Negative Space

by Steven Ovadia

Buddha gave David a coy smile from across the meditation hall. David smiled back.

An older woman in yoga pants walked in, dropped to her knees, and gave a deep bow, her forehead touching the floor.

David watched her. He wanted to bow before the Buddha statue, too, but remembered Moses.

Moses had gone on a quick errand to grab the Ten Commandments. He came down to find his people worshipping a golden calf.

Moses was pissed. God was pissed. God was always pissed.

No false idols.

David kept it casual. He nodded at Buddha like Buddha was the mail carrier. Buddha kept smiling.

Typical Buddha.

***

David meditated in the hall for an hour, returning to his car refreshed and relaxed. He knew better than to check his email.

He checked his email.

The rabbi had written David back.

David read the rabbi's email. Twice.

We're a synagogue not a commune. I don't think this is something we can or should make space for within our temple. The same way we don't teach baking or macrame. It's not Judaism.

The internet said he couldn't leave Judaism, in that same way one can't leave their race or ethnicity. That wasn't American, though.

He heard the rabbi's strident voice as he read. She treated David like he was part toddler, part cult-leader. He re-read his email to her:

There's a growing Jewish movement around mindfulness and meditation. Perhaps we can partner with groups outside of the community to bring this in to the Hebrew school curriculum. Or maybe there's already expertise within our community. I'd love to discuss this further.

David took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His heart still felt like he was running. Or being chased.

He wrote back:

Thanks for getting back to me. I think I'm not explaining myself clearly. Is there a time we can chat? Let me know!

Just a misunderstanding, he whispered to himself.

He checked his email a few more times, waiting for a reply. It was Thursday. Shabbat was close. Maybe she'd write back next week. He should put away his phone and drive home. But he didn't.

He saw the rabbi's name in his inbox again:

I'm a rabbi to Jews. We're not bringing other religions into our Jewish education classes. There is nothing to discuss.

Anger and frustration flooded David. His phone screen blurred. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Instead, he shook in his car's front seat, gripping the wheel. Then, quiet. Silence. Calm. A single thought: David was done with Judaism.

He tried to observe his anger but was too upset. After a few more minutes, he could breathe again.

David worked through the logistics of leaving Judaism. He didn't go to temple regularly. He didn't keep kosher. His oldest daughter went to Hebrew school. That complicated his decision. The internet said he couldn't leave Judaism, in that same way one can't leave their race or ethnicity. That wasn't American, though. David didn't remember much of 11th grade English, but sitting through The Great Gatsby for a month taught him an identity was his to shape in his own image. At least until someone shoots you.

His phone vibrated. A text from his wife, Leah.

He won’t tell Leah. Not yet. He definitely won't tell the girls.

It was done. David was gentile. He was free. He pulled out of the parking space and headed for home.

He saw a bumper sticker supporting Palestine. There was no conflict or guilt today. David pointed to it from inside his car.

“Good luck friends,” he said.

***

David's gentile life was similar to his Jewish one. Family. Work. Email. But he felt lighter.

He didn't carry the weight of 4,000 years of religion. Of genocide. Of family. He was an athlete hitting free agency in his prime. He could become Catholic, although that seemed like a lot of work. Or Quaker, although that seemed like it would be boring for the kids. Or Methodist, although a lot of those Christian denominations seemed a little Jesus-y.

But Buddhism could work. He meditated. He read about it. It was moral. He'd be a good person. A religious person. But a Buddhist. Not a Jew.

The problem was his family. A daughter in Hebrew school. A Jewish wife. Jewish parents. Jewish brothers. He wanted to share his choice with them, but he worried how they'd react. Leah wouldn't leave him over this, or not immediately, but would it cause a fissure over time? He didn't want to mess his daughters up by confusing them.

David wanted religious freedom, but he didn't want to wind up alone. Buddhists called this attachment. He was OK detaching from Judaism but not from his family.

***

David stood at the front of the subway car, watching it slip underground and head for Grand Central. The window tint designed to give conductors privacy was usually chipped, forming a tunnel in the glass. David liked to peak through, watching the traffic lights flash hypnotically as the train made its way under the river. He pretended he was running through the tunnels.

"I have an errand for you, David," the voice said. It was in David's head. David knew it was God. Not just because of the reverb.

The train’s rumble became silence. His subway car froze on the tracks. David couldn't move. Not like he was restrained. More like when he slept.

"I have an errand for you, David," the voice said. It was in David's head. David knew it was God. Not just because of the reverb.

"What's the errand?" David asked. He wasn't sure if he was speaking or thinking. His own voice sounded flat.

"Find the beauty in Judaism," God said.

"I'm not Jewish," David thought quietly.

