The Hands of God: Diamonds Glowing in Darkness
“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God.”
Desert, Minnie Louise Haskins (1908)
[Quoted by King George VI, Christmas broadcast 1939]
At first glance, it appears to me a godless place, a dark, dingy, musty, moldy, windowless storeroom in the diamond center’s bowels, enclosing, tomb-like, a dozen drab men, including me.
Everything about it is wrong. We are there ostensibly to pray, but few are. Instead of communicating with our Maker, most communicate with each other, furtively displaying diamonds from their pockets for sale, or exchange.
I notice the sizable gems seem to glow even in the darkness.
I also notice their hands, delicate, their fingers supple. Like surgeons, diamond cutters, polishers, dealers protect their hands because they protect precious objects.
My fellow parishioners are either movers and shakers, or fill-ins, recruited off the street to fulfill the divine deca-quota. The latter barely move, constantly shake. The former, coming from work, are there to recite Kaddish, commemorate the dead; the latter, out of work, are there to try to remain alive.
The haves and have-nots, apparent to each other, remain separate, apartheid-like, the latter in the back, segregation-like.
The instant the final Kaddish concludes, the haves unobtrusively brush past the have-nots, unceremoniously, subtly place sizable bills from their hands into the latter’s pockets. Played in reverse slow-motion, it would appear to be the work of skilled pickpockets.
The recipients occasionally imperceptibly nod, but for the most part, appear oblivious to what has just transpired. (Many appear oblivious to everything.)
None of the haves wait for, or expect, any thank yous.
The first time I witnessed this, I wasn’t sure it really happened. On subsequent viewings, it became undeniable.
At that moment, the room no longer appeared dingy. Or godless.
Seemingly without any coordination, like termites building 15-foot mounds without a queen-bee directing them, each of the haves, delicate hands performing divine work, recompenses each of the have-nots. I’m not certain how they accomplish that.
I am certain for all the breathtakingly beautiful sanctuaries I have seen, for the innumerable eloquent rabbis and operatic cantors I have heard, I have never more tangibly witnessed the Hand of God at a prayer service.
Perhaps a storeroom doesn’t qualify as a legitimate synagogue.
I can’t swear God is actually listening since so few are actually praying.
I am however, absolutely certain He is watching and that He likes what He sees.
