Have a Little Faith - Mitch Albom [33]
“Hal-le-lujah…anyhow!”
When the song stopped, Henry picked right back up with his preaching. There was no line between prayer, hymn, word, song, preach, beseech, or call and respond. It was apparently all part of the package.
“We were in here last night,” Henry said, “just looking around, looking around, and the plaster was peeling and the paint was chipping everywhere—”
“Sure is!”
“And you could hear the water pouring in. We had buckets all over. And I asked the Lord. I began to pray. I said, ‘Lord, show us your mercy and your kindness. Help us heal your house. Just help us fix this hole—’”
“All right now—”
“And for a few minutes, I despaired. Because I don’t know where the money will come from to fix it. But then I stopped.”
“That’s right!”
“I stopped, because I realized something.”
“Yes, Rev!”
“The Lord, you see, he’s interested in what you do, but the Lord don’t care nothing about no building.”
“Amen!”
“The Lord don’t care nothing about no building!”
“That’s RIGHT!”
“Jesus said, ‘Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.’ God don’t care about no building. He cares about you, and what’s in your heart.”
“Lord of Hosts!”
“And if this is the place where we come to worship—if this is the place where we come to worship…if this is the only place we can come to worship…”
He paused. His voice lowered to a whisper.
“Then it is holy to him.”
“Yes, Rev!…Preach it, Pastor!…Amen!…Way-ell!”
The people rose and clapped enthusiastically, convinced, thanks to Henry, that while their building might be disintegrating, their souls were still in sight, and perhaps the Lord was using that roof hole to peer down and help them.
I looked up and saw the red buckets and the water dripping. I saw Henry stepping back, in his huge blue robe, singing along in prayer. I wasn’t sure what to make of him—charismatic, enigmatic, problematic? But you had to figure his mother was right all along. He was going to be a preacher, no matter how long it took.
I begin to read about faiths beyond my own. I am curious to see if they aren’t more similar than I had believed. I read about Mormons, Catholics, Sufis, Quakers.
I come upon a documentary about the Hindu celebration of Kumbh Mela, a holy pilgrimage from the mouth of the Ganges River to its source in the Himalayas. The legend is that four drops of immortal nectar were dropped when the gods fought with the demons in the sky, and that nectar landed in four places on earth. The pilgrimage is a journey to those places; to bathe in the river waters, to wash away sins, and to seek health and salvation.
Millions attend. Tens of millions. It is an incredible sight. I see bearded men dancing. I see holy men with pierced lips and powdered skin. I see elderly women who have traveled for weeks to seek the majesty of God in the snowcapped mountains.
It is the largest gathering of humanity on earth and has been called “the world’s largest single act of faith.” Yet for most in my country, it is totally alien. The documentary refers to Kumbh Mela as “being part of something big while doing something small.”
I wonder if that applies to visiting an old man in New Jersey?
A Good Marriage
I haven’t said a lot about the Reb’s wife. I should.
According to Jewish tradition, forty days before a male baby is born, a heavenly voice shouts out whom he will marry. If so, the name “Sarah” was yelled for Albert sometime in 1917. Their union was long, loving, and resilient.
They met through a job interview in Brighton Beach—he was a principal, she was seeking an English teacher’s job—and they disagreed on several issues and she left thinking, “There goes that job”; but he hired her and admired her. And eventually, months later, he asked her into his office.
“Are you seeing anyone romantically?” he inquired.
“No, I’m not,” she replied.
“Good. Please keep it that way. Because I intend to ask you to marry me.”
She hid her amusement.
“Anything