After about 11 years looking in, searching around, studying, visiting and practicing so many different spiritual paths, I finally returned to Judaism. And the signposts that helped me find my way back was stories and storytelling.

Rabbi Ted Falcon is a wonderful storyteller and his telling Hasidic stories back in the early 1980’s was one of the main reasons I cam back and stayed.

And that by itself is a big breakthrough. However, the really big breakthrough , for me as regards the path of the storyteller, was the story that came to me as a member of the choir in Rabbi Falcon’s congregation at that time, Makom Ohr Shalom: A Place for the Light of Healing.

This was 1986. It was the second day of Rosh Hashanah—the Jewish New Year. It also happened to be, through an accident (there really are none) of the Jewish calendar, a calendar based on the lunar cycle,and the recent leap year that that particular Rosh Hashanah second day was also my own personal New Year: my birthday. That would not happen again until THIS past year, 2005, when for the first time since 1986, my birthday would fall on the second day of Rosh Hashanah And it was not just another birthday, but it was my 30th birthday—certainly a landmark year for most of us.

So there I was sitting in the tenor section of the Congregation Makom Ohr Shalom choir and Rabbi Ted was leading us in one his wonderful guided meditations. And normally, when we were doing these meditations, I went along with wherever Ted was going.

But this time, I went somewhere else. Some side way off the main path. And wherever that was, I received something, a gift, I had never received before, nor ever received since. I heard a story that the Rabbi was not telling. It was a complete story with a beginning, middle and end. There was no creative struggle or any of the usual process I experience while creating a story. No, this story came right through as if it was being told to me. I had never heard it before and as far as I know it had never been told or written anywhere else. Just inside me at that moment, like it was being dictated. Or as I said, it was being told to me. Inside.

I later decided that it was. That whatever an angelic encounter was, this was as close as I was probably ever going to get.

I kept thinking of the story for the rest of the service and as soon as I could, I wrote down a little note to myself so I would remember it. I wrote on the front cover of my copy of the meditation book/prayer pamphlet/songbook that we used: “Invisible Mezuzzah”.

This story has turned out to be one of my favorite stories to tell. That mystical experience of receiving the story led me, just a few weeks later to want to audit a class Rabbi Ted was teaching at the University of Judaism (UJ) in Bel Air, which led me to fall in love with that campus there in the Santa Monica foothills, which led me to register as an undergraduate in the UJ’s Lee College, which led me to apply to rabbinical school, which led me to be a rabbi now (and also to meeting my wife, but that is another story). Which led me to start a congregation here in Northern California, which led me to a trip to Israel…

But wait. There is something that comes before that.

Being at the UJ, also led me to spending a Shabbat (Sabbath) retreat there on campus in the dorms, and chapel setting with one of the great master storytellers of our generation, Peninah Schram. Peninah spent that Shabbat with about 10 students (there were few living there anyway and most of them did not stay around for the Shabbat). In one of the student lounges, she told us a story. And it was great.

Then she asked the students to tell a story. Only two of us were willing: a rabbinical student, and me (still an undergrad at that time).

The story I told was “The Invisible Mezuzzah”. Afterwards, Peninah told me that it was a great story and that I was a very gifted storyteller.

Well, after my head stopped spinning and I came back to earth, I though about this whole new concept of storytelling as an “art form” (I had heard of it and I had told stories in educational settings for years, but I had not thought of it before as an actual art form). And that haunted me throughout my rabbinical school career (which lasted 6 years AFTER finishing the 3 years needed to complete my undergraduate work since I had never completed my bachelor’s degree as a music student in my early twenties) and my first few years as a rabbi (since 1996, my ordination year).

Now, last year, in December 2004, I led a group of 10 of us from our little 30 member household congregation here in “lost” Jewish world of Solano County, Northern California on a tour to Israel, as part of a much larger group of people from Southern California.

Close to the end of that tour, I, along with one family from our congregation, was on a bus, that had been for most of the tour, occupied by the rabbi, his wife and child and his congregants from a very wealthy and large synagogue in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the US. It was mostly a very pleasant bus. However, the children on that bus had been given a free pass to make as much noise, move around freely on the bus and basically do anything they wanted. It was decided that it would be a “kid friendly” bus—that on that bus, they would let “kids be kids”. Which basically meant in that situation that the children had a license to scream, carry on and do anything they wanted, as long as nobody was killed. This was a problem for the Israeli tour guide, as the most he could hope for most of the way, while he talked to us about the sights and interesting background, was a low roar.

Well, we were on our way to Tzefat (aka “Safed”), the mystical city of Israel, which has a very rich legacy in the development of Jewish mysticism known as Kabbalah.

Since I love that city, maybe even more (or certainly as much) as Jerusalem, I felt inspired. I asked the other rabbi, if I might tell a story to the bus through the bus PA system. He said “Sure, but since it is a ‘kid friendly’ bus, don’t expect them to actually listen or be quiet while you tell it. And we can’t really demand that they do, since the agreement with parents was they had the freedom to “just be kids”. I said okay.

