Holy Cross Center for Religion, Ethics, and Culture
Rabbi Norman M. Cohen
March 1, 2001

The Yiddish word Beshert means something that was meant to be, but more than that, it suggests that there is a plan; that somehow long before the actual event, a trigger was set at the end of a series of circumstances that would automatically release and bring about the inevitable. In this view of life, there is no such thing as coincidence. Serendipity is actually a well constructed plan unfolding. We might be tempted to say that beshert is the same as destiny, fortune, karma, and fate. Perhaps predetermination is a shade closer. Yet beshert contains theological overtones as well. For Jews, beshert means that God has something to do with it.

Since the word is Yiddish, we can trace its origin to Eastern Europe within the last thousand years, a relatively recent development in the span of Jewish history. However, the idea behind it is at least as ancient as Rabbinic Judaism, whose development began more than 2000 years ago. Indeed, this theological concept can arguably be traced to the creation story itself. I am convinced that the faith on which beshert is based derives from the earliest sources of Jewish thinking.

In Rabbinic thinking, the miracles that would someday occur were already determined before the world was created. For example, the crossing of the Red Sea was ordained thousands of years before its occurrence, which would happen at just the right place and time in history.

And surely, on a much less grandiose scale, in the imagination of each and every individual, there must be some events in our own lives that could be placed in the category of beshert. For us, these are our personal miracles, those incidents and life thresholds without which we would not be who we are today.

For me, it is easy, especially standing here in this environment that brings back so many memories, so powerful, even these three decades later. My journey to and from Holy Cross is one of those miracles, one of those events in my life that is in my mind and heart beshert.

What a mark of distinction it is to occupy this honored podium. Each time I am invited to present clergy institutes and scholar-in-residence programs at various campuses and synagogues, churches and educational institutions throughout the country, it is a privilege, which I do not take lightly. But there is nothing to match the thrill of coming home, to my alma mater, to the font that nourished so much of what has become my essence.

I cannot read anything by or about Elie Wiesel, or attend his public lectures without thinking back to Joe Maguire's Principles of Guidance class. Joe's gentle, yet powerful presence here at Holy Cross allowed him to teach not only in the classroom but even more effectively in the personal exchanges, the late night discussions with those fortunate enough to count him as a friend as well.

It was during his class that I began to read, listen to and study the teachings of Elie Wiesel. One of his lesser-known true stories, "The Jew from Saragosa" contains an important piece of my beshert puzzle. I was so struck and inspired by it, that I delivered a sermon about it on Yom Kippur several years ago.

Wiesel is such a masterful writer, that in sharing his story, I will use his words as much as possible. "Decades ago, he traveled to Saragosa, a Spanish city that had a thriving Jewish community in the Middle Ages until the Expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492. Wiesel, like a good tourist, was attentively exploring the local cathedral when a man approached and in French, offered to serve as a guide for no fee at all, simply for the pleasure of having his town admired. He spoke of Saragosa enthusiastically and eloquently. He commented on everything: history, architecture, and customs.

After a while, the guide asked Wiesel many personal questions, discovering that Wiesel was quite a linguist. When he learned that Wiesel was a Jew who spoke Hebrew, his eyes lit up. 'There have been no Jews here for almost 500 years and I have been waiting to meet one so that I could ask for your help. There is something I want to show you at my home.

How could Wiesel turn down his gracious host? They walked several blocks to the apartment building where he lived. They climbed the stairs to the third floor, and the man invited Wiesel inside.

'Wait here, I will bring it.'

Wiesel sat there wondering what it could be. He looked around. A kerosene lamp lit up a portrait of the Virgin Mother. A crucifix hung opposite. A few minutes later, the man brought a fragment of yellowed parchment. 'Is this in Hebrew?' the Spaniard asked.

Wiesel carefully unrolled and examined it. He was immediately overwhelmed with emotion. This was a sacred relic, fragment of a testament written centuries before. In a choked voice, Wiesel replied, 'Yes, it is in Hebrew.'

'Please read it to me. Tell me what it says.'

Wiesel, hand trembling, deciphering the characters blurred by the passage of some five hundred years, translated for his new friend. 'I, Moses the son of Abraham, forced to break all ties with my people and my faith, leave these lines to the children of my children and to theirs, in order that on the day when Israel will be able to walk again, its head high under the sun, without fear and without remorse, they will know where their roots lie. Written at Saragosa, this ninth day of the month of Av, in the year of punishment and exile.'

