Two Brothers

             I was taking a train one time from Edinburgh to London; a four hour trek through the English countryside. My coach partner was an older, Russian rabbi. He was short and thin, boasting a slightly rotund stomach. His beard was perfectly white. And when he removed his straight-brimmed black hat, his closely trimmed hair was as white as his beard. His hands and arms were in that middle stage of maturity. Emerging were wrinkles and gradations of his skin, dispersed by sun spots beginning to overpower his arms, like the presence of weeds in the garden of an increasingly fatigued gardener. I was struck by his middle ground of existence, this straddling between self-reliant vigor and eternity.

            I must sadly admit that most of our conversations I have either involuntarily forgotten, or have been expunged from my memory—perhaps by divine intervention so that the simple beauty of the moment (like the countryside we glided upon) would not be forgotten. I cannot remember his name, and I have a hunch that he cannot remember mine…but I cannot forget his face.

            He told me he was from Russia and a rabbi. His wife was dead. His daughter lived in South Africa with her husband and his son somewhere in the Middle East. He was in Scotland on business. He spoke so gingerly, weighing each word, like a man watching the sun set; only this man knew himself to be held by the most blissful hands of glory. He spoke of life in Communist Russia, the Cold War, the majesty of his homeland, its forests and vastness. I told him that it sounded like my home, but on a larger scale, as the seed is different from the tree.

            We spoke of our faiths and of Jesus; not a theological discussion nor an intellectual one, but just honest. They were the words of two brothers separated by age, distance, culture, and all the other trademarks that could partition and devastate if focused upon.

 

But they did not.

We were united in oneness,

and we were aware of it,

through our merciful Father,

by love and by blood.

We were long lost brothers,

and we knew it to be true,

even though the world set up every imaginable barricade

attempting to defeat our love

and drive us apart.

            We laughed at our stories; he had more than me. We prayed, through our conversations, for our world, our other brothers and sisters who were asleep or angry or lonely. We prayed, through our words of love, that our Father would open their eyes too, and allow them to join in our discussion, our peace, our family.

We feasted together. I had no food, but he shared with me a snack he had packed; potato chips and chocolate, the feast of kings. We marveled at the polar tastes of salty and sweet and how wonderful they were together, as only two philosophically minded people can do. It was a spectacular four hours as my rabbi brother and I—and our Father—talked and laughed and prayed and cried together.

            The train entered the station in London and gently halted by its platform.

            “Shalom,” he wished me. Our four hands affectionately clasped together like a blessed knot, with the warmest smiles upon our faces, and all the hope and faith in our hearts.

We shared the love of brothers.

            “So, so wonderful to meet you,” I answered and prayed he understood just how deep from my soul these words were coming. “Thank you for your chips and your chocolate.”

            “Ah, thank you for sharing them with me!”

            What a gift from our Father those four hours were: it was a foretaste of paradise, the type only shared with family. But it had to end because we were not home yet. Before we descended the train and separated once again, for another span of most likely many more years, our Father whispered to us that one day we would reunite, my rabbi brother and me. And when we met again, the perishable would be gone, time obliterated. Age and culture would no longer separate us. The food would still be sweet and salty and the company would be just as full of brotherly love.

            But on that day, the sun will not set upon our fellowship, the wine will not run out, the laughter will not cease, and prayer will not be necessary.

 

             On that day, my Russian orthodox rabbi brother and I will have no need of wishing each other shalom…for Shalom will have been sitting right beside us the entire time, laughing along and eating with us, as will the rest of our long lost and finally reunited family. On that day, we will not be heading from Edinburgh to London, but from Alpha to Omega, from Amen to Amen, from joy to even more inexpressibly glorious joy.

            Oh Father, how I pray this is the case. I know you are so good and I know you love all your children far deeper than I ever can. Jesus is the only way to you. Father, in your infinite mercy and your infinite skill, make a way for those who love your children. Please, I beg of you my God, let your love be for all people as you say it is. Let me speak once more one day, filled with your laughter, with my rabbi brother. Let us share our food again on that day.

            Only the Father knows for sure who is his own. And the only soul you may answer for is yours. So do not judge. Jesus will judge. Father, may I never judge. Let us simply love; let us serve, because Jesus is alive, and allow that to demonstrate that the breath-restoring love of God commands our souls. For that is the task our God has left us to do.

To love God and to love others is to live as ‘God with us’.

This is to know the Great Story.

This is to be of his remnant.