Jaffa Road

I’m a rabbi, so you can imagine the kinds of conversation I have when I counsel my congregants. Family troubles. Marital strife. And sometimes, theology.

The other day, one of my congregants―a young, sensitive woman with hair almost black and eyes just as dark―came in to see me. She was in the midst of a crisis of faith.

“If only God would speak to me, or give me some kind of sign…,” she was saying.

“Oh, Rachel,” I said, smiling, “God indeed does speak to us. But not with a voice―that would be too dramatic… too Hollywood. Instead, He speaks through coincidences. Haven’t you heard the saying? ‘Coincidences are God’s way of remaining anonymous.’”

Rachel held my gaze. “Has God ever spoken to you?”

I nodded sagely. “Once.”

And my mind drifted back, nearly thirty years―to Jerusalem.

I was a young man when it happened. My major in college was Judaic Studies, which included a year overseas, in Jerusalem, for my junior year.

My year in Israel began at a time the nation was shimmering with hope. A man named Yitzhak Rabin was Prime Minister, and he was committed to making peace with the Palestinians. For a brief, miraculous moment, it looked like he might even succeed. Then he was assassinated, and a more confrontational leader took over. Hopes for peace were dashed.

We all carried on our lives with heavy hearts―especially idealistic young people like myself. Every morning, I got ready, then stepped outside to wait for the Jaffa Road bus―Bus 18.

Usually, I sat in back, using my brief bus ride to relax and daydream. But one morning, it was impossible to relax. That morning, a dissheveled man―army jacket, unwieldy black beard―was sitting up front, training one passenger after another in a wild-eyed glare, muttering God knows what.

When I reached my stop, the man accosted me in the aisle. He grabbed me and wailed―in perfect English―“I don’t want to die! I’m scared of dying!”

I forced his hands off me. “I don’t want to die either,” I muttered, pushing past him and hurrying off the bus.

I was deeply unsettled by the incident. I made a decision: I’d never ride that bus again.

The decision meant I had to wake up earlier, but it didn’t matter to me. I’d walk in the morning, instead of taking the bus. Anything was better than to risk seeing that man again.

A week passed. It was Sunday―a workday in Israel. That morning, I rose before dawn, prepared for my day, said my sonorous prayers, and set out for the library.

My feet were shuffling along while I pondered Scripture. I was reflecting on one of my favorite verses―“God is my refuge and my fortress, in Him I will trust”―when I heard it.

An explosion in the distance. Then―silence.

I froze. Somehow, I already knew. Something had happened to the Jaffa Road bus. Bus 18.

“The Number 18 bus had just stopped for a red light Sunday morning,” read the newspaper the next day, “when, too quickly for eyes to follow or minds to grasp, the vehicle and its contents exploded into gruesome debris.

“A fireball and a twisted steel skeleton were all that remained. The powerful suicide bombing made a charnel house of Jerusalem’s northern traffic hub…”

I’ve spent many hours thinking about Bus 18 over the years, and how God interposed that deranged man between myself and what would have been a deadly fate. Why? Over two dozen people died on Bus 18 that day. Why not me? Why them?

Sometimes I think I see them. An unfamiliar face appears in the pews at one of my services. I approach a bus stop and could swear there are four people waiting; but when I arrive, I count only 3. Sometimes I feel a touch on my arm when I’m alone in my office, or hear distant whispers.

So I know that God speaks to us.

The dead do, too.