Wiesel, all choked up, asked the Spaniard if he would sell him the document. The man, shaking his head no, was more astounded than Wiesel and explained. It was the tradition in his family to transmit this object from father to son. It was looked upon as an amulet, the disappearance of which would call down a curse. History had just closed the circle. It had taken nearly five centuries for the message of Moses, son of Abraham, to reach its destination. The Spaniard could not believe it. He was the first to rediscover its meaning. He was a Jew, a Judeo, a word that had become an insulting phrase that evoked the devil.

'Read it again, all of it.' he demanded.

'That's all?' he asked after Wiesel had slowly repeated every single word of the document. 'You must tell me more.'

They sat for hours that afternoon and evening, Wiesel and his host. They talked of Jewish history, Torah, Hebrew, questions and stories. Wiesel traced Jewish history, not omitting the especially painful part of the Spanish past, when Queen Isabella used Torquemada to transform the entire country into a gigantic stake upon which the Jews were burned to save them from their lack of faith. The Spaniard discovered unknown chapters in his history. He had not known the Jews had been so intimately linked with the greatness of his country before they were driven out. This man who so proudly offered tours of his hometown, telling all the details and secrets, was no different in his appetite to know everything now.

They went back to the cathedral, where heavy with fatigue, they sat on a bench inside, and there in that quiet half darkness where nothing seemed to exist anymore, the Spaniard begged Wiesel to read him one last time the testament that a Jew of Saragosa had written long ago, thinking of him."

My work as a rabbi brings me into contact with so many Jews today who are seeking and searching for their identity. If they are lucky, something will happen that will trigger the spark of Jewish identity from which a serious commitment to our faith and covenant may evolve. For me as a rabbi, those are the moments that define my vocation.

On that Yom Kippur, when I delivered that sermon, I bared my soul to my congregation, carrying on the age-old Jewish custom of confession. What I told my congregation that night, I tell you now: In a certain way, I am that Jew of Saragosa, for I was in a different way, unaware of how important my Jewish identity was to me. I have not always valued Judaism the way that I do today. I did not always want to be a Rabbi. There is little doubt that my time here at Holy Cross among the Jesuits was a critical cathartic catalyst in my becoming the Jew that I am. I did have a Jewish upbringing but one that was unfortunately typical of American Jewry in the fifties and sixties and still prevails today in some Jewish communities.

It seemed to me, as a child, that the goal of my Jewish education was to have a Bar Mitzvah. Well meaning, my parents, like so many others, understood their responsibility to be limited to providing a Jewish education for their children. In addition to public school, I was also enrolled at the Hebrew Institute of Pittsburgh, attending religious school five days a week, Monday through Thursday after school and on Sunday morning. Saturday morning services were also required. In answer to my understandable protests, my parents assured me that after my Bar Mitzvah, I could have my way.

In spite of all that, my Bar Mitzvah was a tremendous personal experience for me. My grandfather was so delighted that he wanted to send me away to a yeshiva to become an Orthodox rabbi. Had that happened, I never would have made my way to Holy Cross, nor might I add, to the Reform rabbinate. But Grandpa Harry died two months later, and so did those potential plans.

After my Bar Mitzvah, I had had enough. Now I could stay after school for extracurricular activities. I could have a paper route. I could play ball. I could do lots of things that were prevented by my rigorous Hebrew education. My attitude about Jewish life was that I was done learning. I had my Bar Mitzvah. That was the message, even though it was not intended.

So when Jim Gallagher, a recruiter from Holy Cross visited Taylor Allderdice, the public high school I attended in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood before bussing, I was not worried about the religious conflicts that might occur. Why should my Jewish identity present a problem? Indeed, this was a unique opportunity for a young man with good grades and test scores but little direction about his future.

When my wife, Andrea, and I recently saw the film, Finding Forrester, I was eerily struck by the scene in which the young African American protagonist, Jamal Wallace, a student with tremendous academic test scores and outstanding athletic abilities, is called out of class to the principal's office. There, at this predominantly black public school, a recruiter from a very elite predominantly white private prep school is waiting to offer him a full scholarship, if he will come to study and play basketball. That reminded me of my own similar experience. I had good grades, strong SAT scores, and my school was predominantly Jewish in population.

So why would Holy Cross be interested in me? While schools like Boston College and Georgetown, also Jesuit, have a religious diversity in their student body, it is more of a challenge to interest non-Catholics in a school with the name Holy Cross. This attempt to diversify the student body was not so unusual at liberal arts schools with a decidedly skewed population and reputation. Brandeis University did the same, trying to attract non-Jews to their fine school. So while most college recruiting is directed at athletes, Holy Cross was interested in my ethnic potential.

