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Articles
by Rabbi Zalman Shacter-Shalomi
The
Shaman Blows the Shofar
By Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi
The
Hasidic approach to the religious experience aims at empirical
realization. I use empirical in its classic meaning basing
my knowledge of the religious experience on direct observation
and experiment. As an empiricist, I recognize the validity
of non-Jewish religious experience, so over the years I've
explored other religions, as well as other methods for enhancing
spiritual growth. These forays have provided me with validation
for my own religion.
A
few years ago, in Calgary, Canada, I participated in a symposium
on mysticism, with spokesmen for several other traditions.
Among us was a medicine man from the Blood Indian Reservation,
Brother Rufus Goodstriker. We were all put up at a modern
plastic motel, a place which didn't seem to hold much promise
for a group of mystics. But the setting was glorious-to the
east, the Canadian prairie stretched for miles; and to the
west, the Canadian Rockies soared into the sky.
When
I woke up the first morning and began preparing to say my
prayers, I remembered where I was and decided to go up to
the roof. So I took my tallis (prayer shawl), t'fillin (phylacteries-small
black boxes, containing prayer parchments that are worn on
the left arm and forehead during morning prayers), and a shofar
(hollowed ram's horn) and rode the elevator up to the top
floor. I found the door to the roof and pushed against it
slowly in case it made a lot of noise or touched off an alarm.
But it made just a slight noise; I closed it softly behind
me.
The
sky was still dark in the west, but in the east there were
streaks of light. The roof was a forest of air conditioners,
vent pipes, and chimneys, but I found myself a comer facing
the east and began to get into my prayers.
After
a few minutes. I heard the door open again and Brother Rufus
stepped out onto the roof. He too had a small bundle under
his arm. We acknowledged each other's presence with wordless
nods. He also took up a position facing east and began to
perform his morning ritual.
First
he took out a prayer blanket which reminded me of my tabs.
Then he lit a small charcoal fire offered some incense, and
made a burnt offering of a pinch of meal or floor. Facing
the east with his arms raised in the air, he swayed back and
forth, chanting in a language I did not understand. But I
did not have to understand the language to know that he was
calling to God. At the moment of sunrise, he placed a small
whist to his lips and blew a sharp note in every direction.
I
continued my own prayers and concluded by blowing my shofar.
Then I wrapped up my things and saw that Brother Rufus was
doing the same. He approached me and asked in a gentle, direct
way, "May I please see your instruments? If I were at
home I would have had a sweat lodge this morning to be ritually
clean before I touch them. Here at tills place all I could
have was a shower. Is that all right?"
I
told him it was and unwrapped my things. He looked at the
t'fillin. "Ah, rawhide," he said. Then he handled
them and noticed they were sewn together with natural gut,
not with machine-made thread. He nodded to let me know he
understood the significance of using gut, a natural material
with an animal's power, instead of cotton or nylon.
Then
he carefully examined the knots in the t'fillin, ran his fingertips
over them, and said with respect, "Noble knots."
Next he shook the t'fillin and heard something move. "What
is inside the black box'?" he asked. I told him there
was a piece of parchment on which was written God's name and
other holy words. He nodded and I saw respect on his face.
I knew that he understood my prayer instruments and my prayers.
Then
he looked at my brightly striped tallis and thought it was
beautiful. He loved the colors, which bore some resemblance
to thecolors of his own prayer blanket. He examined the tzitzis
(the knotted fringes at the comers of tans and saw the five
double knots and the windings l blue thread that create a
very specific design. "What's the message?" he asked,
revealing to me that he also understood that such designs
are not random, but deliberate.
After
a few moments, he picked up the shofar and looked it over.
"Ram's hom," he commented. "We use a whistle
made from an eagle bone. May I blow it?"
He
blew a few loud notes through the ram's horn, handed it back,
and simply said, "Of course, it's much better than cow.
For
a moment I thought, "Better for what?" But Brother
Rufus was a medicine man. He knew that you blow animal bones
to blow the demons away, to clear the air, to connect with
God, to bring about change, to say to the sleeping soul, "Hey,
there, wake up! Pay attention!"
At
every step of his examination of my sacred prayer tools, Brother
Rufus asked the right questions. He was in tune with the technology
of religious artifacts and he understood them. He, coming
from a very different world, approached my religious instruments
as if they were not so different from his own, and he affirmed
each one.
My
response reminded me of the common element of all religion,
the inner experience which transcends external variations
and differences. As Reb Nachman of Bratzlav said, "The
Holy Spirit shouts forth from the tales of the gentiles, too."
I
do not believe that anyone has the exclusive franchise on
the Truth. What we have is a good approximation, for Jews,
of how to get there. Ultimately, each person creates a way
that fits his own situation. While there are differences between
Jewish and non-Jewish approaches to mysticism in specific
methods, observances, and rituals, there are no differences
in the impact of the experiences themselves. When it comes
to what I call the "heart stuff," all approaches
overlap.
Articles
by Rabbi Zalman Shacter-Shalomi
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