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Meditations of a Fickle Jew in Fickle, Indiana Jeffrey Weill It is after midnight and we’re holed up in the Lincoln Lodge Motel just outside Fickle, Indiana. My wife and daughter are falling asleep. Our room smells like it was, until yesterday, specially designated for heavy smokers. Among the furnishings are an old, oversized lounger and a plastic folding chair. The door to the hallway is hollow. I can hear other travelers entering the motel lobby. Like us, they are seeking shelter from a storm. We began our drive to Cincinnati from Chicago a few hours ago. At the beginning of our journey, flashes of lightning illuminated the eastern sky. It drizzled intermittently. As we drove, the rain grew steadier. And then, about an hour ago, we entered the furious heart of the storm. It poured in torrents, and the lightning was no longer miles away. It was on top of us. The broad flashes and huge bolts of electricity came in rapid-fire succession. They were so dazzling that spots appeared before my eyes. For some reason, the flashes to the north were orange and pink while those to the south were incandescent white. Buckets of rain drummed on the car. I glanced at Julie, asleep in the passenger seat, and Betsy, asleep in the back, and slowed the car to 45 miles an hour. I nudged Julie. “Look,” I said, “The lightning’s gone completely neurotic.” Neurotic? Its constant, erratic flashing seemed obsessive, so neurotic might have been the right word. But, no, lightning is not neurotic. It is confident, brash. I drove slowly and watched, mouth agape, this awesome display of nature. Julie fell right back to sleep. She has her own forces of nature to contend with. She is pregnant, and pregnancy makes its own demands, impervious to mighty storms. I drove on and imagined an angry God hurling bolts of lightning down at us foolish mortals. A childish image. A rabbinical student ought to strive for something more religiously refined. I recalled the blessing one recites upon seeing lightning, meteor showers and certain other displays of nature: Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha-olam, oseh ma’asei vreishit. Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe, the One who makes the work of Creation. As I uttered the words, I was overcome by a sense of humility and smallness. The storm raged, and I felt vulnerable. “Honey, shouldn’t we get off the road?” Julie opened her eyes to the torrents and bright flashes. “Yes, if you think so.” She fell right back to sleep. Were we in danger? Probably not. I was driving cautiously and in a safe car. The rubber tires, I figured, grounded us. So, rationally, I felt safe. Yet there was another instinct, completely irrational, that prodded me to get off the road. What was it? I wanted to stop driving as a form of praise. Whether we were safe or not, I felt compelled to turn off the motor, run, and take cover out of reverence and awe of God. I steered the car off Interstate 65 and headed two miles down a narrow road to this old motel. On the way, we passed a town sign: “Fickle.” I usually resist the temptation to find meaning in every signpost along the road, but this one begged for attention. Fickle. What to make of it? My first reading was that fate is fickle. The odds that danger would befall us in that storm were low. But bad things happen to decent people. Illnesses strike. Accidents happen. Buildings tumble. Who knows what could happen on the road tonight? Yet, I was searching for a different interpretation. A second reading thrust itself forward. Suddenly, the sign was admonishing me: “You, Jeffrey, you are fickle. One day you believe. The next day you don’t. Tonight, you are awed by mighty acts of nature. But tomorrow your awe will evaporate into indifference.” The voice was right. Sure, it is easy enough for me to believe in God during tonight’s pyrotechnic display. But as a Jew, I am commanded to “Seek God’s face continually.” (Psalms 105:4). This means that even during the most ordinary, mundane moments I must “seek God’s face.” Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “Something sacred is at stake in every event.” Yes, I have discovered the sacred in tonight’s storm. But how often do I allow other events, perhaps less brilliant but no less sacred, to pass by unappreciated, unrecognized? Too often, I’m afraid. I am spiritually fickle. Tonight, however, my spiritual antennae are finely tuned. I sense the sacred here, now, as travelers mill about this cheap motel. I listen to the voices down the hallway. A family with a barking dog just checked in. Several women have gathered around a television set in the lobby; they’re talking about the storm. The Indian proprietor mentions the danger of tornadoes in this part of the country. I imagine Abraham Lincoln – or, at least, our contemporary understanding of him – would be gratified by what is transpiring here in this little motel that bears his name. Americans of all sorts seeking shelter together. There is an interracial couple here. The proprietors are Indian. We are Jewish. At one time, racist laws and customs might have barred all of us from lodging here. But tonight, we all feel welcomed into this place. “Seek God’s face continually,” sang the psalmist. Tonight, I am seeking God’s face in the unrelenting power of nature, and in the traveler’s humble acknowledgement that he is small. I am seeking God’s face in the efficient kindness of the motel proprietor. And I am seeking God’s face in the “still, small voice” – the voice the prophet Elijah heard when the mighty storms finally subsided. It is this voice I hear now, as the rain softens to a trickle outside my window, as clamor gives way to quiet in the motel lobby, and as my wife and daughter breathe softly in sleep behind me. Jeffrey Weill is a rabbinical student at the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion in New York. He lives in South Orange, New Jersey, with his wife and two daughters.
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