When I went to Holy Cross I had no idea that I would ever become a rabbi. My Judaism was something I took for granted. That is easy to do when you live in a Jewish neighborhood. It is so easy not to think about its significance where it is in the air that you breathe. At Holy Cross I learned not to overlook just how significant being Jewish was to me.

All of a sudden, I was the only Jew, removed from the environment of almost all Jewish friends that had been my world throughout high school. All of a sudden, people were asking me questions about Judaism, many of which I had no idea how to answer. All of a sudden, being Jewish was an extremely significant part of who I was. It defined me in a way that I had never experienced before. And I liked it. In a sense I had found my own parchment of Saragosa. At that point in my personal journey, the language on that parchment was still somewhat of a mystery, as it was for the Jew from Saragosa, but the message was clear. I am a Jew and I need to do something about it. Like the Jew in Saragosa, I began to discover what that identity could mean.

Once at Holy Cross, I found myself thinking about Judaism very differently.  At home, my friends were Weinstein, Feinberg, and Schwartz. At Holy Cross, they were Donovan, Murphy, and McGrath. I recall my first Chanukah here, lighting candles in the window of my dorm room in Beaven Hall. My new Holy Cross buddies were there, eager to be told the story of the Maccabees, and with a gift in hand, encouraged this personal Jewish practice that I had always done, up until then in my life, without too much thought. The gift, a book, Some of My Best Jokes are Jewish, was inscribed by each of them under the word Shalom, that they had correctly calligraphed in Hebrew. It still sits on my bookshelf, amid the many tomes of Talmud, Midrash, Bible, and Commentary, a warm reminder of my first few months on campus, and more importantly, how friendship is the bridge across the chasm of religious differences.

Soon after I arrived at Holy Cross, I saw a notice on the bulletin board in my dorm, Beaven Hall, inviting all Holy Cross Jewish students to High Holyday services at Temple Emanuel. I wondered why they hadn't just sent me a personal invitation. After all, I was the only Jew at the school at that time.

That invitation was more than just for the holidays. Through the Temple I met people who would have a profound effect on my life. After their initial shock at discovering that there was a Jewish student at Holy Cross, Ray and Joyce Covitz adopted me as a part of their family, inviting me to their home for Sabbaths and holiday meals, introducing me to their friends, and naturally, fixing me up with nice Jewish girls.

At Temple Emanuel, I experienced the presence of a wonderful rabbi, Joseph Klein, may his memory be a blessing, who taught me much by example, the possibilities of Reform Judaism, to be a welcoming liberal interpretation, yet to hold high standards and expectations about the seriousness of Jewish identity and practice.

Temple Emanuel is also the community to which the Jacob Hiatt family belonged. Their involvement and contributions to Holy Cross and to Brandeis would also play a key role in my development as a Jew and rabbi. It is a significant loss that all of us should feel about the death of Mr. Hiatt this week. His legacy will remain in all of his good deeds and in the memory that is sustained by every beneficiary of his generosity, including me, and all students at Holy Cross and Brandeis.

When I was a sophomore, walking through Carlin Hall, I found myself staring at a poster inviting applications for a Junior Year abroad program in Israel. It was for me similar to the High Holyday invitation from Temple Emanuel. The Hiatt Institute of Brandeis University wants you! That was perhaps the first time that it occurred to me that my personal situation at Holy Cross would be attractive and interesting to somebody else. A Jew at Holy Cross was something unique. How many applicants would a Jewish university like Brandeis receive from a Jewish student at a Catholic college?  Of course, an application from Holy Cross would catch their eye. They would want to rescue me!

Although I was the only Jewish student my freshman year, I worked with the Admissions department and Jim Halpin, then director, to try to change that. I became a recruiter, and in two years, I, single-handedly tripled the Jewish enrollment.

There were Jewish professors here, even before Dr. Avery Peck. I remember Paul Rosenkrantz, psychology professor, now deceased, whose work with the Black Student Association here was an inspiring example to so many on this campus. I had read about this strong alliance of Jews and blacks in the civil rights movement, but here at Holy Cross I saw it up close, a true reflection of what being a minority should do in terms of sensitizing us to our obligations and responsibilities to one another. 

