They say the best place to have a medical emergency is a hospital. Wrong. The best place is a synagogue sanctuary during the High Holy Days. At every service he leads, including those on the High Holy Days, Rabbi Ferenc Raj of Berkeley’s Congregation Beth El includes the Mishebeirach, the Jewish prayer for healing.
Before everyone sings Debbie Friedman’s version of the prayer, Raj asks congregants to call out the names of any loved ones in need of healing. Sweeping the room from left to right, he points an imperious finger at each raised hand.
You can practically feel the throats clench, the choking back of tears, as people speak the names.
That’s the power of utterance. As if the mere act of saying the names aloud will plunge the sick into a rushing river of spirit, a river with the power to heal.
The Mishebeirach doesn’t predict any miracle cures. It was composed in the subjunctive mood, retaining an element of doubt: “May the Almighty be filled with mercy to strengthen, to heal, to vitalize. May He speedily send a complete recovery from Heaven to all limbs and organs.”
Then again, the Almighty may not. We can’t be sure. To me, that’s a good example of the realism embedded in Judaism.
Contrast that with the freak show that is televangelism and faith healing. I am not trying to slam Christianity, but it’s a shanda how clowns like Pastor Benny Hinn trick the lame, the blind and the gullible.
You know the drill: The preacher with the six-inch pompadour and $1,000 suit places his hands on a weeping cancer patient and with a snarl commands the devil to leave her body in the name of Jesus. Then, to the cheers of the crowd, someone who five minutes before could barely walk starts doing the neutron dance up and down the stage.
It’s a miracle.
Hey, if these guys are so good at healing, why doesn’t Kaiser Permanente hire them? Of course, the name-brand faith healers like Hinn would be too pricey, so perhaps Kaiser could cut a deal with generic faith healers. Their miracles might not be as impressive — something on the order of curing bunions or ringworm — but at least they’d be more in line with penny-pinching HMOs.
Now contrast those charlatans with what I saw at Beth El during the High Holy Days.
Just as the rabbi began the Mishebeirach, an elderly man slumped over, apparently the victim of a heart attack. It took a few seconds for anyone to realize something bad had happened. Then heads began turning. A disquieting murmur filled the sanctuary.
As soon as he perceived trouble, Raj halted the service, but he didn’t need to ask for help. Within seconds, a minyan of Jewish cardiologists swarmed over the man, giving him the best emergency medical care on planet Earth.
Rather than prolong the unbearable quiet, Raj asked the congregation to continue praying the Mishebeirach. It would be hard to imagine a more sincerely uttered prayer than that one: the autumn sun falling in slants, the doctors bent over their prostrate patient, the congregation singing him back to health.
Soon paramedics arrived to take the man to the hospital. The service went on as planned, but for me, nothing afterwards could have topped seeing those doctors fulfill both the Hippocratic Oath and the mitzvah of true tzedakah, true righteousness.
I’m sure had this happened in a church, 10 Christian doctors similarly would have jumped up to help. This is not about contrasting the two religions. But to our credit, Jews don’t rely on supernatural miracles, at least not since that whole lamp-staying-lit-for-eight-days thing.
Good news. It turned out the man had only had a bad reaction to a new medication. He’ll be OK.
However, no one knew that at the time. All we could do then was sit, pray and marvel at the rapid response of a caring congregation.
The High Holy Days are over. The new year hurtles onward. I have no idea if I have been inscribed in the Book of Life. But just to hedge my bets, I figure on keeping my friends close and my posse of Jews closer.