Jacob the Baker: Gentle Wisdom for a Complicated World (Jacob the Baker Series) (3 page)

HEAR O ISRAEL

T
hroughout the day, long lines stretched into the bakery, hoping to make contact with Jacob. Jacob, for his part, didn’t seem sure what to make of this attention. In fact, he didn’t seem interested in making anything of it.

A man, whose facial muscles jumped as he spoke, pushed toward Jacob and in a nervous half-whisper said:

“Jacob! I keep hearing a voice calling out my name.”

“But why does this make you uncomfortable?” asked Jacob.

“Because it is my voice,” said the man.

Jacob took the man’s hands and pressed them between his own.

“We should only be frightened when we cannot hear ourselves.

“Often we create our own deafness and then grow so familiar with our deafness that the thought of hearing becomes frightening.”

A MAN WITH A LANTERN GOES IN SEARCH OF A LIGHT

A
n old man was bitter and challenged Jacob with a complaint.

“All my life I have searched for meaning,” he said.

“The meaning is in the search,” said Jacob, waving off the man’s distress.

“Then I will never find the meaning?”

“No,” said Jacob. “You will never stop looking.”

Jacob held his voice for a moment, unsure if he had been too harsh.

“My friend,” Jacob began again, “know that you are a man with a lantern who goes in search of a light.”

A FISH CANNOT DESCRIBE WATER UNTIL IT IS CAUGHT

A
man who considered himself enlightened came to see Jacob. The man hoped to cast his shadow over Jacob’s reputation.

“I’m never wrong,” the man boasted.

“Ignorance is its own justice,” said Jacob.

“What do you mean?” asked the man.

“My ignorance extinguishes my doubt,” answered Jacob humbly.

“What does that mean?” asked the man, now clearly unsure of himself.

“It means,” said Jacob, “my blindness is often reassured by what I don’t know.”

A PASSING TRUTH

A
n attractive man and woman came to Jacob and asked if he could explain “beauty” to them.

“No,” said Jacob; he could not.

“But isn’t beauty truth? That’s what the poet says.”

Jacob said nothing and his silence made the couple uncomfortable.

“Why won’t you answer us?” they pressed him.

“Because,” said Jacob, “I’m waiting for you to become old. Then you will understand the nature of beauty and the truth of time.”

I’M NOT LOST IN A DREAM; I’M DREAMING I’M LOST

A
very old woman, rolling her hands over and over as if they were polishing each other, began talking with Jacob but kept looking across her shoulder to see if those around her were listening.

The crowd sensed this and, out of respect for her age, moved back. Satisfied with this subtle shift in privacy, she moved even closer to Jacob and began:

“Listen, young man!” Jacob smiled at the thought. “I want to ask you something. I heard you talk about dying, and I’m going to die soon. I have a great deal of money. If you’re so smart, why not tell me how I can take it with me?” The old woman released a wicked little gurgle of greed.

Jacob just looked at her.

The voice was now more raspy with impatience. “Well? Well? What can be carried to the other side?”

“Everything of value,” answered Jacob, as if this insight was common knowledge.

Her greed excited, the old woman shouted, “How? How?”

Jacob drew calmer. “In your memory,” he answered.

“Memory?” said the woman, dumbstruck at this suggestion. “Memory can’t carry wealth!”

Jacob’s focus seized the woman’s eye. “That is only because you have already forgotten what is of value.”

A DOOR IS A HOLE WE CUT IN OUR WALL

A
man who appeared to be a mason from the crusts of dried cement on his shirt waited patiently one day for a chance to speak with Jacob. The man’s voice was gruff—but not his manner.

“Jacob, all my life I have made homes for others. Now I am preparing to build a home for myself. Do you have any suggestions?”

Jacob laughed. “Who is Jacob the baker to mix mortar and make bricks?”

But, then, Jacob raised his left index finger, as if touching an old memory, and waved it in the air, suggesting there was maybe one thought he could offer.

“It says in our books: In order for a house to be a house, it must have a window and a door.”

A smile climbed the man’s face. “Jacob, this much even I know.” Those behind the man chuckled as well.

