Duke University - Perkins Library Rare Book Room Hebrew Text Exhibit

At Duke University in the Perkins Library Rare Book Room, there was an exhibit of modern and old Hebrew Texts.  These are some of the artifacts on display.

This is a Torah Scroll of the Book of Exodus - Shemot ( שְׁמוֹת) in Hebrew meaing "Names" - From the first sentence in Exodus ("These are the names of the sons of Israel...")

This scroll is from the 1700's and is entirely hand-written on the skin of a kosher animal.

All synagogues have at least 1 Torah scroll. (The Torah is the first 5 Books of the Old Testament - Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy).  Torah means "Law."  This is where Jewish people find the 613 commandments.

This picture is taken from the scroll above.  This is from Exodus  15:1-18, the "Song of the Sea," the song sung by the Israelites after crossing the Red Sea.

Notice how the text is written.  It's written in an artistic manner to symbolize the Israelites in the middle column and the sea on both sides open so that they can cross.











Title Page of the Talmud.  The Talmud is a central text in Judaism.  It contains Rabbinic teachings on many aspects of Jewish Law including commandments, how to follow those commandments, ethics, tradition, and so forth.  Click here to learn more about the Talmud.



This line says "Talmud Babali" (meaning Babylonian Talmud)

This book is 1 of 16 in this version of the Talmud.









Here is one page from the Talmud above.  Jewish Scholars will generally study 1 page of the Talmud per day.  Reading the Talmud is difficult but fascinating because it contains Biblical Verses, commentaries on those verses, commentaries on the commentaries, and even opposing viewpoints. The main section is in the middle, and the commentaries are on the sides.













Here is a Children's Book, "Peter Pan" in Hebrew.  The Hebrew letters look different from the Hebrew you may have seen.  That is because this is written in Hebrew "cursive."  It is similar to how we can print or write in cursive in English

This picture is the title page of the Zohar - a book on Jewish Mysticism known as Kabbalah.  Click here to read about the Zohar.   The top line says "Sofer HaZoahr" ("Book of the Zohar")

This is a page of Jewish art from 1923.  It is the Biblical Book "Song of Songs," (also known as "Song of Solomon").  It was illustrated by an artist named Ze'ev Raban (See picture above for information)

 This is an illustrated copy of the Book of Jonah.  The picture is a representation of the world of the Lord coming to Jonah.  It's hard to see in this picture, but the "cloud" above Jonah looks like wind and a fish (foreshadowing Jonah being swallowed by the fish later in the book).

This is the first verse of Jonah.  The Hebrew is hard to read in this picture.  Here is what it says (Remember, Hebrew is read Right to Left):
  וַיְהִי דְּבַר-יְהוָה, אֶל-יוֹנָה בֶן-אֲמִתַּי, לֵאמֹר. (Transliterated: Vayihi, davar Adonai et-Ye'honah, ben Amatai le'amod) (The world of the Lord came to Jonah son of Amatai saying...)

A Reflection on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

It's not a secret.  I'm a white male.  I grew up in an area where racial and cultural diversity just didn't exist.  I never had a serious conversation with a black person until I was in high school and worked at a summer camp.  I wasn't avoiding blacks or any other races...Diversity simply did not exist where I lived.

I went to college.  There I encountered various races, but as is human nature, we tend to gravitate towards those with whom we have something in common.  All of my friends in college were white.  I talked to other races, but I wouldn't say any were close friends.  Even though diversity did exist in this college, it was still only in isolated pockets.

In the part of Pennsylvania where I spent my first 22 years, diversity was a non-issue.  It just didn't exist.  To be diverse meant (to me back then) that I had friends from different social crowds.  Different genders.  Different sexual orientations.  Race was really a non-issue.  I didn't avoid it.  It just didn't exist.  In the small cases where there was racial diversity, it was really treated as a non-issue.  All of our cultures, though few in number, melded into one culture.

I learned about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. at a young age.  Probably in elementary school.  We were taught racism is wrong, but we never had to deal with it.  Quickly, I began to like the image I had of Dr. King.  Non-violent, God loving, Stood up for others at his own risk.

(Background info:  Even before I declared myself a pacifist, I was one.  I was not violent.  People said I was a wimp.  I just believed it was wrong to hurt someone despite what they did to me.  I also believed in God from a very early age.  Of course as a 5 year old, my belief was very naive, but the seeds where there.  I was also one who befriended the ones that others didn't like.  If I didn't befriend them, I would at least be nice to them...but this isn't about me).

It wasn't until around 2001 that Dr. King became real to me as opposed to being a mythical figure.  In 2001, this small town white boy, all of 23 years old, began to teach in urban Dayton, OH where I was the minority.  It was a culture shock.  A HUGE culture shock!  At first, I just tried to survive.  Then, my entire life changed.

