21/9/99
For
the
joy
of
Judaism
Mythological
tales
are
told
of
saintly
Jews
abounding
in
humility,
knowledge
and
wisdom,
wondrous
people
just
as
close
to
God
as
to
humanity.
I
found
one.
And
he's
no
myth.
I
can
be
forgiven
for
having
harbored
cynical
doubts
after
hearing
about
Rabbi
Mordechai
Machlis,
and
before
meeting
him.
Here
in
Rabbiland,
there
are
many
with
many
fine
attributes,
a
few
with
none,
and
perhaps
fewer
who
are
so
lofty
that
--
in
Jerusalem's
religion
industry
--
they
are
failures.
Rabbi
Machlis
--
"Please,"
he
would
say,
"Call
me
Mordechai"
--
is
a
failure
because
he
does
not
play
the
game.
He
is
not
loud
enough
about
how
quiet
he
is,
he
shuns
the
politics
of
power,
prestige
and
influence,
he
doesn't
understand
the
fashionability
of
false
modesty,
of
cult
of
personality,
of
mystic
stature-building.
Doesn't
hobnob
or
hustle,
publicize
or
promote.
All
he
does,
for
heaven's
sake,
is
do
good.
(And
he'd
really
prefer
I
didn't
write
about
it,
but
I
declined
to
ask
his
permission.)
As
Shabbat
approaches,
his
household
is
busy
preparing.
It's
a
large
family,
so
there's
a
lot
to
do,
but
they
like
having
guests,
so
there's
always
a
bit
of
extra
work
and
added
expense.
Not
three
or
four
guests.
A
hundred.
Maybe
150.
That's
how
it
is
every
week
in
the
Machlis
household
in
Ma'alot
Dafna,
that's
how
it's
always
been
--
for
the
past
18
years.
Why?
Well,
his
wife
is
a
great
cook,
and
Shabbat
is
a
beautiful
experience,
and
they
love
people,
so
why
not?
On
second
thought,
the
greater
mitzva-macher
is
his
wife,
Henny.
A
semitrailer-load
of
splendid
food
goes
through
her
small
kitchen
--
for
Friday
dinner
AND
Shabbat
lunch.
And
they
don't
just
serve
a
spoonful
of
this,
a
shtikl
that:
from
the
18
chickens
she
cooks,
to
the
three
different
kugels
and
array
of
salads,
to
the
choice
of
four
desserts
(not
to
mention
the
gefilte
fish,
chicken
soup,
cholent,
and
even
vegetarian
alternatives),
you
can
fress,
take
seconds,
and
go
home
heartily
content.
Never
mind
that
the
family
is
(so
I'm
told)
deeply
in
debt,
that
they
pay
for
everything
themselves,
that
they
wouldn't
think
of
scrounging
for
donations
or
institutional
funding.
Never
mind
that
they
are
not
salting
away
a
nest-egg
for
their
12
children.
They
have
this
crazy
notion
that
bounty
should
be
shared,
never
mind
if
you
can
afford
it.
Mordechai
and
Henny
feed
the
thronging
masses
not
just
food,
but
morsels
of
learning,
servings
of
hospitality,
and
great
vatfuls
of
love
of
Judaism.
They're
not
agenda-driven
missionaries
ramming
religion
down
your
throat
--
because
they're
not
collecting
souls,
they're
nourishing
them.
You
eat,
you
listen
to
what
Mordechai
--
and
Henny
--
have
to
say
about
Torah
wisdom
and
morality,
and
perhaps
you'll
stand
up
and
contribute
your
thoughts,
as
many
do.
You
sing
or
just
listen;
utter
the
prayers,
or
not;
eat
and
leave,
or
stay
and
talk:
even
after
the
family
has
gone
to
bed,
the
door
swings
open
and
more
people
come
in
--
as
late
as
midnight
--
to
nosh
or
shmooze.
(Why
they
bother
to
have
a
door
I
don't
know.)
It's
one
of
the
most
enthralling
Jewish
experiences
I've
ever
had
in
this
city,
where
Judaism
can
be
warped
into
such
ugliness.
BEYOND
THE
food,
and
the
food
for
thought,
this
is
a
remarkable
encounter
with
people.
