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For the last few weeks, I have been fascinated by an old Jewish fable
I read in the paper.
"A rich man goes to see his rabbi. He explains that although he's
successful he's not happy, in part because he knows deep down that
he's not a very good or generous person. The rabbi has some unusual
advice for him. He tells the man to pretend to be good.
The rich man scoffs at this. How can pretending to be good make him a
better person? Won't it simply make him a fake, a fraud, an even
worse human being? The rabbi gently insists that the man try the
experiment. And so he does.
He treats his wife and children more kindly. He gives more money to
charity. He treats his neighbours and servants with more respect.
It's all a charade, of course. But as the weeks and months and years
go by, the act becomes second nature until the line between reality
and pretense blurs and the man somehow becomes the man he was
pretending to be."
The journalist ends her column with "A fable, perhaps. But I live in
hope. With luck, I may yet become the person I pretend to be."
I have a friend who learns a person's name from day one. Her friends
are immigrants, people who needed a hand up. She's been there for
them 20 or more years. She's been there for their children. Through
good and hard times. Unlike me she would know the janitor by name,
his wife's name, and the children's.
Sunday morning, I met an immigrant woman who works in a daycare in
the building where I volunteered for two years. We had a nice talk
but I don't know her name, what country she's from, and I wouldn't
know her until she greets me. After she got off the train, I took the
resolution to ask and learn names.
I had the chance to learn a name today but I forgot. A neighbour whom
I frequently meet at the bus stop is a mentally-challenged adult. He
talks out loud and repeats the same thing over and over. It's
different each time I meet him. Today, he bemoaned the fact that
people who don't believe in Jesus can't celebrate Christmas. How
awful. I agreed it was awful. When bus drove by a rooming house where
a man was killed Sunday night (photo on front page of the paper, of
course), he pointed to me when the body was draped over the third
floor window and loudly repeated to me in the crowded bus that there
was blood on the side of the building. I don't know his name. Next
time, I'll ask him. He teaches me to listen, to give him a chance to
speak. I have nothing to give him but that. Listen and agree. I still
have lots of pretending to do!
Cecily