And then I began to tell them the story of the “The Invisible Mezuzzah”. And about 1 minute into the story, you could hear a pin drop. Well, actually you could hear the sound of the bus engine, the outside ambience and me telling the story. And that was really the first time you could hear those first two since we had entered the bus. To be fair, there was a few moments of laughter from the children and the parents at points in the story, I often expect laughter. They listened to the entire story and afterwards, there was a moment of silence and then applause.

A few minutes later, we arrived in Tzefat.

After we disembarked from the bus, the man who was the husband and father of the only other family from my congregation (all the others had left that bus after the first day we rode with them. They could not take the “kid friendliness”), said to me, “Rabbi Steve, I want to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

No horse heads or contracts at gun point, I hoped.

“I will pay all the costs for your first storytelling CD. I think that you are a great storyteller and I think your stories need to be heard. Whatever it costs, I will put the money up. You can pay me back if and when the CD pays for itself and then the rest is yours.”

Well, that experience was certainly a breakthrough. And it was based on a story that had come to me at an earlier breakthrough, 18 years earlier. In the Jewish tradition, the number 18 stands for “Life” because in Hebrew letters are numbers and the letters “yud” and “Het” are the 10th and 8th letters respectively and they are the same letters for the word “chai” which means life. And in between the receiving of that story and its 18th year of life, was that telling of it in that little student lounge back at the UJ in Los Angeles before I entered rabbinical school.

I am now working on that first CD and on the first of this year (2006), I had my first official storytelling performance at a local United Church of Christ church. I have another performance scheduled this month and two more at a local Episcopal Church in February. My feet are now firmly on the storytelling path.

Or we could say, my life as a storyteller is now fully born, after a long pregnancy period. I see the receiving of the gift of that story and then the telling of it, first at the UJ to that small group of students and Peninah Schram and then on that bus in Israel on the way to the mystical city of Tzefat, as being the three biggest landmarks or road signs on my storyteller path. I only now am entering into this life long passion and love of mine with full force. And it is the story of the journey of the story of “The Invisible Mezuzzah” that carried me here.

May it carry me, accompanied by many other stories and story angels forward on the path of the storyteller.

Soon after, I went to an intensive three-week clown workshop led by Bob Berky. I was psyched to show off and strut my stuff to him and to the others. Up until now, I had received only positive strokes from my telling, and I was fully expecting similar raves. Bob was an excellent instructor, but he wasn’t a gentle, sensitive coach like Doug Lipman. Basically, I got slammed and I took it really hard. Yes, I was good at animating the story, but I was told in no uncertain terms, that there was no connection to the audience, that I may as well be up there performing for myself. I don’t know if he used the word masturbatory or not, but that was the harsh gist of it.

I distinctly remember riding the bus back from that workshop, and writing myself a note about the key lesson I had painfully learned. The same asset that I had of being able to “get into” the action of the story was a potential liability. Yes, I was enjoying the story myself and I was a good craftsman, but the art was missing if I wasn’t keying in with the audience and inviting them to enter the story with me. The art and joy of performing is in being aware of the audience and feeling them throughout the telling. In a way, it was good that I had such a poignant lesson so early in my performing career. It’s almost as if I had to start all over, but with a new awareness that I believe has informed my work ever since.

The crux of my story is that it was a critical outside eye that enabled me to have this pivotal breakthrough. What I received was not the feedback that I was expecting, but it was exactly what I needed. Would I have welcomed that critique if I had had a clue as to what was coming? I can’t say for sure about then, but I know what the answer is now. After performing for nearly thirty years, I know how crucial it’ll always be to workshop new pieces and to solicit honest, candid critique.

I use the outside eyes of a small group of colleagues with whom I meet monthly. Judith Black is among them, and over the years, a great bond of respect and trust has developed within the group. We no longer need to pussyfoot with each other. We ask for what we’re looking for when showing our works-in-progress, and we are open to whatever comes back. Granted, when Judith and I coach others with whom we don’t have as much of a history, we are much gentler with our observations. But now if one of us just wants to know what’s not working and where the weak spots are, that’s what we’ll get pointblank. This candor may not be for everyone, but it works for us and makes our process that much more efficient. Sometimes, we find ourselves working on a wobbly “baby” that hasn’t yet found its legs. When that is the case, we are comfortable admitting our vulnerability, which is kindly taken into account when we ask for feedback.

Sometimes you know what you need and can ask for it. Other times you may not have a clue. When you do invite a respected eye for whatever input they are willing to share, you are opening yourself to all kinds of breakthroughs that may have entirely eluded your radar. Take those new bearings and fly with them.

However, in the monastery there was a novice, the youngest of the monks, and the first of his family to enter the monastic life.

The novice was causing the Abbot a lot of concern and heartache, with his behaviour. He was not attentive in lessons; he was disobedient to the rule. But the Abbot saw, in the novice, the seeds of greatness; and this deepened his concern.

As the Abbot went about his daily routine, he was aware of the young monk’s presence within the community. He would hear of the novice laughing during meditation, sleeping late and not attending to early morning duties. He would see the young man distracting others, and yet at others times he was nowhere to be found.

