THAT NIGHT I was ensconced in my newly acquired rocking chair. I loved the cushioned seat and back, and the easy rocking motion except for a slight squeak in the right rocker. I had actually found the chair on the street on Amsterdam Avenue near 75th Street. I bought the cushions later at one of those country-kitchen boutiques on Lexington Avenue. It was my new reading rocker, and it sat in a cleared corner of my room, next to a side table which was large enough for a lamp, a book, and a cup of tea! I was looking forward to a snowy winter and many hours in my rocker; Ruthie thought I was off my rocker.
I reviewed the day’s events, amazed at how God intervenes in our lives right when we least expect it. Ezra and I had sat for another hour and two pots of tea in Tea on Thames, and then we walked down Riverside Park and sat on a bench looking over the Hudson at New Jersey. I told him everything about my falling into St. Vincent’s and falling in love with the Lord. It was so liberating to talk about it, and with someone who knew what I was talking about, and who in his own way still had some of the family issues I had. But mostly we talked about the Lord, and our favorite passages from the Gospels. He was more into the Epistles than I was, and he commented that St. Paul was also a Jewish convert. He also suggested I read the Farewell Discourse in John. I had not gotten that far yet.
It was feeling rather surreal. I wasn’t expecting this to happen in my life; I was never especially religious, although I believed in God. He was kind of removed from the warp and woof of my life, like a benevolent grandfather who came to visit on high holy days, and was the epitome of kindness and expected the best of me. Ezra helped me see this, I think, as he had moved from an even more agnostic worldview which was confirmed by the sophisticated world which viewed religion as quaint or delusional, or both. I didn’t know why I was suddenly so attracted to images of Jesus, or what was meant by the Incarnation, Redemption, and Blessed Sacrament. These were foreign to my thinking and my everyday experience of life.
I was home in time for supper. I wanted to talk about Ezra to everyone at the table, but I knew that would not be the prudent thing to do. Just keep him secret for now. I hurried through some homework, realizing how much of my mindset was now influenced by this new exploration into the spiritual life, or maybe I should say, the Christian life.
I typed a short critique of William Ernest Henley’s poem “Invictus,” which was very popular and had first appeared in my high school freshman English class, but I now realized how much it reflected the subjective secular turn in peoples’ declaration of independence from God.
I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.
I didn’t believe that anymore, and really don’t think I ever did. I dared to say so in my paper, which I didn’t think Professor Linden would like. But then maybe he would; he was always urging us to be free-thinkers. But that usually didn’t wash when one thought differently from him.
Then I opened my New Testament to John’s Gospel for the first time, and read:
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was
with God, and the Word was God…
and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
I don’t know if Mama noticed my light was on till three in the morning that night. I read the entire Gospel. It was the night that convinced my heart of its longings; I knew I would become a Catholic.
Meeting Ezra Goldman was “such a blessing,” as Mama would say, but for entirely different reasons! I’ve learned over the years that we make the spiritual journey to God alone, together…together with others whom God places in our lives at just the right time. Even the Carthusian monk or a Camaldolese hermit in reclusion from everyone else is not really alone, but joined to Christ. He is joined with others in the one Mystical Body of Christ, something which Jews and most Protestants can’t understand. God loves us in all the times and events of our lives, but especially through the love of others. Sometimes this becomes as profound as nuptial love in marriage, which itself is an image of the union of Christ with His Church. Or it can be as ordinary and precious as friendship and family, and as subtle as authors of books and composers of music lyrics—a painting in an art gallery momentarily takes your breath away, and you want someone else there to share the experience. Alone, together. My experience of “alone” has always been a part of my spiritual journey, even as a child—coming to know that hidden place within—and certainly now, coming to know the Lord unlike anyone in the Feinstein family ever had. I felt very much alone, but not lonely.
