The Baal Shem Tov left Metzaboze with ten followers to visit a distant village. Disguising himself as a simple traveler, he instructed his students to tell no one that they were in the company of a great rabbi, the founder of Hassidic Judaism.
As the afternoon grew long, the party stopped at a small, run-down farmhouse, owned by a couple named Moshe and Sarah, who, in the custom of their faith, received the travelers with enthusiastic hospitality.
“Where have you come from?” they asked.
“We’ve traveled from our home in Metzaboze,” replied a student.
“Why that’s the home of the Baal Shem Tov!” they cried. But obedient to their master, no one said a word to give him away.
Dinner consisted of a loaf of bread and a jar of milk. The students, deeply disturbed by their imposition on such a poor couple, ate and drank not one morsel nor one drop. The Baal Shem Tov, however, proceeded to eat the entire loaf of bread and to drain every last drop of milk.
The next morning, the travelers moved on, the students feeling most ill at ease with what had transpired.
Late the next afternoon, the Baal Shem Tov announced that they would return to the home of Moshe and Sarah. The students looked at one another aghast, but felt they had no choice but to accompany their teacher. Once again, Moshe and Sarah received them with joy, although now they had nothing to feed their guests.
“We thank you for your hospitality last evening,” said the Baal Shem Tov. “But we have traveled far today, and tonight, we would like something more to eat than bread and milk, if you please.”
“We must sell the cow,” Moshe whispered to his wife.
“But how will we eat tomorrow?” asked Sarah.
“I don’t know,” replied Moshe. “But we are obligated to feed our guests. This is the only way we will eat for the evening.”
So Sarah walked the cow to the marketplace, and drove as hard a bargain as she could. With the money gleaned from the sale of the cow, she bought meat as well as milk and bread, and prepared a meal for her eleven guests.[1]
Once again, the students, embarrassed and upset, ate not one morsel nor drank one drop. The Baal Shem Tov, however, proceeded to eat all the meat, two entire loaves of bread, and every last drop of milk.
The next morning, the travelers thanked their hosts, but proceeded on their journey in silence; no one was talking to the Baal Shem Tov.
Imagine, then, their abject horror when, toward the end of the third afternoon, the Baal Shem Tov announced that, once again, they would spend the night with Moshe and Sarah. They hung back in disbelief as their great teacher approached the ramshackle farmhouse with the empty yard and knocked on the door. Beyond all reason, Moshe and Sarah greeted their guests with open arms, and invited them in.
“Tonight is the Sabbath,” announced the Baal Shem Tov, “and we must have a great feast. There should be bread, milk, and meat, and cheese and wine.”
“What shall we do?” Sarah whispered to Moshe.
“There is only one thing to do,” he replied. We must sell the house. Go quickly to the market, and see if you can find someone who will buy this old place.”
So Sarah went, and, indeed, found someone who would buy the house—not for the house, of course, but for the small plot of land on which it stood. And with the money, Sarah bought bread, milk, and meat, and cheese and wine, and hurried home to prepare the Sabbath meal.
Indeed, she prepared a feast unlike any she and Moshe had ever seen. The students were sick at heart, and ate not one bite nor drank a single swallow. The Baal Shem Tov, however, proceeded to eat every last thing on the table: bread, milk, and meat, and cheese and wine. He ate and ate and ate until there was nothing left, and he slept all through the night, and well into the next day, snoring loudly.
Late the next afternoon, as the Sabbath came to an end, the travelers took their leave, and headed back to Metzaboze. As they thanked their hosts and waved goodbye, the Baal Shem Tov called back to Moshe and Sarah, “I am the Baal Shem Tov!”
The students were miserable, and for the rest of the journey, and for many days thereafter, not a one spoke a word to his teacher.
After they were out of sight, Sarah turned to her husband. “What should we do now?” she asked. “We have less than nothing.”
“I will go to the forest to pray,” Moshe replied.
In the forest, Moshe shook his head at his fate. Unsuspecting, he had entertained the great Baal Shem Tov; what a blessing! But now, he and Sarah were poorer than they had ever been.
“Dear God,” he prayed, “I ask nothing for myself or my beloved wife, Sarah. We have been blessed with much, including the company of the greatest rabbi in the world. But what shall we do now? If another traveler should come, we have neither food nor shelter to offer them. I wish we could receive every guest as we did last night. I wish there were enough to give to everyone who asks.”
Moshe prayed, and waited a long time for an answer to his prayer. What should he and Sarah do now? But no reply came.
As he was leaving the forest, he happened upon Yoni, the town drunk. “Yoni, how are you today?”
“I’ve been better, Moshe,” Yoni replied, “but thank you for asking.”
“Listen, Moshe,” he continued, “I’ve been thinking about you. My own family has thrown me out. Everyone else in this village has given up on me. But you and Sarah have often spoken kindly to me, and fed me, and been true friends.”
“I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you today, Yoni,” Moshe said sadly.
“Well, I have something for you,” said the drunkard. “Come with me.”