"Find the beauty in Judaism or I'll take your first born. That's how important this is, David. Do you understand?"

David's heart beat faster. He couldn't breathe.

"I don't. Why? She didn't do anything. Leave Anna out of this."

"Focus on the beauty, David."

David stood on the platform of Grand Central. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a stroke. David knew this was real.

***

David had a lot to process.

He thought leaving Judaism would be the top news of his week, but God big-timed him.

Would God really kill Anna? Was that what he meant by take? Or would he just put her someplace else? Neither option sounded great to him. But death was obviously worse.

Normally he'd talk to Leah about this kind of thing, as much as the past 48 hours represented a kind of thing one could classify, like Annoying Coworker and Too-Long Commute. But he wasn't ready to tell her about leaving Judaism. Plus, the God visitation was complicated. There might be plenty of sane people who heard God's voice, but within modern times, it seemed limited to serial killers and sleazy evangelical preachers. Maybe back in the day people responded to people who heard God's voice, but now it was less of a badge of honor and more a red flag.

God hadn't told David how much time he had, so he started thinking about the beauty of Judaism. But what was there to recommend? The way it excluded people? Its sense of superiority? A structure that allowed one person at the top to make sweeping decisions for everyone?

David never liked Rabbi Sharon. She sometimes spoke at Hebrew school events, always about the importance of following Jewish law. There was never anything about interpretation. She never brought in the outside world. They all lived in a dull, lifeless suburb, but surely it must have some sort of beauty or soul a religious leader could bring into a talk. Even one pitched to bored children. Instead, they were all subjected to lectures explaining the importance of blessings.

But Rabbi Sharon was a rabbi. She'd gone to rabbinical school. She might be able to help David with this. Maybe it was God's plan to bring him back to Judaism. Rabbi Sharon would reveal her wisdom, which she kept carefully hidden, and David would be amazed. She'd unlock the beauty of Judaism, he'd tell God, and his family would be safe. And David would be back in the fold.

David exhaled. He'd been overthinking the errand. This would be Rabbi 101.

He called Rabbi Sharon.

***

Unfortunately David called on a Tuesday, Rabbi Sharon's day off. The secretary said she'd call back Wednesday, but she didn't, so he called Thursday, leaving a message. And then he called again Friday morning. Rabbi Sharon picked up the phone herself.

"Let's talk next week. It's almost Shabbat," she said, before David could say anything.

"We're the chosen people, David. Everything about Judaism is beautiful."

"Do you have any time before? It's important."

"I'm sorry. I don't. This is about the chanting, meditation thing? Because I've said what I have to say."

"No. It's a more conceptual question about Judaism."

"What's the question?" she asked.

David sighed. He wanted to have a heart-to-heart conversation. This was more like calling information.

"What's beautiful about Judaism?"

"That's your question?"

"Yes," David said. He snapped his eyes closed and into a wince. This was a mistake.

"Everything," she said. "We're the chosen people, David. Everything about Judaism is beautiful."

He waited for more. That was it.

"But if you had to pick the most beautiful thing about the religion. For you," he said.

"I can't pick," she said after thinking for 10 seconds. "The whole religion is beautiful. It would be like picking your favorite child."

David perked up. "Oh. How many children do you have, Rabbi?"

"None," she said.

***

"Hey! What does everyone love about Judaism?" David asked at dinner a few nights later.

Leah looked up from her pasta. "That's a weird question."

"The food!" shouted Anna, his seven-year-old daughter. "I love Jewish food! Lox. Matzah. Matzah balls. Gelfilte fish. Honey cake."

She was the oldest. She needed to crack this for David.

"What else do you love?" David asked her.

"Hanukkah!" she said.

"Hanukkah or presents?" David asked.

Anna thought for a few minutes. "Presents!" she shouted.

David sighed.

"Why are you asking, hon?" Leah asked.

"I thought it would be fun for the dinner table. What do you love about Judaism?" he asked, looking at Leah.

Leah looked around the dining room and down at her plate. "I don't know. It's who I am. It's who my family is. And was. Our family is Jewish and I love our family. What do you love about it?" she asked.

David couldn't make eye contact. He got up to pour himself some water. "I'm with Anna. I love the food!"

Leah stared at him. "Maybe you should try and meditate this weekend. You seem a little anxious. It always helps."

David wondered if God loved honey cake.

***

"I'm not sure I understand the question," said Father Joseph from across a small wooden desk.

Father Joseph was small, but well proportioned. Like something had shrunk him.

"I'm trying to figure out what's beautiful about Judaism," David said, slumping in the plastic chair across from the priest.