Ezra Goldman became my friend. We explored all the churches in New York City (or so it seemed), and would sit in silence before the tabernacles of New York and afterwards marvel to each other at the incomprehensible gift of the Blessed Sacrament. He took me first to his Blessed Sacrament Church on West 71st, and indeed, it had a splendid interior, luminous with the colors of stained glass, much like St. Vincent’s. And there were wonderful statues on the façade, including St. Thomas Aquinas. Blessed Sacrament Church was very conducive to prayer; most Catholic churches are, but some more than others. The marble and wood and stained glass all together create the setting; the million burning lamps and lingering smell of incense create the atmosphere; and the Blessed Sacrament…ah, He creates the union of souls with the Divine, in Divine and human friendship and nuptial love. Sometimes, sitting silently in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament in the tabernacle, I lost all sense of time, and couldn’t hear New York going on outside. It was amazing. Years later, in the monastery, I realized this was all grace and, for my young soul, the first drawing to the contemplative life.
I showed Ezra my St. Vincent’s for his first time, and he was more enthralled than I had hoped for. He was especially enthralled at what we learned was called the Friars’ Chapel. It was up front to the far right of the choir, or the middle section where the choir stalls were. It was screened off from the church proper by a wooden screen, which did not obscure people from seeing or hearing the Dominican friars chant their office. It was from Ezra that I learned that St. Vincent was a Dominican, and that this was a Dominican parish staffed by the Dominican Friars. Dominican didn’t mean they were from the Dominican Republic, but that they belonged to the Order founded by St. Dominic in the thirteenth century. He was actually a Spaniard, but the Order was founded in southern France.
I didn’t know anything about the different orders, except what most people learn by osmosis and going to the movies! So I learned a little about the saints who founded the big religious orders which are still in existence. There was St. Ignatius of Loyola Church, up on Park Avenue and 83rd St., in the sixteenth century; they were popularly called the Jesuits. We visited the two Franciscan churches down by Penn Station, both magnificent churches with a constant flow of people going in and out all day long to pray or go to confession. I also liked Our Lady of Pompeii in the West Village which was run by the Scalabrini Fathers, which was not really an order but a congregation of religious. There was so much to learn!
And of course…how could I forget? There was St. Patrick’s Cathedral. One is never quite ready for the size and splendor of the place. It was a bit distracting because of the flood of tourists that constantly flowed in and out, but at the far end, away from the main entrance and the noise, was the tabernacle where it was silent, and the Lady Chapel in the apse behind the high altar. It would be some time before I ever attended a High Mass at St. Patrick’s, but I would always try to make a visit whenever I was in Midtown.
Ezra’s parish again was Blessed Sacrament, where he had taken instruction in a small class of five or six people only. He said the others were all engaged to Catholics and were converting before the wedding. He was the only one who was a student and not engaged; he was also the only Jewish man. His Jewish upbringing was even less traditional than mine. He was from Williamsville, New York, near Buffalo, and his family didn’t really attend temple at all, nor really observe Shabbat. He had started dating a girl whose family went to a Reformed Synagogue, and eventually Ezra went with them, and became interested in Judaism, and eventually Christianity.
The girlfriend’s name, if I remember right, was Judy, or was it Trudy? She wanted to be an artist and went off to Paris after high school graduation. Meanwhile, Ezra had won a scholarship to Columbia and moved to New York. He roomed with two other guys in a two-family brownstone on West 83rd Street near Broadway. His roommates were both from New Haven, Connecticut, and were members of Opus Dei. Ezra joked, “I didn’t have a chance.” But he said they didn’t really proselytize him, they just lived their faith so comfortably and seriously that he was naturally attracted to what they had. They introduced him eventually to Fr. Kelly at Blessed Sacrament, who Ezra said was a most gentlemanly old priest whose cassock was rather worn and shabby looking, and who carried a hint of cigar smoke. He had unruly, bushy white eyebrows and wire-rimmed glasses, but a face with a perpetual twinkle in the eye and a smile on his mouth. He had that gift, Ezra said, of making you feel immediately at home.
“He was most enthused about my desire to become a Catholic, and I was hoping he was going to instruct me, but he handed me over to Fr. Rayburne, who was only a priest for less than a year. He didn’t look much older than me!”