At Holy Cross, I learned what it meant to be a minority. I remember with delight my first day in Fr. MacMillan's social psychology class when he read the roll. Shuffling through registration cards in a haphazard order, I waited for my name:  Reilly, Murphy, Sullivan, O'Grady, Kilkenny, Cohen. Cohen?  What are you doing here???

That was a question that became a repeated ritual for me, almost a part of my daily prayers. It became a prayer of gratitude.

My experience at Holy Cross preceded a 1992 film, School Ties, which tells the story of a young student athlete, the only Jew at a private Catholic prep school, who disguised his Jewish identity. While I chose not to hide my Jewishness, I identify with the protagonist because of the antisemitism that he experienced. I, too, was the target of hateful and bigoted phone calls.  My roommates, on more than one occasion, found themselves explaining and defending the fact that they were sharing their room with a Jew. When I ran for student council, my fliers were sometimes defaced with swastikas and Jewish stars.

After I decided to become a rabbi, there was an overwhelming amount of publicity about that Jewish boy at Holy Cross. The publicity itself created an interesting backlash of comments and correspondence that left an indelible mark on me. There were quite a few, but the one card that was most significant simply said: "Dear Mr. Cohen, I was recently in the company of a Jew who was so delighted over becoming a Christian that he was trying to convert Christians. You should feel well cheated that Holy Cross didn't do the same for you." This was my first encounter with an attitude known in interfaith parlance as triumphalism. Sadly, ten years later, I received a Christmas card from a former Jesuit professor of mine informing me that he was praying for my soul and salvation in Christ. When I wrote him back to explain how inappropriate it was to send such a greeting to me, I never heard from him again.

Sometimes I felt like a token. One of my classmates thought that the reason I was placed in Room 211 of Beaven Hall freshman year, was because the window was in the exact center of that building as you drive up Linden Lane. Look up as you drive in. There's our Jew!

I also remember the time some of the guys on the floor were heading up to Hogan Hall to go bowling, wondering whether Jews did that too. And the many times on weekends during parties where I was dared to drink beer, since they knew that Jews never allowed themselves to get drunk. Oh the stereotypes and misconceptions.

But I had never allowed such attitudes to slow me down, to prevent me from participating fully as an enthusiastic student. I worked in the registrar's office and the graduate studies office. I waited tables in Kimball Hall and worked at the cafeteria here in Hogan. I was a disc jockey and music director at WCHC. I was involved in student government and volunteered on the campus hosts committee, reaching out to visiting prospective students, as I had been welcomed on my initial visit.

If I weren't such an avid sports enthusiast, I might think that my overzealous rooting for the Holy Cross teams was an attempt to fit in. After all, I often wonder how I could have been such an enthusiastic fan. There at the Worcester Auditorium for all of our home basketball games, dressed in purple and rooting at the top of my lungs, "Let’s go ‘Saders!"  I suppose I was ignorant then of the irony that a Jew in the 1960's could be idealizing the Crusaders of the Middle Ages who for my people meant torture and death. I have been fascinated by the debate that has been aired in Crossroads and other places about changing the name of our mascot. My vote is obvious. Like the Braves of Atlanta and the Indians of Cleveland, it was just a team name, but it helps me understand what is at stake in such symbolism.

At Holy Cross I had the opportunity to study about subjects of great personal Jewish interest to me. My first class about the Jewish Bible was called Old Testament, taught by then vice president, Fr. John Brooks. It was there that our friendship began. He called on me in class on more than one occasion, asking about the Jewish perspective on this or that Biblical passage. Even after he knew I would not know the answer, he continued to prod me. Looking back, I think he had a purpose and a vision. Each time he asked and I did not know, it made me want to work harder at researching my background, so that I could proudly answer as a Jew. It was nice to read very flattering comments about Fr. Brooks in John Feinstein's recent book, The Last Amateurs. There is, however, nothing amateur about Fr. Brooks.

It was at Holy Cross that I studied about Judaism with a Mormon, Dr. Alex Stecker, who raised my interest in archaeology as a key to understanding the secrets of the Bible. My years at Holy Cross led me to an intensive study of Classical Hebrew.  Fr. George Barry, who has gone to his eternal rest, insisted that I study Jewish commentaries and use Jewish translations in class while we examined Isaiah and other prophetic literature. He showed his respect for my tradition and did not want me to ever think that he was attempting to convert me. He showed a respect and honor that I have tried to emulate in dealing with religious people of other faiths.