“But,” Jacob continued, as if he did not hear their laughter, “do you know why I think a house must have a window and a door?”

Suddenly, it became very quiet again. Humility held over the crowd. People craned their necks to hear. And Jacob began again.

“My house must have a door so I can enter myself, and a window so I can see beyond myself!”

“And if it doesn’t?” asked the man.

A great sadness rolled its shadow across Jacob. The words came slowly.

“We must remember,” said Jacob, “the only difference between a house and a coffin is a door.”

HUMILITY IS THE INTEGRITY OF WISDOM

W
hen the world went back to their homes, Jacob turned off the lights in the bakery and pulled the door shut behind him.

The morning rain had given way to a deep fog. For the first time since waking, he was alone.

He purposely ignored brushing off the flour that spotted his pants. It reminded him that he was a baker.

He crossed a small bridge, directing himself toward the home of an elderly man who was ill.

Jacob knocked on the door. The smell of medicines and old age waited in the air. There was no answer. He let himself in.

Mr. Gold’s cane hung on the back of the doorknob. When Jacob entered, the cane began to swing like a metronome keeping time on an ancient clock.

Mr. Gold sat propped up against several pillows. Licking his forefinger, he turned the page of his Bible.

“Ah, Jacob,” said Mr. Gold, his voice filled with the tone of a man slipping into something comfortable. “You come to visit me because I am sick and that is your responsibility?”

“No, Mr. Gold,” said Jacob. “Your illness I visit out of responsibility. You I visit out of love.”

Mr. Gold laughed, triggered by the warmth beneath Jacob’s humor.

“Jacob, I hear many others are discovering how clever you are. Do you offer these people answers?”

“Hopefully I offer them a mirror.”

“Don’t be so humble! I wish I had your wisdom.”

“No you don’t!” said Jacob emphatically.

Mr. Gold leaned forward. “How do you know what I want?”

“How do you know what I know?” smiled Jacob.

THE MOMENTS THAT THE WORLD IGNORED FILLED HIS PLATE

I
t was always the small, solitary acts of living that brought Jacob peace.

The more attention others drew to him, the more pleasure he began to draw from the commonplace. The moments that the world ignored filled his plate.

He did not seem susceptible to his own inflation. On the contrary, he appeared to relish and grow more comfortable with making himself less. In this process, the subtleties of living grew, their significance enhanced.

The teapot whistled when it was ready. From this, Jacob took that he must be patient until he is called. And when he is called, he must be able
to hear the call; and for this to happen he must be willing to pay attention. And when the call came, and he was listening, he must be prepared to act. Patience, calm, attention, and action—these were Jacob’s thoughts in the small kitchen over his morning tea.

When he finished, the circle of the empty cup stared back at him, its rim running endlessly.

Jacob drifted, cradled himself into the silent center space of the cup and found peace.

JACOB’S RIDDLE

O
ne night, while he slept, Jacob’s mind stepped onto Jacob’s ladder and posed a riddle.

“To what heights can a person aspire?” he asked himself.

“To the Number ONE,” he heard himself answer.

“And after that?”

“And after that, Moses came down the mountain knowing less than ONE would leave the world with nothing, and more would leave the world in pieces.”

WE CAN’T HEAR WHAT’S BEING SAID WHEN OUR FINGERS ARE IN OUR EARS

T
here was a terrible banging on Jacob’s front door. From the intensity of the hammering and shouts, it became clear to Jacob he had been unaware of the noise for some time. This awareness did not disturb him. He appeared rather to enjoy it.

When the door was opened, a man with a puffy red face shouted at Jacob, “What were you doing?” Two others stood behind the inquisitor.

“Thinking,” said Jacob, giving very little notice to the man’s anger.

“Thinking?” repeated the man as if he were measuring Jacob’s sanity.

“Yes,” said Jacob, who now closed the door behind him and headed off to work.

The three agitated, middle-aged men stood blankly facing each other, and then, determined not to be left behind, they began after him.

Moments later, Jacob stopped without warning and then, to himself as much as to them, answered the question they had asked earlier.

“I was thinking about how many doors there are and how seldom we use them.”