Ezra was happy once things got going. Fr. Rayburne was most zealous and articulate and answered everyone’s questions very thoroughly. Ezra chose June 13 as his baptismal day, the feast of St. Anthony of Padua, and was baptized Ezra Anthony. His mother came down from Williamsville, and his Aunt Sarah from uptown actually attended the baptism and the small reception given by his two roommates, one being his godfather. The best thing, Ezra said, was that Fr. Kelly baptized him.
“He remains my confessor and a real spiritual father,” Ezra would humbly boast, like the devoted disciple of a Desert Father.
His story all sounded so wonderful and ideal, and easy because his family seemed so accepting. I was scared to even mention I was thinking about becoming a Christian. I knew I was a grown up and capable of making my own decisions, but it was not in my mind or soul to be disobedient to my parents. On the contrary, it was a mitzvah to honor them. How would I ever get around that? I also knew Mama would think Ezra was a perfect match, until she found out he had gone down this road before me. And Papa? I was most afraid of breaking Papa’s heart and, maybe even more selfishly, losing his love and respect. I was his “royal princess,” after all.
Winter came upon us that year with a fury. We had a grand blanket of snow before Thanksgiving, which always transforms the city into a winter wonderland. Ezra had been encouraging me to begin my instructions; he wanted me to meet Fr. Rayburne, but I hesitated. I told him I couldn’t make any decisions till after Christmas, till the new year perhaps. And I prayed about this every day. I didn’t always have the change or dollar bills to light candles, but I lit a few on the house.
One can’t keep a secret too long in a family with two sisters and an observant mother. I thought Ruthie was oblivious to my comings and goings. She ignored me for the most part, thinking I was too studious and not at all fun like when we were younger, as if we were old maids now! I did find her a bit much, especially with all the screaming and carrying on over a British rock group named the Beatles. She was also taken up with her little circle of girlfriends who were nice Gentile girls, and who, from what I could tell, were caught up in Beatlemania too.
Ruthie and two of her girlfriends were doing a school project on Modern Art and were making an afterschool field trip to the Guggenheim; they wanted to see the Pollock. She was leaving the museum, wrapped up in her winter parka and knit hat and ran into me and Ezra. We laughed and kissed each other quickly, and I simply said, “This is a friend from Columbia, Ezra Goldman…my little sister, Ruth Feinstein.” Ruthie’s eyes were dancing from me to Ezra and back again, and said she was happy to meet him, and introduced her friends, and ran off downtown. Ezra and I laughed about how awkward kids could be, as if we were the experts on adulthood.
“Well, you know what this means? You will have to meet my family, as Ruthie will have announced meeting you before she has her coat hung-up, and Mama will be beside herself and will call my father at work and then my sister in Philadelphia and interrogate my older brother, David, who she thought knew everything.”
“I’d like to meet your family,” Ezra came back without hesitating. “I only have my aunt here, and neither of my roommates are majoring in culinary arts, to say the least.”
It also just happened that Ezra’s parents were on a Caribbean cruise over Thanksgiving, and Ezra wasn’t planning to go home to Buffalo. He said he would probably take his aunt out for dinner. I didn’t respond there and then, but would give it some thought.
My predictions concerning the brief encounter with Ruthie all came true; I didn’t have my coat off and in the hall closet before Mama’s voice came wafting down the hallway from the kitchen. “Becky, dahling, is that you?”
“No, Ma, it’s Golda Meier. Do you have the chicken soup on?”
Mama appeared wiping her hands on a linen tea towel, her house dress and apron were spotted with flour; she was making challah for Shabbat tomorrow night. “So, tell me, about this Ezra fella Ruthie met; she said he’s a real good-looker. How long have you been friends with this Ezra?”
I laughed, trying not to sound too inauthentic. “He’s just a friend, Mama…we have a couple classes together, and he’s interesting to talk to. He’s from Buffalo.”
“Buffalo? Like Niagara Falls, Buffalo?”
“Like Buffalo, New York, Ma. Like the Buffalo Bills.”
“So when are we going to meet this ‘only a friend’ of yours?”
