By Elisabeth Hinze
And so it happened that I attended an Orthodox Jewish wedding for the first time. No, I wasn’t invited. But a friend of mine was. And he made the necessary arrangements, asked the necessary people and got the necessary nod of approval. I could go to the wedding feast. And I was excited. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a wedding, after all. What’s not to love? There’s the bride and the bridegroom, all radiant and happy. The wedding guests, oohing and aahing at the radiance and happiness of the bride and bridegroom. There’s dancing, joy, good food and good company. All of which makes me a big fan of weddings.
Since this is an Orthodox wedding feast, the men and women celebrate separately. The reception hall is decorated in white and silver – with a big room divider running down the middle. My friend disappears behind the partition and I’m left on my own on the women’s side. He gives me one last wave over the divider and then he’s out of sight. For the first time I feel a bit lonely, somewhat out of place. With nobody to talk to and no group to join, I take a seat at one of the empty tables to do a bit of people watching…
I’ve been asked a few times what I love and admire about the Israeli people. There are many things, of course. But my answer is usually the same: their passion. I admire the complete and all-consuming passion and joy with which the Israelis do, well, everything. A wedding feast seems to take that passion to a whole new level. It doesn’t take long for the singing to start. Now if there’s one thing that Israelis love more than a good argument, it’s singing. Where I come from, men don’t sing. Unless they’re in a choir. But spontaneously, for the sheer fun of it? Not likely. In Israel, however, it’s almost a national pastime. A halfway decent singing voice isn’t a requirement. Banging on the table in time with the particular song is, however, essential. That is, of course, if you’re not dancing. I have also on occasion seen the two happen simultaneously.
As I watch this chaotic, exuberant and inherently Israeli expression of joy to be alive, four beautiful ladies join me at the table. I nod shyly. Do we engage in conversation, I wonder. And if so, do I initiate it? How? In Hebrew? I’m still pondering these hefty questions when the ladies take matters out of my hands by simply introducing themselves. None of them speak English, so we rely on my basic command of Hebrew. There’s a certain maternal quality about the four ladies. They continue to cluck and fuss over the strange girl in their midst, making sure that I eat enough, that I can see well, that the waiter doesn’t forget to bring me juice. And I feel safe, cared for, looked after.
Very soon they know everything there is to know about me (well, everything I can say in Hebrew, that is). Four heads shake in grave, grave concern at the fact that I’m not married. There’s some tongue clicking and rapid Hebrew that’s lost on me. One of them slows down to inform me that they will need to find me a husband. She is quick to add that it might be difficult, as I am old (to be fair, I’m 14 years older than when she was married so I guess the old is not altogether undeserved) and not Jewish. Yes, that one might be a bit of a problem. But, she explains with a reassuring smile, all things can be fixed. I laugh and tell them that it’s okay, that HaShem will provide a good husband. They smile and clap with pleasure. I fall in love with the four beautiful Jewish mothers.
My friend waves at the door. It is time for us to go. I start my goodbyes reluctantly. One of the Jewish mothers takes my hand for emphasis and says something that I don’t understand. A lady from the table next to ours translates, “She says you shine.” I give each of them a hug and walk away. At the door I turn around to wave. They are all watching me, smiling and waving.
The words reply in my head all the way home, “She says you shine…” How, I wonder. Because to be honest, I’m pretty sure that I don’t. I mean, I sin. I struggle though stuff and I mess up. Often spectacularly so. I’m not one of those wonderfully serene people who seem to have it all together. In fact, I distinctly remember looking at people like that and wondering when I’d arrive at such a place in my life, in my relationship with God? Did I still have too many flaws, too much pride, too little faith? Did He still have too much to mend and fix and rectify? And in that moment, on my way home from an Orthodox wedding, in the midnight streets of Jerusalem, His voice stilled my heart. “I am the Light. And you, Little One, are a cracked pot.”
And I knew. May we never try to hide our brokenness, our flaws, our areas where we still need some major work. May we never, ever try to cover up our cracks. Because if we do, how will the Light shine through?
“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us” (2 Corinthians 4:7).
Follow News from JerusalemShare this page with your friends