Ears of the Heart – The Divine Gift of Story

There are stories that divide: the “us” and “them” stories fueled by prejudice and fear. And there are stories that unite by opening the ears of the heart. Sometimes you need to recognize you’re listening to the first in order to be able to hear the second. This is such a story.

I arrived in New York City from the West Coast for a class in Jewish mysticism. On Sunday, the day before the class was to start, I set out to explore the neighborhood on the Upper West Side, where I was staying with friends.

It was a beautiful fall morning. I bought the classic New York breakfast-on-the-run: a toasted bagel with butter. Strolling along upper Broadway munching my breakfast, I stopped to look at some posters in a shop window.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a middle-aged woman approaching me. Her hair was unkempt and her dress shabby. I suspected she was a panhandler and that I was about to be hit on. Already I was in the middle of a dividing story without even being aware of it.

Sure enough: “Can you give me some money for juice?” she said. “It’s my birthday.”

I don’t ordinarily hand out money on the street. But timing, as they say, is everything. I figure a Master Clockmaker must have been at work that morning.

In preparation for the class, I had been reading a book by Rabbi Cooper, God is a Verb. Cooper wrote that “the giving of tzeddakah (charity) is viewed by the Talmud as one of the more important acts in the human repertoire for raising (divine) sparks.”

So, on this particular Sunday, with Rabbi Cooper’s help, I was able to hear the woman’s request for money not as an intrusion but as an opportunity to “raise sparks.”

Secondly, she had said it was her birthday. My own birthday was just three days away. I remembered reading about another teacher, Rebbe Shlomo, for whom everyone was a holy brother/holy sister.

What would it be like, I wondered, neither to refuse money nor to hand over a few coins in a cursory manner, but to engage this woman as a fellow journeyer, a divine spark, a holy sister?

All of this passed through my mind in a split-second. And so, I didn’t smile and say no, nor did I fumble quickly for some change. I said, “It’s your birthday? My birthday is Wednesday.” And as I spoke, I looked directly into her eyes, speaking as one friend to another.

Her name is Delores. The name is sadly appropriate, as she has had many sorrows in her life. Many years ago, Delores’ mother took care of her two small children while Delores worked. One day while Grandma was busy, the children managed to slip through the fence in the front yard. They were struck by a drunk driver and died instantly.

Delores is HIV-positive. She only found this out a few years ago when her husband died of AIDS. Sometimes, when she can get the bus fare, she goes out to the cemetery in New Jersey where he’s buried. She’s forgiven him now, but for a long time she would simply sit at the gravesite and yell at him for hiding his other life and infecting her.

Other than having no teeth, Delores is remarkably healthy. She says her medical caseworker can’t figure out why. Delores thinks her positive attitude toward life in general has a lot to do with it.

Delores has no patience with young, black street punks who constantly blame white people for all their problems and, therefore, feel justified in ripping off anyone. They should put their energy into doing something with their own lives, she says. They have no right to hit on anyone else, she says. If I had a nice car and someone tried to damage it or steal something from me, you can bet I’d have the police on them in an instant, she says.

Delores is African-American.

Delores and I probably talked for 15 minutes or so until I finally had to leave for an appointment. I offered her the remaining half of my bagel. “No teeth,” she reminded me. I gave her money to buy juice for her 50th birthday.

But as we hugged good-bye, she gave me a far greater gift. “Thank you for listening to my story,” she said.

And I realized that listening to another with the ears of the heart feeds the deeper hunger all of us have to be truly seen and loved simply for who we are. Delores and I were two divine sparks sharing a holy story. And both of us were filled.

Copyright 2009–Stories from the Heart