David imagined speaking to an old-school Irish priest. Maybe one from Brooklyn who used to run around with Jewish kids. Father Joseph was Nigerian. But David knew he couldn't leave once he learned that. He needed to power through.

"Are you Jewish, David?" Father Joseph asked, tenting his fingers.

"Yea... No. I'm not. I'm trying to learn about Judaism."

Father Joseph looked at David, trying to determine the angle.

"Are you Catholic?"

"No, Father. I'm Buddhist."

"And can I ask why you're asking a Catholic priest and not a rabbi?" His scratchy voice had a sharp edge. Things were turning.

"I thought I could float between worlds," David said.

Father Joseph shook his head. David recognized the look. Pity. Like when he told people he was training for a half marathon. "Many Buddhists meditate for clarity. Have you tried that?" Father Joseph said as he stood up.

"I'll try that next," David said.

“Good. I’ll think about your question and call you if I think of an answer,” Father Joseph said.

***

David sat in the meditation center parking lot. He had 20 minutes before the sitting session started. He reviewed his list of beautiful things about Judaism.

·         Family

·         Hanukkah

·         Honey cake.

This wouldn't be enough to save his daughter. He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and tilted his head back. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. He had just fallen asleep when his phone vibrated. David lurched forward and grabbed his phone. It was an unknown, local number. He picked up, in case it was God. Or the children's hospital.

"Is this David?" the voice asked. David recognized Father Joseph's accent.

"It is Father."

"I thought about your question. I don't have an answer, but I thought of something. Galatians 3:28. 'There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.' Jesus was Jewish, David. Do you know this? He was born a Jew. He died a Jew. He rose a Jew. He gave us Christianity. But he was never Christian. God works in mysterious ways. But we are all in His embrace. This is beautiful."

"Do you think God would kill innocent people to make a point?"

Silence. "He works in mysterious ways, David. Ways we cannot understand. Ways we must trust. Do not be afraid."

***

David added Jesus to his list and went inside to sit. The dark overcast sky disappeared inside the temple. Fluorescent lights bounced off of shining white floors, flickering off golden statues. David took off his shoes, put on slippers and bowed before the large Buddha in the dark meditation room.

He enjoyed the prostration, bringing his forehead to the cold ground, his arms outstretched, palms up.

David wasn't supposed to accept false idols, and certainly not bow before them, but he respected Buddha and his teachings. It was a sign of love.

David didn't know what the prostrations meant. Not in specifics. He just copied what he saw other people doing. It reminded him of Judaism. He didn't understand the Hebrew. Synagogue services were mysterious, like watching a foreign language without subtitles .

But the prostrations felt right. Familiar. He didn't care to unlock the meaning of the Hebrew words and Jewish rituals. They were empty to him.

David wasn't supposed to accept false idols, and certainly not bow before them, but he respected Buddha and his teachings. It was a sign of love. Buddha didn't run around threatening people's families. Buddha was true to David.

David took a mat and cushion and placed it close to a wall and prepared his meditation space. He was the first one here this morning. A new nun walked in wearing long gray robes. She bowed as she shuffled past and David bowed back. Another nun, this one familiar, walked in and over to David.

"She's new," she said, pointing to the first nun. "She just got here Monday from Taiwan. She's so young."

David wasn't sure how old any of the nuns were. They all had shaved heads which disrupted his personal age estimation algorithm.

"It must be hard to be away from home," he said, looking over at the new nun. The familiar nun squatted down to meet David's eye. "We all have to leave home eventually." She smiled at David and he panicked. His heart race quickened. Fight or flight and he wanted to flee. He wanted to run out of the meditation room. Out of the temple. He nodded, stood, and went downstairs to the bathroom to sip water and try to settle his nerves.

He'd never had a panic attack at the meditation center before. It had been his only calm space. Now he had none.

***

He returned to the cushion right as the first sit began. He followed his breath as the meditation bowl chime faded into the ceiling.

He kept thinking of Anna. As soon as he did, he tried releasing the thought. When it felt like he was fighting himself, he concentrated on his breath.

A melody popped into David's head. He didn't attach, but it was familiar.

Back to the breath.

The melody continued. David knew the words.

Shema Yisrael adonai elohenu adonai ehad.

The Shema. The holiest Jewish prayer. The one religious Jews say twice a day. The first one David learned. One of the few he knew by heart.

Back to the breath.

The prayer continued, like someone playing it on a loop inside David's head. The words distracted him from his breath.

David focused on the prayer, hoping that would stop it.

Inhale. Exhale. Don't fight the Shema.

The Shema became waves crashing against the sand, gradually gobbling up shore, and then returning it. He felt emptiness but not loneliness.