I could’ve sworn she was humming “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler when she returned to her kneading.
That night the table conversation gradually got around to the Thanksgiving dinner in less than a week. “Your brother David, may he not forget his family, is going to Philadelphia to spend Thanksgiving with his sister, Sally, who is working and fixing her first turkey, God have mercy on her.” Mama had known about this plan of theirs since Labor Day, but never let it rest in peace. “They have to go to a football game in Philadelphia? They’re going to cook a whole turkey just for themselves and whoever else they’ve invited whom they don’t want their mother to know about.”
I knew what grand scheme was being introduced. Ezra and his aunt could take David and Sally’s places at the table, and Ezra would not think about the cruise with his parents.
I told Mama (and Papa when he got a word in edgewise, but he seemed more engrossed in the chicken breast), that Ezra was a “free-thinker,” one of many that went to Columbia. While he was a “good-looker,” to quote Ruthie, “you might not think his mind is so attractive.”
Mama was quick to respond: “Whatever could you mean by that? Is he a Communist or something?”
I remember I didn’t quite know how to put it and knew I should avoid the religious question entirely, yet that was what I meant. So I just said, “Of course not, Mama, he’s very intelligent and kind of a free-thinker, but a deep thinker.” I held my breath, hoping I wouldn’t have to go any further.
“Well, I hope he likes my stuffing.” And that was that.
As it turned out, Ezra loved Mama’s stuffing, or was charming enough to rave about it, which of course won her heart forever. By time we got to the homemade pumpkin pie in which Mama added her secret ingredient, the discussion came around to religion. “T.T.” Josh used to call it… temple talk.
Ezra was very direct and even unassuming. “I have found the study of the Torah the most enriching thing in my life. We were brought up in a rather progressive Jewish household; I really didn’t know any Hebrew or the meanings behind the great holy days, until I was older and could study things on my own.”
“Ah, our Becky said you had a keen mind, I can see why. More pie? It has a secret ingredient, handed down from my mother’s mother.” Mama was being the perfect hostess, while Papa was quiet and reflective, as he always was.
Ezra took a fork full of pumpkin dabbed with whipped cream (also homemade) and rolled right into it. “When I came to Columbia I had been reading the Christian Scriptures, thanks to a nice Jewish girl I had been dating, and discovered most emphatically that Jesus was no doubt the Messiah.”
Mama stopped cutting the pie, and plopped down in her seat, just a bit stunned. “I was most fortunate to room with two chaps from a Catholic organization called Opus Dei, and they explained a lot of the Catholic teachings to me, and even showed me how Catholic worship is derived actually from Jewish festivals and temple practices. And so about seven months ago, I was baptized just down the street here at Blessed Sacrament Church.”
I don’t think I ever experienced silence around our dining room table as profoundly as that Thanksgiving night. How could one respond to that, really? It’s not like we were orthodox Jews who would have been scandalized and turned him out. Papa always encouraged us to think for ourselves and to hold fast to what we believed.
The silence was broken after what seemed like an interminable couple minutes by Mama. “Nutmeg…the secret ingredient is nutmeg.” And no one said anything; we didn’t laugh or cry. It was Aunt Sarah who picked up the ball.
“I thought it was something like that; it’s delicious, Mrs. Feinstein, you must give me the recipe. I always knew our Ezra had a secret ingredient, too—he always loved God in his own way. His father, my brother, and I never really practiced any religion; we were Jewish by heritage, more than tradition. We didn’t know where Ezra got his love for God so strongly that he did crazy things, like becoming a Christian, but we also knew that if he were in any trouble, like with drugs, may God preserve him, we’d do everything we could to help him…so why stand in the way of something good that he wanted?”
Ezra again picked up the ball. “It wasn’t all as easy as apple pie, you understand. It was more than wanting to be good and more than an intellectual conclusion…it was coming to a personal relationship with Jesus Christ that made all the difference in the world…that was the…” his voice slowed and became pensive.
“Nutmeg,” exclaimed Ruthie. “That was the nutmeg. Mama, what about my pie?”