The Peace Stone

By Rabbi Yonassan Gershom

I am a rabbi—a rabbi who believes Israel should trade land for peace, and the Palestinians should have their own state. I could give you all kinds of historical and political arguments why this should be so, but I'm not going to do that, because academics really has nothing to do with my stand. I'm a storyteller, not a politician, and the tale I am about to share is deeply personal.

It all began in 1984 with a dozen peaceworkers sitting in my living room, their eyes glued to the television. "Don't see this film alone!" the publicity had warned. Now we were glad we didn't, because our hearts were filled with unspeakable anguish as we watched "The Day After," a graphic depiction of the stark reality of nuclear war. With one breath we gasped as The Button was pushed; with one pair of eyes we saw the bombs explode; and with one set of tears we wept for the death of Planet Earth.

When the program ended, we all sat in shocked silence, then slowly formed a circle and chanted shalom—peace. Candles of hope were lit, prayers from many religious traditions were said, and some people, including myself, renewed vows of non-violence. Then we shared stories and prophecies about world peace from our various cultures.

The Day After "The Day After"

On the day after "The Day After," I awoke with a sense of wonder at even being alive, as if I had narrowly escaped the Angel of Death. Everyday objects—a flower, a sparrow, a fallen leaf—seemed filled with miracles. But there was also a terrible sense of foreboding. What if we really did push The Button? Was there no hope for peace in this troubled world?

That evening I pulled a knitted cap over my yarmulke, donned a plaid flannel shirt and jeans, then went to sit anonymously in a circle of people sharing their feelings about the film. As part of this process, we were each asked to write a letter to someone who mattered to us, expressing concern about the nuclear threat and offering personal skills for peace. Next, following an American Indian tradition, we passed a "storytelling stone" around the circle. Each person held the stone while reading his or her letter, then passed the stone to the next person on the left.

I wrote my letter to the Prophet Elijah. Now this requires a bit of explanation. In Jewish folktales, the Prophet Elijah is mentioned more often than any other individual—even Moses. The Bible says that Elijah never died, but ascended to Heaven in a flaming chariot. Therefore Elijah still lives, and periodically descends to earth to test the hearts of the faithful and reveal inner secrets to the mystics. In addition, as the forerunner of the Messiah, Elijah also comes to see if the world is ready.

Elijah still lives, and periodically descends to earth to test the hearts of the faithful.

But Elijah does not come openly as Elijah—if he did that, of course everyone would honor him, and how then could he get an honest impression of the world? So he comes in disguise, perhaps as a homeless beggar, to see how he will be treated. In most of the stories, the seeker does not even realize that he has met Elijah until the "stranger" simply disappears. Therefore, Jewish tradition teaches, one must treat every person as if he or she might be Elijah.

The storytelling stone was passed to me. I held it for a moment in silence, savoring the smooth, dark surface, naturally rounded by the waves of Lake Superior. Then, slowly and softly, I began to read:

Dear Prophet Elijah:

I am writing this letter to you to say that I know you periodically check up on Planet Earth, and are probably just as worried as I am right now ... To be honest, I am not sure which road to take, but I am going to leave it up to God to open a door this week to some kind of peace work where I can be useful. My biggest concern is bridging the gap between the Jewish community and other peoples. So I think I would like to begin opening communications between myself and my Muslim neighbors. I may not be able to solve the Middle East crisis, but I can begin some one-to-one communication with people in my own neighborhood. . . "

When I finished reading my letter, someone handed me a button with "Peace" in Arabic, Hebrew and English. Then, with a big hug, he wished me luck on my quest. I felt embarrassed, because I had never met any Muslims, and had no idea how I could possibly keep such a promise. Now that I had read the letter out loud, it sounded presumptuous. Thank goodness I had come here anonymously!

When the sharing circle ended, the woman who had led the ceremony handed me the storytelling stone. "I somehow sense that this belongs to you now," she said.