Holy Cross taught me much about respect for people of other faiths. Yes, I experienced antisemitism and Jew baiting. I knew others resented my presence on their campus, but there were so many things that were done to make me welcome, a real part of this community and not just a token, that I will always remember.

After I returned from a semester at the Hiatt Institute in Israel, I began to travel on weekends to Brandeis University. I was spending time on Shabbat and other holidays with Jewish families in Worcester. I was invited to teach religious school at Temple Emanuel, where I experienced the thrill and satisfaction of helping others to discover their Judaism. With the guidance and support of Rabbi Klein, I realized that I wanted to do that the rest of my life and so I began thinking seriously about the rabbinate.

And Holy Cross made it easy for me. While spending so much time at Brandeis, I worked on an independent project for which I received course credit. And my five-day a week position at the Temple became a work-study project. After I returned from Israel, I began to observe a form of Kashrut, not eating pork or shellfish. When pork products were served, the kitchen staff arranged for me to have a more acceptable meal. I don't, however, ever remember lobster or shrimp being served at Kimball Dining Hall.

My trip to Israel was the turning point in my decision to become a rabbi. While Holy Cross helped me to regain and understand my Jewish identity, it was in Israel where I realized that no matter what path my life would take, I would continue the study of Judaism. Rabbi Klein inviting me to teach Religious School was a key ingredient. But most of all, I knew that becoming a rabbi would give me the opportunity to help others experience what I did, realizing the importance of my heritage, my people, and my responsibility to take our covenant with God seriously. How ironic! I had taken Judaism for granted while living in Squirrel Hill, a heavily Jewish neighborhood of Pittsburgh. I became ethnocentric at Holy Cross on Mt. Pakachoag, where the spiritual atmosphere, albeit quite different from my own tradition, was an encouraging environment. The antisemitic, triumphalistic woman who wrote me that note was wrong. I was not robbed.

In the wake of the publicity about my plans to become a rabbi, I also received some wonderful letters, which included opportunities to informally begin my rabbinate. A Jewish high school student in upstate New York, wrote to me about her experiences as the only Jewish student in her Catholic high school. She had seen an article about me and realized that we had something in common. So she wrote and shared some of her experiences with me. It made her feel better to know that someone else would know what it was like for her. I even was able to meet her and her family when they came back to visit Worcester, their former home.  

Being a rabbi is not exclusively to serve other Jews. My vocation often involves ministering in appropriate ways with the larger community. The correspondence I received in my senior year here included a series of letters from an elderly woman who saw an article about me in her Iowa newspaper. The first letter contained a request to help her find her long lost grandson who had attended Holy Cross. This 82-year-old woman had lost touch for over 5 years and wondered whether I had heard his name. In her second letter, after sharing her joyful tears with me, she thanked me for finding his address. She had written him and was praying for his answer. Several weeks later, I received one more note. While she had begun her first two letters, Dear Sir, this one opened with Dear Friend. Indeed, she had received a two-page letter and a graduation picture, and they were planning to see each other during the upcoming holiday. He had been estranged from the entire family and now was coming home. She ended her letter with the words "God bless you."  But God had already blessed me by providing this opportunity to make a difference in someone's life.

At Holy Cross, as I left, I realized that I was already doing what is the everyday domain of the rabbi: to listen to people tell their stories, to offer my help and guidance, to teach through whatever forum God places before me. And in so many of those opportunities, I feel my Holy Cross experience influencing and guiding me. In fact, I believe the direction of my rabbinate has always had Holy Cross as its rudder.

One of my Rabbinic functions has been to serve as the Jewish consultant to Brown Roa, a Catholic publisher of textbooks used in parochial schools. The church has been attempting to change the way some things are taught, looking to be more respectful and solicitous of varying points of view.

At Holy Cross I began learning about the varieties of Christianities, even within the Catholic Church. For many non-Christians, Christianity is one amorphous group. Now when I am with my Christian colleagues at luncheons and regular clergy meetings, I can understand and appreciate some of the subtleties in their theological disagreements.

When one of my colleagues, a Catholic priest, called me about what he should wear to his nephew's Bar Mitzvah, I had a laugh.  His sister had converted to Judaism and he was invited to participate. He wanted to know if it would be offensive for him to wear his collar. You are what you are, I told him. They knew that when they invited you. Just don't genuflect when you stand before the Torah.