It
can
get
unruly,
vehement,
or
emotional
to
the
point
of
tears.
When
the
ingathering
gets
a
chance
to
be
heard,
they
don't
always
heed
the
rabbi's
plea
for
sensitive,
respectful
political
correctness.
Hot,
roiling
debate
might
take
hold.
But
just
as
likely,
someone
might
describe
how
they
discovered
their
Jewish
roots,
beg
forgiveness
for
anti-Semitism,
or
recall
with
reverence
how
the
Machlis
family
changed
their
lives,
and
everyone
will
be
quietly
sobbing.
What
startled
me
most
was
that
close
to
half
the
assembled
were
gentiles
seeking
an
intense
Jewish
experience.
Mordechai
and
Henny
are
Americans
in
their
mid-40s,
and
the
proceedings
are
in
English,
but
the
Judaism
is
neither
watered
down
for
the
most
ignorant
guest,
nor
pedantic
and
enigmatic
for
the
most
knowledgable.
Indeed,
there
were
a
number
of
haredim
and
modern
Orthodox
present,
mixed
in
with
an
amazing
assortment
of
newly-religious,
newly-Jewish
or
soon-to-be,
elderly
Sephardim,
families
and
singles,
neighbors,
self-styled
disciples
of
the
rabbi,
a
few
oddballs
and
kooks,
the
poor,
the
lonely,
people
under
one
influence
or
another.
And
of
course,
the
Machlis
children,
a
dozen
beautiful
youngsters
aged
one
to
19.
Having
grown
up
in
such
a
pulsating
environment,
they
are
like
the
flower
children
of
a
'60s
commune.
"We
don't
need
MTV,"
one
of
them
chirped,
"We
have
Shabbes."
There
was
a
young
man
from
Slovakia
who
had
arrived
on
aliya
five
days
earlier.
A
leggy,
underdressed
beauty
from
California,
here
with
her
husband
on
their
honeymoon.
A
group
of
young
South
African
Christians,
one
of
whom
had
to
go
out
for
air
because
he
was
overcome
by
emotional
tumult.
A
Christian
Australian
family,
a
day
after
arriving
on
their
first
visit.
A
middle-aged
Florida
tourist
who
spoke
earnestly
of
Jesus,
challenging
Mordechai
to
respond
wisely.
And
four
young
men
who
looked
very
much
like
soccer
louts,
German
Christians
profoundly
self-conscious
to
be
there,
but
--
encouraged
by
Mordechai's
effusive
warmth
and
sincere
respect
--
courageous
enough
to
stand
and
state
their
feelings.
One
of
the
Germans,
Manfred,
almost
apologetic
for
his
presence,
needed
us
to
understand
that
his
name
means
"man
of
peace."
Another
of
them
asked
me,
wide-eyed
and
whispering,
if
this
is
how
all
Jewish
homes
are.
I
could
barely
answer
for
the
lump
in
my
throat.
People
speak,
awed,
of
the
Machlis
sense
of
charity
and
kindness.
Stories
are
told...
When
Mordechai
walks
home
from
the
Kotel,
he
greets
Arab
shopkeepers
with
a
friendly
"Shabbat
Shalom."
A
homeless
man
sleeps
in
their
van,
and
they
never
know
who
they
might
find
on
their
couch
in
the
morning.
The
poor
and
hungry
know
they
can
walk
in
anytime
and
fill
their
pockets
from
the
Machlis
pantry.
A
sorry
old
drunk
was
invited
to
the
eldest
Machlis
daughter's
wedding,
and
was
honored
by
getting
to
dance
with
the
bride's
father.
Does
it
ever
get
to
be
a
bit
much?
Doesn't
this
family
sometimes
crave
a
quiet,
intimate
Shabbat
without
intruders,
just
the
14
of
them?
"Sure,"
said
one
of
the
girls,
a
16-year-old
identical
twin.
"We
go
away
once
every
few
months,
just
the
family."
I
was
relieved
to
hear
that.
"But,"
she
added
quickly,
"We
worry
that
some
people
won't
have
a
Shabbat
meal,
so
we
leave
food
outside."
