When Only The Hora Can Save You...

...or how I officiated a wedding for 170 stunned Jewish friends and family members. Dear friends of mine asked if I would, as an officially sanctioned "Buddhist Minister" (in the state of NY, registration number 71747!) officiate their wedding. I'm touched to tears.

Wedding was end of May, 'bout three hrs out of the city. Bought a new suit (three button, linen, flax-colored. Went with a French blue spread collar shirt and an Aboud tie--copper red/orange with angled blue stripes). Rented a car so I could drive home same night and wake up next to my daughter. So far, so good.

Kind of wasn't exactly clear on the whole backstory of how the family and their 170 closest friends who'd flown in were ready to burn me at the stake upon arrival since I was a. Not Jewish. b. Not a Rabbi. c. A Buddhist. Found that out when I met the parents an hour before the 5:30pm ceremony. Nothing like upping the ante.

Given I couldn't exactly jump back in my car and bail, I figured my only real options were a. Pray to Yahweh or b. Hit the bar. I head over to the caterers, but they were sweatin' set up and weren't about to slip me a Corona from the cooler. So I did what any self respecting Buddhist would do--walked over to a far off corner of the huge field where the ceremony would be and prayed for help. Still could've used that Corona.

Showtime. We're outside, bride and groom look great. Behind them, 170 pin-drop quiet friends/family waiting for me to pull a goat from a burlap sack and start the proceedings with a traditional sacrifice. See? If they'd done their homework they would've known Buddhist are vehemently opposed to taking life. And that Buddhists love an icy cold cerveza con limon before important rites of passage god dammit! Oops.

Did I mention the ring bearer was an active Marine just back from his second tour of Iraq? He was there in dress blues, sizing me up I'm sure and figuring out whether to go for the straight choke-hold or go WWF and take me out with a folding chair to the back.

So away we go. Readings, vows, rings exchanged, kissing, pronouncing them 'Husband and Wife', off they go happily married and next thing I know there's mom and dad crying and hugging me heartily with thanks for such a beautiful ceremony. Could've been the suit. The suit was hot. Now may I have a Corona? Apparently not. Nice woman walks up, says "I have to say, I came here ready to be very disappointed with you/Buddhism/the ceremony but I was surprised/inspired/grateful/touched. I hyphenate because I care. And because, for the next hour every single person who came up to me said just about the same thing.

People really met what they said but after like the thirtieth person, I had to catch some air. I grab a beer and walk down the dirt road, jump in my rental hit the a.c. and decompress. Should've grabbed two beers. Will next time. By now its dark dinners served and I figure I'll just be another shadow under the big tent reception. Kill my beer (St. Paulie Girl--not my fave but its what stuck to my hand when I blindly grabbed whatever the cater-guy pulled from ice) and walk over to eat.

Okay, despite the storied and difficult legacy of suffering I will say this about the Jewish tradition--it is unbeatable when it comes to stocking a reception dinner. I'm about to fill my plate when my Spidey-sense starts tingling. I turn and looking right at me is this elegant, snowy haired eighty+ yr old gentlemen. He reaches over, takes my hands in his. "I vanna sank you for your words of love. Your vords of beauty. Nevah stop what you are doing. You bring the most important message of all, the message of love. And I should know, our world? It needs love more than evah".

He leans in, puts his mouth right up to my ear, I can feel his breath--and it moves right through me "I should know, I'm a survivor--Auschwitz. Don't forget us, we die one thousand every week". He gives me a the most gentle lovely, kind kiss then walks away. I'm standing there with an empty plate, just basically blinking like a stuck brake light. I head right to the bar, double up on a Grey Goose. My mind racing nowhere all at once. I sit on the grass watching people dance. Think about Auschwitz, think about "Schindler's List" which amounts to just about everything I know about the holocaust. I drink two more doubles, but can't get drunk.

I feel, grateful? Inadequate? Phony? D. All of the above. I think about another drink and remember I still have a four hour drive home to Manhattan. I put my empty glass on a table and mom walks up to me. Gives me a hug and says "Come...". On the dance floor everyone's in a circle, just starting the hora. We walk over the circle opens and we dance. And every few turns of the circle, I'm looking for that little man. And I can't find him. He's nowhere. And everywhere. But I can't see him. And can't forget him.