In a galaxy light-years away, a meeting of the Sanhedrin was being opened with the blessing over bread in one of the 77 known space-languages, 154 recognized inter-galactic dialects, and countless murmurs all around. "You call this bread?" the distinguished delegate from one of the planets circling Alpha Centauri stage-whispered to the various other dignitaries seated around him. "Give me some good old algae any time," he added, shaking his tentacles for emphasis, his several mouths beginning to water at the very memory. For each Friday evening, he would come home to find the breakfast nook covered with copies of the Daily Planet lest he leave a trail of slime as he slithered across the floor. He sighed in remembrance of a time gone by long ago. "And you call this bread!" he repeated lest anyone had failed to hear him the first time.
"And you call yourself a Jew?" responded his seat-mate with what would have passed as an ironic smile if only one understood the facial expressions and hand gestures of a large but friendly cockroach. Two legs or 18, the Jews' propensity to argue questions theological or secular bound them all together. Their esperanto, their inter-galactic lingo, their lingua franca, remained Hebrew--though there was always a diehard faction that preferred Yiddish on the ground that Hebrew, Lashon Kodesh, or the holy tongue, was much too sacred to be used for mundane purposes.
The first topic on the agenda of the credentials committee, as it always was, remained the ages-old question of "Who's a Jew?" The great, glowing light-filled space-hall was as full of side conversations as it always was on such occasions, for this much hadn't changed in all the aeons the Sanhedrin had been convening. More abrupt species might walk off without ever saying goodbye, while the Jews would say goodbye but never leave. These creatures of every description but one creed, everyone knew, would stay here forever if the cleanup crew failed to arrive and usher them out to make way for the next all-universe conclave--the Knights of Columbus Inc. ("Looking for a space-age site for your next great convention or just Board of Trustees' meeting? Don't fail to consider our facilities at the far end of the Universe, where the elite meet to eat! Dial us up on your iPhone or Space Helmet and you won't regret it!")
The wise old Elders of Zion of every possible description looked on indulgently from their seats high up in the bleachers and everywhere else but in the front row, which remained ostentatiously empty in order to demonstrate the Elders' humility. Most of the delegates preferred a spot along the eastern wall if only they could figure out which direction was east in this ever-swirling space-time continuum they found themselves in, their paths having crossed one more improbable time.
"Mine bubbeh, may she rest in peace, made better algae than this," one of the Elders continued. "I can still remember my dear zayde smacking his 14 lips over it before sitting down to a real shabbos meal in our humble but homey little starship. Those were the days, my friend--or were they the nights?--and we thought they'd never end. For we were young and foolish. Now most of us are as old as our grandparents were in their prime. Dance on, my fellow Jews of all interplanetary descriptions. Baruch haba! For blessed be who comes whatever his idiosyncrasies, like eight legs, a tail, and a full set of antennae waving in the breeze. You're all welcome here. Let us rejoice and make merry while we can, for you can never tell when our galaxy may intertwine with another and anything distinctive about it be lost in the stardust. Good old Hoagie Carmichael could tell us all about it as his fingers tickled the ivories. He was a human by species, a favorite of cafe society by acclamation, and an artist by temperament. Artists, the real kind, are recognizable wherever they may wander.
"No sense putting on airs," this BEM or Bug-Eyed Monster continued with verve and in a vocabulary punctuated by the latest buzzwords. MOT, or Member of the Tribe, had lost since given way to WJ, or Wandering Jew, a familiar figure in the folklore of many a nation and species. "Are we not all descended from the same humble and merely human couple?" he asked rhetorically. 'When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?' he asked, showing off his literary background. All around him, tentacles dangled and optic nerves rotated in agreement as all recognized the allusion to Holy Scripture, whether they were wearing their dreadlocks in the now popular look or had them blithely tossed over a shoulder or three. The great conclave and associated brouhaha continued in high gear as the kibitzing went on without interruption.
Friendships were renewed, enmities refreshed, feuds revitalized, and connections restored. X-ray images of grandchildren and great-grandchildren were passed around with ill-concealed pride. The hair on their three or four heads was all neatly combed and their sharp lobster-like claws filed till they shone.
Hail, hail the gang was all here once again! The chevra kedusha, or holy gang that saw to washing and cleaning the dead before they were wrapped in shrouds, were there to exchange tips and speak of their good deeds. Or shamefacedly admit to deeds not so good. For confession is good for the soul, and, no matter their outward appearance, there was little doubt all had souls. And strong opinions. "Reason! That's the ticket," one Jew with phylactery-shaped horns could be heard telling another. "Nonsense!" snorted another, "for ours is a faith of Revelation, not mere Reason." And so it would go till dawn's early light sent them all on their separate ways but sharing one faith.
Paul Greenberg is the Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial writer and columnist for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.
Editorial on 01/15/2017