But then David noticed the space between the Shema's words. The vast silence between each syllable. The prayer words slowly evaporated, like the fading ring of the meditation bowl, and then re-materialized into focus.

David breathed between the words, a universe between each one. The Shema became waves crashing against the sand, gradually gobbling up shore, and then returning it. He felt emptiness but not loneliness.

The prayer slowed until the words were only sounds. The words didn’t matter; his quiet mind didn’t need them. Words weren’t the point. And as David breathed through the Shema, he saw something. God. Not in the prayer, but in its silence. God was nowhere and God was everywhere. The Shema was infinite.

David kept breathing, observing without judgment. There is God. There is God. He said it each time he saw God in the prayer's negative space.

There was no anger or happiness or sadness. Just God and David's breath.

The bowl chimed and David unfolded his legs and tried to resume his circulation, processing what he had seen.

***

"You have my answer," God said.

"I saw you. In between the sounds of the Shema," David said. "It was beautiful."

Silence.

"I never noticed the spaces in the Shema. Is that where you live?"

"It's where you found me."

"I was mad at you before," David said.

"And now you're not?" God asked.

"The anger is gone," David said. "It's a beautiful thing about Judaism?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" God asked.

“It's a beautiful thing," David said.

"It is," said God. "You completed the errand."

God left. David was back on the cushion.

His calm remained with him.

***

David walked out to his car. He placed the key in the ignition and paused.

This was all real. His daughter had almost died. But now she wouldn't. Not imminently, God-willing. Or whomever-willing.

The tears came this time. They stopped after a few minutes. David was exhausted.

He wanted to call or email Rabbi Sharon. But what would he say? What would she say? What was the point? He now had clarity. David just wanted to tell somebody what happened.

He turned the car key, but instead of driving home, he headed for church. Father Joseph was in his office.

"Our world is sad. People hear God's voice and we think they are crazy. I think you are blessed."

"Do you believe God speaks to people, Father?"

Father Joseph laughed. "Of course. That is his work. He speaks to us all the time."

"I was talking to him. He had a job for me. He told me he'd take my daughter if I failed."

Father Joseph sat up. "Did you complete the job?"

David nodded.

Father Joseph laughed and clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Then all is good, David."

"Do you think I'm crazy?" David asked.

Father Joseph stopped smiling. "Our world is sad. People hear God's voice and we think they are crazy. I think you are blessed."

For the first time in a week, David considered he might be sane.

"You should come to church, David."

"Even though I'm not Catholic?"

Father David laughed again. "We are all God's children. Even Buddhists. That is a fact. The rest is semantics."

***

"I want to leave Judaism," David told Leah that night as she sat on the couch reading a magazine. The girls had finally fallen asleep.

She looked up at him, startled.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't love the religion. I never have. It's beautiful. I see that. But I'm a Buddhist."

“I found him in the space between the words of the Shema."

"Is this why you were asking about the beauty of Judaism?" she asked.

He nodded.

"I found the beauty, but it wasn't enough for me," he said.

"I won't leave Judaism, David," Leah said. “And I want the girls to be raised Jewish.”

"Of course," David said. "I would never ask that. This is just for me."

"What do we tell the girls?" Leah asked.

"We'll have to figure that out. If you're OK with this."

"Are you going to shave your head?" Leah asked with a smile.

"Never. I promise you that."

"Then we'll make it work."

"I thought I hated God, but I disliked Judaism," David said.

"When did you realize you don't hate God?" Leah asked.

"When I saw where he lived."

Leah looked at David. Her shock softened.

"What's it like? Fancy?" She smiled at David.

"Very fancy. I found him in the space between the words of the Shema."

"Was it God or Buddha?"

"It was God. God surrounds us, but Buddha is inside us," David said. Leah's shock returned, just for a moment, before she reined it in. David filled the silence. "But I didn't catch a name. So maybe you're right. I'm not sure it matters. It's all semantics."

"I'm glad you two had a nice visit," said Leah, giving David a peck on the lips. She got up and walked to the stairs.

She stopped on the first step. "I'm happy you figured this out. I know it's been stressful for you."

David nodded. "It’s been hard," he whispered.

Leah turned back to David and gave him a tight hug. When she released, he saw the tears in her eyes.

She walked upstairs. David returned to the couch, watching his breath. He listened as Leah brushed her teeth and flushed the toilet. Then, silence. She was asleep.

After a few more quiet minutes, David went up to bed, peeking in on Anna before joining Leah. Anna lay in her bed, her small chest moving up and down in perfect rhythm.

David placed his hands together in front of his chest and gave her a deep bow.

---

Steven Ovadia a writer and librarian. He lives in White Plains, New York, with his wife and two daughters. This is his debut fiction publication.