These "poor," "gang member," "abused," "angry," students became people to me.  I finally had a breakthrough in what Dr. King said - paraphrasing him - that all races should be able to exist together.

Instead of "saving" these kids, I realized I was called to befriend them. To show them that people do care.  That violence can be overcome by love.

I failed a lot and succeeded much less.  I lost kids to the street.  I lost kids to jail.  I lost kids to unmentionable demons.

But, from them, I learned more than they could ever learn from me.  They accepted me.  Not because I was white...not because they had to...but because in my classroom, race was an issue that was ok to talk about.  I got many questions such as "Why do white people....(fill in the blank)."  We laughed together.  We sang together (I taught music).  We argued. We talked about what it was like to be who we are.

Dr. King is one of the most influential people who allowed my story to be lived.  Because he struggled, I could interact and befriend other races.  Because of his life, my life is better.  Though he died years before I was born, he has impacted my life.

He made me more free because he made my brothers and sisters free.

He broke down many of my walls because he broke down the walls of oppression of my brothers and sisters.

Some say a white male has nothing to say about these issues.  They may be right.  Maybe I'm speaking out of turn.  Maybe I should be silent.  Maybe I should just praise what Dr. King did for other races.  But, I cannot be silent, I cannot stop from speaking, and I owe it to his legacy to praise what he also did for me.

Because Dr. King lived and struggled, I have friends...close friends...that only 40 or so years ago would have been taboo.  Because Dr. King lived and struggled, I taught over 1,000 precious children of all races.  Because Dr. King lived and struggled, my life is better for having known people of other races - whether we became close friends or even a 1 time meeting.

Of course, others can say Dr. King made their lives better much more than I can.  Others can use the same water fountain that I use because of him.  Others can go to the same places I can because of him.  These were never issues for me...but whatever hurts our brother or sister also hurts us.

Thanks to Dr. King, I have a larger family.

Broken Hearts

Everything I say here really happened.  I left out names to protect privacy of others.

This past week was by far, the hardest week I've ever gone through.  There were countless broken hearts in the figurative sense.  There was 1 broken heart in the literal sense.

The story begins over 10 years ago.  My friends met at the University of Zimbabwe in Africa.  They had classes together, and the husband, in his own words met his "soul-mate."  When I got to know them, the love they shared was obvious.  He must have been right.

What followed was your usual "love story" of dating, engagement, and marriage.  Then, to be adventurous, they decided to come to the USA to live for a few years.  They wanted to see the world.  They didn't intend to make America their home, but through a long course of events in their personal lives, and in the political situation of Zimbabwe, they became residents here.  They had jobs, a house, and became Americans by culture.  To see them, the only hint you'd have that they were not from America was their accent.

This couple had children.  Twin boys.  But really, they didn't know they were going to have triplets - the third one didn't come out of her womb - he came from my wife's.  The third is my son - He calls those boys his best friends.  My son is white, the twins are black, they don't see a difference.  I wish we could all be like that.  Through our sons, who first played together at church in the nursery, my wife and I became close friends of this couple.  We had moved to NC after losing our teaching jobs because of budget shortfalls, and this couple was the first to befriend us in our new situation. Even after we moved from that town to where I am now pastor, we have kept this friendship.  But I'm digressing.

5 years ago, my friend, the mother of the twins, developed heart troubles.  No one could diagnose why this happened...it "just did."  No genetic defects, no accident, no known health causes.  At first it was controlled with medicine and diet.  A few years later, there would be a pacemaker.  And just last month, the heart condition became so bad that she was put on the transplant list.  Being the person she was, I was I was told by a mutual friend that when they prayed for a heart to be found, she did not want someone to have to die so she could live.  The pastor had to change his prayer to "Thy will be done..."

Within a day of being put on the transplant list, a match was found.  She went through 8 hours of surgery.  When we got the text message that she came through and was doing as well as could be expected, my wife and I broke down in tears in front of our church choir.  A miracle had happened.

I visited her in the hospital.  I am totally serious when I say that if you didn't see the machines and wires and tubes hooked up to her, you'd never know she was sick.  Her husband called her "the prettiest heart transplant recipient ever."  He was right.  She also kept her sense of humor despite the obvious physical and emotional pain.  When I told her she looked good, she looked at me, rolled her eyes, and with her lovely humor and happiness, in a small whisper, she called me a liar.  I laughed.  She gave a faint smile.  Had she not been on so much medication and treatments, I can hear the laugh she would have given.

She went home by Christmas.  She spent Christmas with her children, her husband, and her 2 mothers who were here from Zimbabwe.  Technically one was mother-in-law, but they were so close that mother is the best term.  She celebrated New Year's with her family.  She began walking around the block to get her needed exercise to speed up recovery.

