a minor crime and came to see him seeking a favor.
“Jacob, I want you for my judge.”
“But I want you for my friend,” said Jacob.
“Can’t you be both?”
“Look,” said Jacob. “That judgment I have made, and already you argue with me.”
A
man wandered for many years, searching for happiness. Much came into his possession, but no joy remained.
He came to Jacob and stood weeping, complaining about how he had been cheated in life.
Eventually, he turned his head toward Jacob and moaned, “Why me? Why me?”
And Jacob answered, “Why not you? You’ve looked everywhere else.”
IT IS THE SILENCE BETWEEN THE NOTES THAT MAKES THE MUSIC
O
ne evening, in the late quiet of the bakery, Jacob stood next to a stack of bread boards freshly powdered with dry cornmeal. He touched his right forefinger to his lips and then with the same finger began drawing a repetitive image in the cornmeal.
Jacob was drawing the Hebrew letter
alef
, the silent, first letter in the alphabet.
His finger moved absently, stroking the downward open line at the backbone of the sacred form.
He drew row upon row, transforming the blank bread board into a Hebraic mandala, a staircase for his soul.
Focusing on the pattern opened what was closed, and the absent sound of the silent
alef
beckoned him, drew him in.
Then, without warning, the lights went on in the other end of the bakery. It was Samuel, and he was startled to find someone still there.
“Is that you, Jacob? Are you all right?” There was real concern in Samuel’s voice.
Jacob took a breath but said nothing.
“Did I interrupt you?”
Jacob chose kindness over honesty. “No,” he said softly.
Samuel’s focus caught on the design Jacob had marked in the cornmeal. Samuel was perplexed.
“Jacob, why do you draw this letter
alef
over and over again?”
“Because,” said Jacob, “it is the silence between the notes that makes the music; it is the space between the bars that holds the tiger.”
But while Jacob spoke, he knew Samuel was only half-listening, distracted by the burden of another question.
“Jacob,” Samuel began and then hesitated, cautious, unsure of himself, “many people would like to spend more time with you, but they are afraid their questions bother you.”
Samuel looked up to see how what he was saying was being taken.
After being invisible for most of his life, Jacob found it strange that these same people would now be concerned about disturbing him.
The history of a hidden, quiet life had served Jacob well and now lent him the strength to be—and be in public.
“Sometimes my questions bother me,” Jacob said to Samuel.
“Then you don’t mind?” Samuel’s question was clearly phrased with hopeful expectation.
“I am happy I have been ignored until now,” said Jacob, conscious of the challenge to find joy in the obligations of fate.
“Well,” Samuel continued to press “then you will still put up with our questions?”
Jacob pulled his hands together in the shape of a small bowl. “Samuel, our life is a vessel, and a vessel is formed for two functions. One is to hold”—then Jacob flattened his hands as if he were making an offering,—“and the other is to pour.”
Samuel understood. He backed out of the bakery. Jacob remained.
When the silence was renewed, Jacob swept his hand across the bread boards, like a tide’s wash, erasing the patterns in the cornmeal.
WHEN I CAN’T FIND MY IGNORANCE I HAVE LOST MY WISDOM
J
acob was wakened before dawn by thunder. A dark rain danced on his roof. He wrapped himself in the weather and his prayers.
The thunder crashed again. He touched memories of his mother telling him not to fear the rumbling, telling him that it was only God moving furniture.
Jacob wondered what was being rearranged on this morning.
He bent his body into the rain and toward the bakery.
Lightning fractured the sky, then retreated to the blackness.
A student was waiting in the rain to seek Jacob’s advice. The boy ran along side of Jacob and matched his stride.
“Jacob, what are the limits of a man?”
“Ask the man!” said Jacob, without losing his pace.
“And what if the man acknowledges no limits?”
“Then you’ve discovered his.”
“But,” the student persisted, “what then is the route to wisdom?”
“Humility!” came the reply.
“How long is the route?”
And Jacob answered, “I don’t know.
A
t the back of the bakery, a young man leaned against the loading dock. He bit on his lower lip nervously while he spoke with Jacob.
“I’m sorry to take your time, but I’m about to be married, and …” The perspective groom stammered to a stop.
Jacob nodded but said nothing.
The young man began again to unfold his fear.
“I’m about to be married, but I’m afraid if I join with a woman, I will somehow lose part of myself.”
Jacob moved his hand in such a way as to imply he was brushing away the fears. “Don’t worry about this. If you join with a woman, you will not lose part of yourself. In fact”—Jacob patted the young man’s chest—“if you join with a woman, there is a very good chance you will no longer be lost in yourself.”