Monday, April 16, 2001
A Gentile, part Jewish - THE COMMENTARY
By Joseph Planta
VANCOUVER -- It being a statutory holiday -- Easter Monday -- a branch off into religion in this space today. At sun down yesterday, the Jews ended their eight-day festival of Passover (Pesach, in Jewish terms) and of course it was for Gentiles all over, Easter Sunday. The gist being that on that day, Christ rose from the dead three days following the ever holy, Good Friday.
My religious affiliation is, of course, with the Roman Catholic faith. I go to mass; at least the last time I did was, two weeks ago for Palm Sunday. I’ve been missing a number of masses as of late. Circumstance and stuff alike keeps me away, plus I haven’t got the urge to go. I guess I’m weary. (As I’ve always said, religion is best consumed at one’s will rather than if it were force fed.) Funny enough though, these past couple of weeks I’ve waded into the Jewish faith, albeit ever-so lightly. I like to think though, that even if I’ve missed mass, religion hasn’t been absent from my little old life.
I do volunteer work at a nursing home. The home is primarily made up of a Jewish population; kosher if you will. Last week I was asked, if I could join a group of the residents to the local synagogue -- Beth Israel on Oak Street -- for a mini Seder. A Passover Seder is a pleasant, decent meal that is ceremonial in commemoration of the Jewish exodus from Egypt.
We schlepped to the synagogue and went to the basement where a large room was adorned in the special Seder table setting. Therein were plates of bitter herbs like parsley, which would imply at eating, the bitterness Jews felt to those who made them work as slaves at times before Christ. There were matzos, a wafer-type bread that is flat and unleavened as when leaving Egypt long, long ago there was no time for the bread to rise, thus the flatness. There was glasses of wine that were consumed in order, on the count for a multitude of reasons. Kosher wine, for its religious significance is rather sweet and for me difficult to swallow. Rather than a spirit it tasted like cough syrup. (There is also a glass of salt water used for the washing of hands. It signifies the tears that the Jews wept through their years of duress.)
The synagogue offers religious instruction to Jewish kids and this mini Seder the residents were invited to was to introduce the Passover ritual to those so said kids. The old folks and I enjoyed ourselves. For me it was quite interesting. I wore the traditional yarmulke and felt not terribly uncomfortable as one who gets terribly tense as me gets. What fazed me most, although not terribly, was the fact I can’t read Hebrew and following the Haggadah (the book at our lunch tables that contained a “script” of the religious portions of the meal) proved rather difficult.
The week after the “mini-Seder”, (which was followed by a tasty matzo ball soup and ice cream) I went to a real Seder. The home puts it on every year for the residents. And for $20 bucks family can get tickets for their own place setting. Many a family came out to pay homage to their tradition. This time I partook in the meal and after the requisite prayers and chanting, we delved into the roasted chicken adorned with vegetables and a matzo compote. See, at Passover, the consumption of anything leavened like bread and such is forbidden. (This morning at the home, they can’t wait to delve into their butter toast, the first time in just over a week.)
I had about half a glass of wine and felt the room swell in my head. The stuff is strongly sweet and, as I said, cough syrupish. Rather sickening for a Gentile. Sophie, a jolly dame of some eighty-two years, came up to me and said the night previous she had downed four large glasses and thus rightfully hung.
I also had the chance to walk with one of the resident’s in-between the Seders. He looks a spry sixty or so. So I was duly amazed when he dropped his age as it being ninety-four. Spry Mr. Lewis speaks with an English accent and for a post-teen like me it’s slightly peculiar that he speaks to me in complete sentences primed with that slight droll humour that Brits can hint so well. We talked of his life growing up in Britain and how it was being Jew there. His son is a doctor, (no surprise there) and he relayed how living in a nursing home was no fun really. “Half the people do not talk or move, the other half don’t care to.”
After a block’s walking, he decided time to head back. Ninety-four year old legs -- anything at that age -- don’t work the way they used to.
Hung Sophie came up to me as I left. In that raspy and colourful voice: “So Joseph, are you going to turn Jewish?”
With yarmulke still atop my head, I winked and shrugged: “I don’t know.”
I had loads of fun though. Catholicism has grown on me. That’s how I was when brought into and I will assume that’s how I’ll die. (Perhaps a tad brusied mind you.) Even if I don’t switch teams anytime soon, how many people can say they had fun doing anything remotely religious?