One of the foci of my rabbinate is to teach about the stereotypes and misconceptions that Jews have about Christians and Christians have about Jews. My teaching in the Jewish community is to sensitize my own people to their prejudices, which I know viscerally myself. I urge my congregants not to engage in such broad sweeping statements. Not all Christians are antisemitic; not all want to convert us. This makes dialogue and change possible. My goal is not to allow them to defeat hope and possibility. I share my own satisfaction in finding dialogue partners and open minded Christians whose love of their own faith and commitment to their own Christologies does not prevent them from a humility that makes room for the possibility of other paths to God beyond their own comprehension. That is what I offer and all that I expect in return.

One of the most important emphases of my rabbinate has been interfaith relations. I speak regularly to church groups and welcome them to our services as our guests when they visit. Our congregation interacts in projects with the churches in the area. We have an annual pulpit exchange with a UCC church around the corner. We share Thanksgiving with several area churches. We serve the hungry in a program called Loaves and Fishes, collaborate on home building with Habitat for Humanity, and are members of interfaith social and political action groups. We need to forgo the luxury of separate ways when a common path can be found.

As soon as I entered HUC, I found within me an insatiable interest in studying the New Testament and early Christianity, working with Professor Michael Cook. My Rabbinic thesis, of all the subjects I might have chosen from the vast array of Jewish literature, was on the role of Jewish Biblical characters in the New Testament and their theological significance. My interest in this subject must have some connection to my years here, although I never took a New Testament course at Holy Cross.

I often am visited by some wishing to become Jewish. I approach the matter very cautiously, first engaging them in a discussion to determine where they are in their faith, and often encouraging them to see their priest or minister before exhausting those avenues in their search for God. The Jews have had too many well-intentioned missionaries try to convert us away from a faith that is so meaningful and fulfilling. I see that experience informing my approach on these matters.

For well over two decades I have taught about the Holocaust on college campuses, Xavier University in Cincinnati and St. Olaf College in Minnesota. It is a painful and intense exercise each time I do it. It is dark with few rays of light to be found. I never leave my students with only the horror. It is my responsibility to show them what was possible, by the righteous gentiles or even by an entire nation such as Denmark. Those incidents are not only inspiring tales of heroism, of what the human is capable of in terms of goodness, but they are indictments of those who claim that they could not do anything, or if they tried, what difference would it make!

I teach about the church and how its traditional teachings about Jews contributed to the atmosphere: the charge of deicide and the stubborn image of the Jews who refuse to accept Jesus as their messiah. I suggest that that attitude allowed millions to look the other way, even telling themselves that this is what happens to a perfidious people who continue to ignore the truth. Martin Luther planted many seeds as well, suggesting violence and torture against the Jews. No wonder that the Nazis at Nuremberg insisted that he be tried as a codefendant with them.

It has been fascinating to see the reaction of different Christian audiences. When I taught at Xavier University, my students, mainly Catholic, were uncomfortable with early church history. At St. Olaf, the predominantly Scandinavian Protestants squirmed at Martin Luther's vituperative suggestions. Christians and Jews, not so different in their human characteristics.

When I look today at the Auschwitz convent controversy, I certainly understand that there are lots of ways of seeing it. Yet I have only recently seen any words from Catholic sources that even acknowledge what pain is being inflicted on the Jewish community, however inadvertent and unintentional it may be. The Auschwitz convent raised issues about a perceived disrespect toward Jewish sensitivities about the Holocaust.

My current reading has brought me to a brilliant, if controversial book, Constantine's Sword by James Carroll, in which he comments on the cross at Auschwitz, which was the catalyst to his writing this momentous work that will surely serve as a starting point in a new Catholic Jewish dialogue.

On page 20 he writes, "A reader might be wary of the work of a Catholic, because my kind have often gotten it wrong. Either the Jews are the absolute other in relation to whom we Christians define ourselves by opposition and rejection, or they are "anonymous Christians" whose faithful expectation of the Messiah is an implicit harbinger of the Second Coming of Jesus; or they are the faceless victims of a terrible history that belongs less to them than to a haunted Christendom. When Jews are defined as crypto-Christians, Christianity is understood as a branch of Judaism, and when Jews are assigned the victim's role in the Church's own Passion play, "repentance" becomes denial. Jewish-Christian reconciliation then becomes a matter not of honoring differences but of assuming differences are illusory. Whether we come at the question as antagonists or as would-be healers, in other words, we Christians have difficulty recognizing Jews as truly distinct without turning them into our polar opposites. Obviously, these dense questions out of the past boil down to the ever more urgent question of the Church's relationship to Judaism, and nothing focuses it more dramatically, for the past and the future both, than the cross at Auschwitz."