Then, again, he set off.

In order to catch up and talk with Jacob face to face, the men had to increase their pace to almost a run. When they did approach him, they were too out of breath to speak.

Jacob stopped and waited.

“Thank you,” said the men, half-bent over, their hands on their hips.

When the men captured their breath, they also revived their anger. The leader tried to bring all his authority to bear in his voice.

“Look Jacob! I’ve seen you for a long time. You’re just Jacob the baker. Now everyone wants to ask you questions, and the children come to learn from you. What do you tell them?”

Jacob was missing the warmth of the huge bakery oven. The sunrise was painting orange cracks in the gray sky.

He searched his mind for a door these men might pass through and then spoke.

“I will be glad to tell you what I have been teaching the children,” he began, “but first you must all agree to put your fingers in your ears.”

The men did as they were told and stood as a jury directly opposite Jacob who again began speaking.

After a few minutes, the men waved and shouted, trying to draw Jacob’s attention.

“Jacob,” they said, “we can’t hear what’s being said when our fingers are in our ears!”

“That,” answered Jacob, “is what I have been telling your children.”

UNDERSTANDING ISN’T WISDOM BUT HOW WISDOM IS OPENED

A
rich man came to Jacob and sought his advice.

“Why must I give to the poor?”

“Because they are responsible for your freedom,” said Jacob.

The man was astonished. “How does giving to the poor bring about my freedom?”

“You see,” said Jacob, “either the key to a man’s wallet is in his heart, or the key to a man’s heart is in his wallet. So, until you express your charity, you are locked inside your greed.”

CHARITY IS WEALTH’S HIGHEST REWARD

T
here was a wealthy man who only contributed to charity with great reluctance.

The poor in the community prepared to take the man to court and charge him with theft.

On a brittle cold morning, the man confronted Jacob.

“What have I stolen?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“The dignity of the poor,” said Jacob.

“How did I steal the dignity of the poor?”

And Jacob answered. “By giving only to the beggar.”

FREEDOM IS NOT THE ABSENCE OF SLAVERY; IT IS THE MEMORY

S
amuel stood patiently in the morning shadows of the bakery waiting for Jacob and wanting to talk.

As soon as Jacob entered, Samuel came to life, and the two men worked together, quickly finishing the tasks in waking a bakery after its rest.

“I miss these times,” admitted Samuel. “I’m not sure I didn’t like it better before people discovered your wisdom.”

“The wisdom isn’t mine,” said Jacob, hunching his shoulders as if he were retreating from the very thought of it.

“Don’t you see, Jacob? That is the attitude which draws people to you.”

Jacob exhaled but said nothing.

“Look, Jacob!” continued Samuel, “to this community, you are their
tzadik
, their holy man.”

Jacob actually shuddered when he heard this.

“Are you afraid of this power, Jacob?” asked Samuel.

“No,” said Jacob. “Doubt picks a man’s own pocket. Fear is the pain before the wound.”

Silence drew its hood around both the men and pulled them closer together.

“Samuel,” said Jacob, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “for someone to be a true
tzadik
he must wake others so they know themselves as their own
tzadik
because each of us is a reflection, a refraction of the Original Light.”

Samuel pursed his lips and shook his head. “People don’t have the character to live like this!”

His voice jumped with emotion. “You expect too much of them, Jacob.”

Then Samuel confessed. “I’m afraid to believe this!”

“Don’t be afraid to learn from fear,” said Jacob. “It teaches us what we are frightened of.

“Look carefully and you will see we are all orchards hiding in seeds. You will see inside each of us is the Pharaoh. And inside every Pharaoh is a slave. And inside every slave is a Moses.”

Jacob was swaying back and forth as if he were praying, his eyes shut, his voice filled with a clear cadence.

“We must lead ourselves out of the enslavements we have constructed and called Pharaoh.

“We must be the Moses in our Egypt. We must be the mountain in our desert. And …”

“And,” Samuel interrupted, chorusing Jacob’s rhythm, “we are the border we must cross over to enter the Promised Land.”

“Ah,” said Jacob, “see what a
tzadik
you are, Samuel.”