Increasingly, the Abbot felt under pressure from other monks to deal with the young man: to ask him to leave or to teach him a lesson. The Abbot had tried everything he could think of, reflecting on his apprenticeship within the traditions of the order.

One night the Abbot dreamed of a way through. ….

The following day, before first light – before the darkness had begun to pale – he arose and went to the novice:

“Come with me” he said, to the sleeping form. There was no reply.

The abbot, moving closer to the sleeping form, took him by the hand and gently raised him

“Come with me” he repeated and led the boy from his sleepy place.

“Where are we going, Master?” the novice asked.

The master replied not.

They passed through the monastery gates and started the climb to their destination, the novice grumbling, cold and stumbling as he went.

“Why are we doing this?” said the novice and “I don’t see the point”.

The Abbot smiled, observing how the path passed beneath his feet, noticing the roughness of the stones, the dew wet grass sweeping his ankles. He observed the wild flower meadow, bathed in the soft early morning light.

They continued the climb, through to the edge of the forest

And as they continued forward the novice was aware of baleful eyes of a large Tiger staring from the undergrowth and could smell his feral smell

“Come” said the Abbot, “there is no fear here” and moved away

The novice was left wondering, but followed his master

“Why are we journeying?” (the novice asked). The Abbot paused and listened. The novice paused but could hear nothing other than the sounds of the forest.

They moved on and came to a clearing where the Abbot raised his eyes to see a magnificent cascading, rainbow-wreathed waterfall. The novice looked up, too, but the Abbot moved on, climbing up the side of the falls.

“Where are we going?” he plaintively asked.

The Abbot sat on a large flat rock on top of the mountain and looked all around, smiling at the novice he said “What is there here?”

“I can see the rock and the moss, but they are not as beautiful as the grass in the fields…. I can see the wild flower, but it is nothing to the flowers in the meadow…. I can see the mouse, but that is not as magnificent as the Tiger, and the small trickle on the mountain here is nothing compared with the torrent of the falls”

“And so in all this there is nothing? Is there no more?”, asked the Abbot

“The only other thing I see, Master, is our path”

Their previous teacher was a great support to me. She had been teaching Grade One for many years and her responses to each child in her class were almost instinctive. She was a kind, understanding woman who was generous in answering my questions and helping me establish myself in my new role as teacher.

In particular, her comments on each child’s record helped me understand them better. Her perceptions gave me a toehold, a base from which to start to understand each child. I came to rely on them as I struggled to know and help each child better.

There was one boy in the class, let’s call him Gary, who seemed different to the others. His face was bright enough, but closed. He didn’t smile readily and his eyes were always alert, like a small animal in the forest. He appeared to evaluate each lesson and only paid attention if the topic, to him, merited it. If he didn’t pay attention he was up and about, class clown, distracting the other children.

Puzzled, I consulted his record, written by this Grade One teacher who had become something of a mentor to me. To my shock, she described him as being nothing but trouble, almost impossible to control, one of the most difficult children she had ever taught. I was stunned. He didn’t seem nearly that bad to me – a bit of a nuisance, maybe, if my lesson hadn’t engaged him, but nothing worse than that. Yet I trusted this teacher’s experience and judgement.

Gary became something of a challenge to me. An obvious first step seemed to be that if he was only disruptive when my lessons didn’t interest him, then my lessons had better interest him. I took time to get to know him better and I found that, among other things, he seldom got enough sleep, often didn’t get regular nourishing meals, and had to take a lot of responsibility for two younger sisters.

I quickly found that he thrived on responsibility. I gave him a simple task to do and got a big smile for the first time. Well, there were lots more tasks in a new teacher’s classroom. He might have started by erasing the blackboard, but he soon placed himself in charge of my supply cupboard. Like magic, supplies were neatly arranged and given out and collected. I made fresh fruit available at recess time and got Gary into a lunch program.

It seemed so straightforward. Gary, like all the other children in the room, was so likeable, so eager to learn. Yet the Grade One teacher whose perception I had come to rely on had seen the child so differently. And I trusted her judgement. What was I missing? Where was I going wrong?

I mulled this over for days. Had I missed something important? Was there indeed something inherently bad in this child that would one day burst forth to shock me? It wasn’t until one day, when I had to send an important message to the principal’s office, that I got my answer.

Taking a bit of a chance I asked Gary to take the message. Because he was, after all, only seven years old I impressed on him that it was very important that he go directly to the office. He gave me his big smile – still so new to me.

“Yep,” he said, “You can trust me.”

And just as I knew right then that I could indeed trust him, I also knew that I could also trust myself and my own judgement.

The winner was to receive a $50 gift certificate, valid for any products on my web store. In addition, I included the story on this website, along with the author’s bio and a link to the author’s site. And I announced the winner in my next month’s newsletter, which goes out to over 6800 subscribers.

In fact, I chose two first prize winners, two second prize winners, and three honorable mentions. I gave $180 worth of prizes.

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(Terms of the contest.)