The smooth stone felt warm to the touch, from all the hands that had held it that evening, and this somehow comforted me. Thanking her, I slipped it into my pocket with the letter to Elijah, then pinned the trilingual peace button on my coat and left.

The Palestinian

Three days later the blizzard came, burying Minneapolis in deep snowdrifts. On Franklin Avenue, where I was walking, the sidewalks were icy and treacherous, flanked by huge piles of snow left behind by the plows. In some places, people had shoveled only a narrow trail, barely wide enough for one person to walk or for two to pass sideways. It was at just such an impasse that I met the Palestinian.

"Jew! " he shouted in anger, recognizing my religion because of my beard and sidecurls. "I am not Hitler! You are Hitler! You Jews killed my family! My wife and son are dead because of you!"

The confrontation took me by surprise, and I was very frightened. This man was a total stranger—I certainly had not killed his family or anyone else. I felt like a cardboard target with "Jew" written all over it. Had the sidewalks been clear, I would have run. But there we were, face-to-face between four foot piles of snow. Like it or not, I had to deal with this situation.

After a few deep breaths and a silent prayer, I conquered my fear long enough to begin listening to the man's story. He was born in Jerusalem but had fled to Beirut, only to lose his family during the Israeli bombing in 1982. He then fled to America and had ended up on the streets. Now he was hurt and angry, like so many of the people in this poor inner-city neighborhood.

And then it hit me—he really was no different than anyone else I had met. This Palestinian was just another human being, grieving the death of his loved ones. I could understand that, because I, too, had no family. He was exactly like me.

When the man ended his story, I silently pointed to the button on my coat. "Peace, " it said, in Arabic, Hebrew and English. Then I said to him, "I grieve for your family, and wish there were peace. I support the rights of all peoples, and I am against war, all war, even Israeli wars. We are all one human family."

His face softened and our eyes embraced. Then, clasping hands, we both turned sideways to help each other pass. Just two human beings, walking on a very slippery trail.

I had taken only a few steps when, tucking my hands into my pockets, I suddenly felt the storytelling stone and the letter to Elijah. A chill went up my spine as I turned and looked back. The Palestinian had vanished!

Was he really Elijah the Prophet, come to test my sincerity? I will never know. But the encounter was a turning point in my life. No longer could I see Arabs as "the enemy." From that moment on, I could empathize with the suffering on both sides, and realized that the real enemy was the war itself.

Over the years, I have carried the storytelling stone to many gatherings, sharing this experience and praying for peace. Somewhere along the line, my little rock was dubbed the Peace Stone. Like the proverbial swords into plough shares, it has been transformed from a potential weapon into an instrument of human understanding. At Sabbath celebrations, Passover seders, folklore gatherings and protest rallies, literally thousands of people have passed the Peace Stone from hand to hand, expressing their hopes for Planet Earth.

I know that this alone will not bring peace, that we need negotiations and treaties, and that the process will be long and difficult for both sides. That is for the politicians to work out. But there is a deeper peace beyond the absence of war, and that is the inner peace between the hearts of fellow human beings. In order to reach that level, we need to stop seeing each other as depersonalized targets, and realize that beyond all the differences in culture, language and religion, we are members of the same family, sharing the same Planet Earth. I would like to think that by sharing the story of the Peace Stone, I am helping us take one more step toward that goal.

Rabbi Yonassan Gershom explains that while the story he relates "may sound a little bit like mystical fiction it is absolutely true "and was "a turning point in my personal growth and was also the moment of decision for my current support of a two-state solution to the Palestinian-Israeli conflict." Rabbi Gershom was born in Berkeley, CA, grew up in the Philadelphia, PA area, received his B. S. degree from Mankato State Universityin Minnesota, and was ordained by the P'nai OrRebbe, Zalman Schachter-Salomi. He is the author of two books and numerous articles. A list of this programs and speeches may be obtained from his office at 106 Commercial Street, Box 555, Sandstone, MN 55072.