A Downtown Meeting

Rabbi Michael L. Feshbach

Temple Beth Am

Williamsville, New York

So I was running late for my meeting. I had left the Temple late, the building I was looking for wasn't where I expected it to be, the parking sign was small and I missed it on my first pass by. Still, I was on my way to a meeting I had sought, and I was looking forward to it. I was going to meet the (Catholic) Bishop, and I was confident that "the Cause" (Catholic-Jewish dialog, mutual understanding, world peace and harmony, simple human justice, you name it) would be advanced by our encounter.

In any event, that had been my experience in the past. The dialog between the (two) rabbis of Erie, Pennsylvania, where I lived until last summer, with the region's Christian Bishops (Catholic, Episcopal, Lutheran and Methodist) had been very productive; regular meetings led to study sessions, crisis management, the building of bridges, and, on occasion, the ability to speak in a single voice as a solidly unified community of faith. I had been a proud participant in these discussions, and I believed in them.

In addition, I serve on the Reform movement's national Committee on Interreligious Affairs. I am interested in the interchange between communities of faith in this country at a national level. I believe that we are blessed to be living in a unique period of history, and a place in the world, when and where the doors of understanding and, even more simply, the opportunity for encounter with one another, exist on a scale unprecedented in all of human history. Why, just a generation ago a Catholic was not allowed to enter into a Protestant church, much less a synagogue, nor would Jews ever think of visiting a Christian service. (A concert in a church, perhaps, or the obligatory art tour of the cathedrals of Europe. But a spiritual encounter in a place that evoked images of persecution? Never! Well, hardly ever.)

And so, with local concerns and national credentials well rehearsed, I was ready for my meeting. Or so I thought.

It was a bitterly cold day. The worst of an otherwise deceptively mild winter. As I came near the entrance to the Catholic center, a young looking African American woman approached me. I could tell what was coming. She was going to ask me for money.

I was right. I haven't been asked for money on the street that much in the suburbs of late. I used to carry a separate coin purse in Manhatten, however, so I could respond to the mitzvah of tzedakah -- but also not feel a need to take my full wallet out. It was cold. She looked miserable. I took out my wallet. I gave her two dollars.

She asked for twenty. She said she was a grandmother. I gave her another single. She asked for ten, then five. God would bless me, she assured me, if only I gave her more. I told her that was all I could do. At the same time I wondered at bit.. at her theological chutzpah. Here I was, a religious leader, on my way to see another religious leader... and she was telling me whom God would bless? I wished her well, and good luck. I entered the building. And I went upstairs to my meeting.

The meeting was fine. I enjoyed it. The Bishop was warm, personable, interested... and very bright. He knew from Jews; he had a great deal of experience with Interfaith dialog throughout his career. But this is Buffalo, not Erie. It is a bigger pond. I cannot claim to represent the whole community. So here I was, the rabbi of a single synagogue, meeting with a man in charge of an entire region. I am not sure what tangible results came out of our meeting, although I am glad that I went.

I had sort of skipped lunch. I had meetings straight through the usual dinner hour. I left the downtown building, and grabbed something to eat in the mid-afternoon. The waitress was particularly nice, so I reached into my wallet to give her an additional dollar. An additional dollar. For bringing me water with a smile on her face.

And all of a sudden it hit me as if the glass of water was thrown in my face. I was so willing to part with my money, for some things. And so grudging about others. (And yes, I know the Maimonides passage, about the lowest level of tzedakah being that which is given grudgingly, or less than what one is asked to do.) So willing when it seems like my choice. So unwilling when it was someone else's.

And more. I had a meeting downtown the other day. Perhaps I wasn't late, and I wasn't early. Perhaps the meeting downtown took place exactly when it was supposed to occur. Perhaps the reason I went downtown was not to meet with a religious leader at all. Perhaps the reason I went downtown was to have a chance encounter with a woman whose name I will never know. Who had a need in her life -- and a lesson to teach. At the bottom of the building. In the harsh chill of the coldest day of the year.

I came face to face with my arrogance the other day. Not for the amount I gave. But for the self-importance in my own heart. The next time someone looks me in the eye with need... may I respond to the whole person, and with my whole being. For real meetings are not always planned. And true encounters happen, not when we have them in our schedules, but in their own time. All the time.