The Rabbi’s Lollipop

There he is. My best buddy, all dressed up in a light blue suit, fingers unsteady, here in a private villa on the coast of southern Italy, ready to marry his beautiful bride.

The sun sets slowly into the sea, guests file in, red and purple dresses, corduroy jackets and patent leather shoes. His parents, beaming broad smiles, hand me four wooden sticks and an embroidered white sheet: the ingredients for their son’s chuppah, the Jewish wedding canopy. I am here, very literally, to hold this space.

A small crowd mills about, tasting canapés, making small talk. Restless, feeling unprepared, I pace among them, unable to meet their eyes. The bride, in a dizzying white dress, tells me she feels faint. I find the head chef, order a small sandwich on her behalf, something to break her self-imposed fast after a punishing day of hairdressers and photographers.

When she has eaten a morsel and calmed a little, I stride to the centre of the patio. As is the custom, I call over four unmarried friends, one girl, three guys, and assign each a wooden stick – a corner. They spread out and lift up the canopy, the white sheet wafting in the wind. A rectangle opens before us: a portal. An audible hush rises from the patio.

I exhale deeply and take my place at the back of the square, facing the guests, sun and sea at my back, and open the prayer book. My role? I am the officiant, “the rabbi,” entrusted to conduct this service. I ask someone beside me to pour out a cup of wine – I’ll need that to begin the prayers. We haven’t yet started but already all eyes are on us, this canopy, waiting for the ceremony to unfold. It’s showtime.

—

I feel a familiar surge of recklessness. Three years ago, that same buddy called me from New York, voice full of urgency, and said, “Dude, let’s break up with our girlfriends and meet in Mexico.”
A few days later we reached Puerto Escondido, drank mojitos, trekked the jungle, joined a cacao ceremony, clambered over rocks, dived in the sea, and found a tumbledown guest house full of hippies to stay a few nights.

One night on the beach, when he’d already gone to his room, I sat out and watched the stars on the rocky bay. As each constellation rose and faded, I thought of my lost loves, tattooed into the firmament, blinking out in darkness. I watched one star vanish entirely. Goodbyes. New chapters.

It wasn’t our first escapade. How many parties did we host on his rooftop? How many strangers did we meet on the byways of the market? How many friends and lovers did we scoop into our collective cup over ten good years of Tel Aviv living? How many games of chess did I lose, how many afternoons watching movies on the couch and deconstructing the latest bad date or doomed love affair? How many long coffees on the boulevard, watching life file past?

And then he met her. And she became part of our gang. Like she’d always been there. Last summer it was us, seven of us, down in Naples, exploring the underground tunnels from World War Two, enjoying wine and pizza in an outdoor restaurant, cracking jokes about our bad Italian.

—

And here he is, shaking, his green eyes trembling. Hers, too, a smoky shade of blue.
Their eyes fix me with raw panic. The responsibility presses down. I’m not just watching history – I’m holding it in my hands.

Luckily, there’s a standard marriage service. A clear structure, traditions everyone knows, phrases everyone’s heard. A formula to navigate this mess of nerves and livid emotion. We’ve tweaked it a bit: instead of her circling him seven times, he spins her around. The guests applaud. We skip some of the weirder prayers. I present a giant Chupa Chupp lollipop, filled with small candies that make a nice sound when rattled. I tell the guests this is an ancient Jewish tradition (it isn’t), which makes them laugh, and I shake it again. “Doesn’t the bride look stunning?” It’s light and fun; we roll through the ceremony with ease.

Then come the rings. And the vows. No need to ask for silence. As soon as she opens her mouth, you can hear a pin drop. She takes the lollipop, speaks without notes, from the heart, looking straight into his eyes. The force of her emotions is tremendous. A tremor runs through her hand, a guest exhales softly. I follow the sound to see one of my ex-girlfriends, now a close friend of his, shuddering and red with emotion, tears streaming down her face. Then it’s him, breathless, his vows, washing after hers like a current under a wave.

“Can we kiss?”
“I guess so!”

A tremble of delight passes through the crowd. Hoots of joy. But we’re not done yet. I hold the lollipop high, a request for silence. Now is the time for the groom’s parents to speak. They enter the chuppah with a flourish, and in bold, plain words the father welcomes the bride to the family. Then his wife speaks, a few gentle words of love. The canopy seems to blossom from above and below. A tidal wave of feeling pours from the crowd out into the restaurant, into the sea, and the final rays of the sun. A new family is born.

I am only human. In the eruption of feelings, I drop my lollipop and forget my words. Some rabbi. Still, the guests smile and cheer, all eyes are on the couple and his parents. Perhaps no one noticed. I scoop up the lollipop, wait a moment for the tide of emotion to subside, and begin the final stages of the ceremony. The reading of the Seven Prayers by seven family and friends, the priestly blessing, from me to them, and the final stamping of his foot on a glass cup, wrapped in cloth. I have marked the left side of the cloth with a blue biro – the part easiest to break.

He smashes the glass. A thousand stars snuffed out, a thousand what-ifs extinguished. His final act commits a new constellation to the cosmos of our lives.

Trembling with my own feelings, terrified at the power unleashed, I clutch the lollipop, close and kiss the prayer book, and give my old friend a big hug.