Whether one agrees with Carroll or not, it seems obvious, at least to this Jewish reader, that the church needs to address some of those issues more openly than ever before. Carroll is perhaps one of the first Catholic writers on this subject, to arouse in the Jew the feeling that "he gets it", he understands some of what makes us tick.

One of the things I try to emphasize to the Jews that I teach is that the Cross does not mean the same thing to everybody. For Jews, the cross is a symbol of fear and shame, reminding us of the way in which we had to hide when Christians in former times came from church, angry and hostile after hearing the Passion narrative read with no historical explanation, with only the desire to fuel hatred against our people. Jews hid on Sundays, especially before Easter, and shook with fear when they heard the bells of the church tolling a message that was for us not altogether loving.

For Christians, the Cross is a symbol of love, of the death and resurrection of Jesus, through which humanity achieves salvation. For me the crosses that I saw everywhere I turned on campus taught me of their positive power, yet also led me to become a strong advocate of the separation of church/state in the public arena. Here on this campus, those crosses are quite appropriate, and can even encourage a Jew to be more spiritual, but not in the government sponsored public places of our communities.

Things are different than they were before, but sometimes it still does not seem so. There is still antisemitism, active proselytism, apparent lack of respect for Judaism as a legitimate covenant with God, an almost clear case of religious people thinking that God would break the promise He made to the Jewish people long ago.

The case of Edith Stein is another symptom of that rift between us. Edith Stein was born a Jew, but as an adult, a well-educated and mature adult, she chose to convert to Catholicism. And she became a nun. I respect Christianity enough to accept that, even if I mourn for the loss of a Jew from a people already diminished in numbers. She was a Christian. From a Jewish religious perspective, she cannot also still remain a Jew. She may have been murdered because Hitler considered her a Jew, but we Jews don't give him the posthumous privilege of defining who and what we are.

The fact that we have an Edith Stein building here on campus is something of which to be proud. From what I have studied about her, she was an exemplary human being, brilliant and committed to social justice, a loving, caring example of the wondrous creation of God, a true martyr of the church.

To refer to her as a Jew, a completed Jew, a fulfilled Jew, is to raise the banner of triumphalism that is, in my opinion, one of the most damaging elements, along with the charge of deicide, in the history of Jewish Christian relations. It is to disrespect the Jewish understanding of who and what we are. It is painful and hurtful and denies the incredible progress in Catholic Jewish relations of the past almost 40 years since the remarkable work of Pope John the 23rd. 

To believe and act as if there are many paths to God is the only way religions such as ours can coexist in peace. We must take our places as people of God side by side. Judaism is not the root of your tree. Instead we must begin to visualize those roots as common roots that nourish our faiths as well as Islam. We may all want to believe that ours is the main tree, and each of us should feel that way about our own particular heritage, as long as we recognize that we are not the only ones connected to those roots. To pray for the souls of those you love is just fine, but to do so because one believes those souls are lost is insulting. We Jews have a meaningful relationship with God that was not nullified when Christianity came along. God does not break promises. We Jews are capable of understanding God's relationship with us without the magnification of Jesus' lens.

Yet particularly for me, there has been this remarkable influence coming from Christianity. It was at Holy Cross, of all places, that I discovered that I had taken for granted this fascinating aspect of my life. That is why my Holy Cross diploma occupies a prominent place on the wall in my study. It is my Saragosa parchment, and when I look at it, I picture myself the Saragosa Jew who was fortunate to discover something about myself that means so much.

Each of us has a parchment, a reminder, a stimulus of our particular identity and responsibilities. I would not presume to say exactly what they might be for other faiths, but for Jews it might be the bris document, our naming certificate, the book we received on the day of our Bat or Bar Mitzvah or Confirmation. Many remember the signing of the Ketubah, the wedding document, which may be framed in a prominent place in our homes. I know many who have family heirlooms:  Shabbat candlesticks, Kiddush cups, dreidels, photos of Jewish celebrations with our relatives, a family Bible or prayerbook. All it takes is some imagination to recognize what symbols, what celebrations, what ideas are your parchments.

The Jew from Saragosa was not content just to know that he had a Jewish connection of which he had been robbed by historical circumstances. He began a long journey with that discovery, wanting to know as much as he could learn, first tapping into the resource of Elie Wiesel. We, too, need to respond to those experiences that turn us on to our own particular heritage by learning and doing more. Memory is powerful but also deceptive. It can excite, emote, and reverberate, but it cannot sustain.