Turning back into the forest, he led Moshe to a great tree, with a hollow in its trunk. Reaching inside, grunting and straining, he pulled out a huge, heavy sack. “Everyone thinks I’m poor,” he said. “Far from it! Here’s some money I came by. You’re the only one who knows it’s here. When I die, I want you to have it.”
Moshe was speechless. “Thank you, Yoni,” he said at last. “But may you live a long life, my friend.”
The two men walked back to the village together, Moshe returning to Sarah to tell her about his time in the forest.
Later that night, word came that Yoni had died.
And so Moshe and Sarah came to enjoy Yoni’s fortune, living a wonderful life in a big house, filled with family and friends and travelers from all over. Each night, a feast was laid out, and everyone was welcome at their table. Their village enjoyed a time of unprecedented prosperity and peace.
One day, Sarah said to Moshe, as she had so often over the years, “Everything changed for us after the visit from the Baal Shem Tov.” But that day, she added, “Let us travel to Metzaboze to thank him.”
And so they did. In Metzaboze, they were welcomed warmly into the company of the great rabbi, from whom they received the teaching that told the secret of their lives. “You were always satisfied with your poverty,” said the Baal Shem Tov. “I had to take away what little you had, so you could ask for what you really deserved. And you did that that day in the forest, Moshe. You asked, not for yourself, but for enough for everyone. The moment any one of us asks for enough for everyone, heaven and earth will move.”
I learned this story of the fruits of generosity and faith on a recent ministers’ retreat led by my friend and colleague, Rev. Barbara Merritt. Plumbing its deepest meanings, it’s a story about the difference one person can make in the choice to live, not only for ourselves, but on behalf of others, and also about the ways we can be changed and blessed by our own generosity.
Usually, we are taught that there’s only so much to go around, and that we’d better get ours and lock it down before someone else does. This is a lie that could not be further from the truth. And we know this; it’s hidden in plain sight in the seventh principle of Unitarian Universalism, our covenant to affirm and promote respect for the interdependent web ... of which we are a part. Whatever happens to the web happens to us: blessing and cursing, tragedy and triumph.
Barbara Merritt gave two more teachings that I want to share with you briefly this morning. The first is from her guru, who was asked, “What is the worst karma we can have?”
Let your mind turn on this terrible koan for just a moment: What is the worst fate? A sick child? Not having access to clean water? Living in a war zone? My mind ran scenes from each of these nightmares, as Barbara Merritt waited for our responses.
Her teacher answered, “The worst karma we can have is to be ungrateful.”
Ungratefulness is closely linked with faithlessness, which, in turn, is linked with hopelessness. And then, really, what’s left? It’s a terrible place to live. And while, at any given moment, we might not be able to invoke gratitude, or faith, or hope, we can call out to one another for the fortitude to face whatever lies before us, and, if nothing more, touch our gratitude for the arms that reach out to catch us as we fall. Conversely, when life is sweet, how much more sweet is it when we include others in the embrace of good fortune?
Here’s Barbara Merritt’s last teaching, this one credited to French philosopher and mystic, Simone Weil, who reportedly said that there was only one sin. Here’s another koan for us. If there is only one sin, what is it?
No, Simone Weil did not name lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, or pride—Christianity’s seven deadlies—but, instead, just this: The only sin, she said, is to believe that we can face evil alone.
It occurs to me that maybe that’s a big part of why I’m here, and maybe why you’re here, instead of sitting at home with the Sunday Times, facing evil alone ... because we can’t, and we shouldn’t.
And so we gather, this beloved community of memory and hope, facing evil and amplifying joy. All are welcome at this table, where we deeply believe that there is enough for everyone, and where we enjoy the good karma of gratitude.
The dream of our founders, a dream that is now more than 277 years old, was to create a religious community in which they could worship free of persecution and oppression. We continue to build on that dream. But now we are the founders, and the bearers, of a new dream. It is we who give legs and wings to our gifts of money and time to this spiritual community. Money and time are the tools we use, gathered in love and service for justice and peace, the tools we use in vision and action to call back our planet from the brink of devastation, to end war and hunger, to bind up the broken, and to bear a promise of hope to all that dwell below the skies. This is the mandate of our free faith, and a covenant we repeat each time we gather for worship.
This year, once again, I invite you to go beyond the question of How and how much can I give? or even, How can I better serve here at Arlington Street? These are very good questions, but they’re not the question of this spiritual community. As we are learning together, the question really is much bigger, and much more powerful, than What can we do for Arlington Street? As we renew our covenant, the question before us is this: What can Arlington Street do for the world through us? [2]
My spiritual companions, once a year, on one great morning, we are asked to take the measure of our devotion to what is possible here, within us and among us. You have never failed to give beyond my wildest dreams, and it is the faith with which you give—faith in the vision of all we are, and all we do, and all we are yet to become—that keeps me so profoundly rooted here with you. Today is the day.
May these three morals companion us, as we go forth together:
The only sin is to believe that we can face evil alone. Let us face it, together.
The worst fate we can have is to be ungrateful. Let us give thanks.
The moment any one of us asks for enough for everyone,
heaven and earth will move.
Let us ask, and let us answer yes.
Bless your hearts. Amen.