Progress was slow, but she was getting better.  Then one day she woke up with a severe headache.  She didn't suffer long.  That headache was her brain bleeding.  They had been told by the heart surgeon that anything could happen in the first month or so despite how well she was doing - though medicine has advanced so much, there are still a lot of "unknowns."  She didn't suffer long.

At the hospital, the doctor said most likely she would not make it through this, but he could try a surgery that only had a slight success rate if the family wanted him to try.  They wanted him to try.  Despite the skilled hands of the doctor, the surgery was not a success. After a day, it was determined there was no brain activity.  She was only alive by machine.  After saying their good-byes, she passed away peacefully.  She was only 39.

Through this couple, I made a good friend in another pastor.  We attended licensing school together and became fast friends.  He too, was from Zimbabwe, but now lives in America.  He has a church of many Zimbabweans.

So that they could plan the dual-culture funeral (half done "American style" by their home church pastor; half done "African style" by the pastor from Zimbabwe), I came with the Zimbabwean pastor to visit the husband and the American pastor.  I was worried I would be intruding.  He told me that in Zimbabwe, when someone dies, people will come and stay with the family for weeks at a time.  I could not over-extend my welcome.

I learned a beautiful cultural tradition.  As we were sitting, people would look at one another and clap their hands in a certain fashion.  I didn't understand, so I smiled.  Finally, not knowing if I was supposed to clap, I asked the Zimbabwean pastor.  He laughed at me (that's the kind of friends we are - we are so close that even when we laugh at - not with - the other, we know it's in good nature and in love).  He explained the clapping is similar to how we wave or nod to someone so that we don't have to yell across the room.  If it's done close to the person, it's similar to a bow or nod of the head.  It's a greeting and sign of respect.

Over the next few days, I tried to stay out of the limelight, but that was not easy.  Countless Zimbabweans who now live in America came to the house.  My family stuck out for obvious skin tone reasons.  They found out I was a pastor, and in their culture, the pastor is a highly respected office.  I went from being "friend" to "Pastor" in their eyes.

Quickly, this community to which I have no ties (other than my friends) welcomed me as one of their own.  They taught me Shona words.  They told me I am now an official "Zimbabwean" no matter what.

The most beautiful pre-funeral service I ever experienced happened as my family visited one night.  Guitars and a keyboard were brought out.  The secret leaked that I'm a musician.  I was invited to play the keyboard.  I didn't know any of the songs - they were all in Shona (with some English mixed in), but I could play by ear - the chord changes weren't too difficult.  I began to truly feel part of the community. I forgot about my skin color.  We were all one community - one family.  We played music, they sang traditional Shona church songs, folk songs, and customary funeral songs.  This was not a sad time.  We celebrated life - the life of my friend.  We prayed. We shared memories. When someone spoke in Shona, one of the people would translate quietly to me so I could understand.

My family made friends.  The women embraced my wife.  The countless children played with my children.  The men invited me into their discussions.  They even switched to English just for me.

The funeral service was heartbreaking.  A husband lost his wife.  2 young boys lost their mom.  Hundreds of people lost a friend.

When someone dies, we tend to elevate their character and make them seem better than they were.  That was not the case here.  My friend was the type of person we all strive to be.  She had faults, she wasn't perfect, but she was darn close to being perfect.

The funeral service was also healing.  The family left behind will be taken care of.  God will take care of them.  Their church family will take care of them.  Their Zimbabwean community will take care of them.

My friend died too young.  Was it God's will?  I don't know.  I doubt it.  I think God allows bad things to happen - I think God remains present in those situations and comforts us, guides us, and loves us.  Why?  Because what we see, feel, and experience is not the entirety of God's plan.  While we see life and death as 2 distinct categories, God sees life and death as a continuous path without separation.  We will all die.  When we get to the "other side," there will be no divide.  Our lives can go on.  Until the final resurrection, the only difference is that our souls are separate from our bodies.  One day, God will rejoin them and redeem all of creation.  How?  I have no idea.  I don't want to know.  I just believe.

To my friend:  We loved you while you were with us.  You were a wonderful friend to us.  You treated us like family.  You were family to us.  Your husband and boys will always be part of us!  Thank you for being our friend!  We love you.


To her family:  We love you.  We don't look the same, we don't speak the same, I'll probably never be able to talk to you on a phone...your accent is too thick (yes, that is meant to be humorous...but it's true).  You are our family.  The distance between us is sizable, but we will still see each other.  We love you.


To my new Zimbabwean friends:  Thank you for accepting us.  Thank you for welcoming us into your culture and your lives.  Thank you for the jokes, the hugs, the Shona lessons, and most of all for your love.  We love you.  


To God:  We don't understand.  We're sad.  We're confused.  We've blamed you.  We've yelled at you.  This doesn't seem fair.  It's not fair.  But, I know you see the whole picture.  I know you will redeem even this.  You have a lot of explaining to do someday, but I trust in your goodness and power!  We love you!