 I know from my vocation and from my own personal experience that Judaism cannot be maintained by memories, by the feeling that we get when he hear the chanting at Kol Nidre, the sense that we have done our duty by attending High Holy Day services, the same self smugness the 13 year old Pittsburgher felt after his Bar Mitzvah. One does not have to be a minister, priest or a rabbi to have a calling or spiritual destiny. It comes from what we do when we discover ours, when we experience something beshert.

Spiritual identity is not sustained by any one thing. There are a myriad of ways to nurture and express our particularism. I was fortunate. The Jew from Saragosa was also fortunate. Perhaps you are fortunate as well. These accidents don't happen too often.

"A few years later, Elie Wiesel was on another trip, this time one that he takes quite frequently. He was in Jerusalem. Wiesel was walking alone on the street when a passerby accosted him, 'Wait a minute.'

 Wiesel was disturbed by his rudeness and frightened by what might happen next. Besides, Wiesel was in a hurry and did not have time for this.

'Do you remember me?' The stranger asked in a Hebrew that gave away his status. He must be a tourist or a recent immigrant.

Though he looked vaguely familiar, Wiesel could not be sure.

'Saragosa.'

Wiesel stood rooted to the ground, incredulous, incapable of any thought, any movement. He was witnessing the meeting of two cities, two timeless eras.

'Come,' said the man with him, 'I have something to show you.'

They walked a few blocks to an apartment building and once again climbed three stories. Here, too, the man occupied a modest apartment. But what a difference! On the walls was no Virgin mother, no crucifix.

His journey had brought him to the Jewish homeland. More than that, it had brought him home to his Jewish heritage, to Jewish life. 

The man went into another room and returned, holding a picture frame containing the fragment of yellow parchment that had been the key to his life story.

'Look, I have learned to read Hebrew.'

They spent the rest of the day together, talking of their journeys, Wiesel and the man who had a few years before had offered to show him the secrets of his town. It was Wiesel who helped him discover the greatest secret of all.

Wiesel finally confessed. I am ashamed that I did not recognize you.

An indulgent smile lit the man's face. 'Perhaps you need an amulet like mine; it will keep you from forgetting.'

'May I buy it from you.' Wiesel offered once again, this time knowing full well the answer.

'Impossible, since it is you who gave it to me.'

As Wiesel got up to leave, the Jew from Saragosa shook his hand and said with mild amusement, 'By the way, I have not told you my name.'

He waited several seconds to enjoy the suspense, while a warm and mischievous light animated his face, 'My name is Moshe ben Avraham, Moses, son of Abraham.'" At Holy Cross, I discovered what would lead to including the title rabbi in my name.

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner's book God Was in This Place and I, I Did Not Know is about Jacob's dream, wherein angels ascended from the place where he slept and other angels descended the ladder from heaven. According to the midrash, there were two sets of guardian angels, one for the land of Israel and the other for the Diaspora. In other words, there were different functions in different places. Some things could happen in one place while still others could occur only in a different locale. Indeed, reading the story of Jacob, we can see the presence of God in his life in a variety of ways, as we do in all the lives of our Biblical characters. I would suggest that if we are fortunate, we might discern the hand of God in our lives as well.

Kushner makes an insightful observation about our awareness of the Divine presence. He argues that being in the presence of God requires our entire beings, our total consciousness. But to be aware of such a presence would require a part of us observing, as it were, from a place on our shoulder, looking and making that appraisal. A part of our essence would be removed in order to know that it was such an encounter. Thus, it is impossible to be aware of the presence of God as it is happening.  It is only in looking back that we can appreciate how God operates.

When I came to Holy Cross, I had no idea that what I would encounter here would so affect my life and choice of vocation. Events and circumstances played a role in what I thought was my decision to enter the rabbinate.  In fact, perhaps for me that was one of the preordained miracles that was determined before the beginning of time, and was set into motion by the converging web of events that brought a young 18 year old from a predominantly Jewish neighborhood in Pittsburgh, Squirrel Hill, to this unique educational and spiritual institution. Yes, indeed, "God was in this place, and I, I did not know it". But today I can see much more clearly the wonderful workings of our God.

Baruch Attah Adonai Eloheynu Melech Haolam, Shehehiyanu, Vekiyamanu, vehigiyanu lazman hazeh.  Blessed is the Lord, our God, who has given us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this place in time. Amen.

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