God in All Worlds: A Journey to Light

By Michelle Friedman

Born in Johannesburg to a Catholic mother and a Jewish father, Michelle Friedman practises Catholicism until her father divorces her mother and, at fourteen, converts her to Judaism. So begins a spiritual journey leading to Padre Pio, a priest who bears the stigmata, followed by ten years as a Catholic nun. In St. Louis and Seattle, Michelle discovers the harsh secrets of her childhood. Her healing continues, climaxing years later in India, where she reflects on her eventful life and her journeys, both outward and inward.God in All Worlds is the inspirational story of a woman's journey across four continents in her quest for spiritual fulfilment and emotional healing. A soul-searching odyssey and a disarmingly honest chronicle, this is a spiritual memoir unlike any other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Element India
• Release date: Dec 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9789351775157

Michelle Friedman

Born in South Africa, Michelle Friedman lived in London, Jerusalem, USA. With a master's in education from the University of the Witwatersrand, she taught in schools, business colleges and university. Currently she writes poetry, short stories and assists others in using the spoken or written word as a means of emotional healing.

Book preview

PART ONE

1

Realize

My heart is hammering in my chest and my palms are sweating as I wait for my chance to gaze into the eyes of Padre Pio, a Capuchin monk whose hands, feet and side are pierced like the wounds of Jesus when he was nailed to the cross and a spear thrust in his side. I believe he is the holiest man on earth, living proof of the crucifixion. As a Catholic child, Jesus was all I had, but I lost him at the age of twelve when I was converted to Judaism in Johannesburg, South Africa.

That wasn’t all I lost, I realize, as I stand here in this hot room in a tiny village in Foggia, Italy. I lost an identity, a sense of belonging and I lost my mother. Closing my eyes to ease the smarting of grief from still missing her, I drift back in time.

I’m a child of eight, living in Dudley, England and my mother is dragging me through the snow as we’re late for Mass. Entering the church, I hear singing and smell incense. Standing in the pew I sway to the intoning of the priest clad in white, red and gold. He looks like a girl. I hear murmurs of response from the congregation as we sit, stand and kneel. My mother’s body is warm alongside mine. This is the one thing we do together – we go to Mass. I feel it’s the only time I mean something to her. She buries her head in her hands and I copy her, breathing heavily into my palms. She leaves me to go up to the altar and I follow. She opens her mouth for the priest to place what seems like a piece of round paper on her tongue. He gives me one too. What is it? I look quizzically at my mother.

‘It’s Jesus,’ she whispers, nudging me back to the pew. I munch on the paper.

The dryness in my mouth in this windowless room rekindles my thirst for her love. How beautiful she was! On stage, with her auburn hair, sea-green eyes and curvaceous body, she soaked up the attention of the audience. And her soprano voice! How many times I watched, idolizing her from the wings as she sang in her fluent Italian: Un bel giorno si notera, un filo bifumo derivante, sul mare, nel lontano orizzonte, e poi la nave appare from the opera, Madame Butterfly.

One day she went away, and I turned to Jesus for love. Mass became my refuge from the craziness of life. It followed a pattern I could bank on; it had a beginning, a middle and an end. The wafer I was offered no longer seemed like a piece of paper; it was Jesus to me. I’d sit and tell him everything and he never contradicted me, he’d never tell me I’m wrong or bad. He just listened until I felt warm again. But then my parents divorced and I lost Jesus too.

We pilgrims cluster in the shape of a crescent, curving from the sacristy door to the confessional, praying as we wait for Padre Pio. I imagine he must be removing his priestly garments now that Mass is over, and replacing them with a simple friar’s cassock. He’ll shuffle painfully across the floor, stopping for each one of us until he reaches the small wooden, arched door of his confessional. And there he’ll remain all day, listening to repentant Catholics admitting to thousands of sins committed in the past. On hearing about him before I came, I learnt that for every one of us in this line holding our breath, hoping our secret desires will be met and our burning problems be solved, our encounter with the holy man will be distinctly individual. Therefore, it isn’t strange that the distance between these two doors – maybe fifty steps – are the most coveted in San Giovanni Rotondo. It’s time. Just after 8 a.m.

In this small room, hot with body heat, my eyes search for a window. It’s stuffy, with the smell of drenched clothing and small cakes of muddied snow melting from our shoes. After removing my soaked leather gloves and pushing them into my coat pockets, I pull my scarf away from the heat of my breath. Glancing at the faces of my fellow-pilgrims, I wonder what brings them here. Perhaps their marriage is failing or they are terminally ill? Either a loss of some nature draws us together or maybe it’s simply this same love for Jesus that’s brought them, from all over the world, to be blessed by the sacred hands of a man who embodies Christ – a living miracle.

I scan my memory for what might have been the root of my longing. I’m six years old on a flight to London, lying on a bunk in a section set aside for air hostesses. I miss my sister, Moonyeenn. Where is she? I’m told that we’re going to our mother. Peering through the small window, I search for light in the deep, black night as I feel my heart beat with anxiety, wishing for a hand to hold. ‘Who am I?’ I ask myself, closing my eyes tightly. I grasp this sense of self like a steel rod and repeat the letter ‘I’ over and over again as if it holds the answer. Plunged into the unknown, I imagine myself dying, anticipating the brick wall that ends it all. I can’t find it. Oh no, I go on forever! No matter how vigorously I try to wriggle out of my skin, I still exist. There’s no escape. Was it this terrifying experience of existentialism that catapulted me towards God? Or was it sheer loneliness?

I wonder if Moonyeenn ever felt as lonely as I did. As far as I can remember, we were always waiting for the skies to clear so we’d be saved. Life was too fast for friendships. We’d barely arrive at a school in London when we’d be saying goodbye to friends we’d hurriedly made.

How I wish she were with me now. I feel a lump forming in my throat. My only sister, and we’ve drifted apart!

Dear God, what would my Jewish father do if he could see me now? Just the thought of my dad conjures up a vision of the three rabbis dressed in long black coats, who converted me to Judaism six years ago in 1957 when I was fifteen years old. I can see them shaking their heads at me in disbelief crying, Bist Meshugeh! In my mind I’m defending myself. Jesus was a Jew! I cry. It was you, Rebbe Yonathan, who taught me Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheynu, Adonai Echad. There’s only one God; it’s just that I’m not sure what name he goes by now!

The rabbis step back, shocked, and disappear.

I may have been converted, I tell myself, but the longing for Jesus still aches inside me. It’s the same yearning I felt in the empty chapels of the small towns I passed through in South Africa last year after my BA degree, and as a member of a children’s theatre group. Into a back pew I’d slide, soaking up the silence, staring at the crucifix, hoping to hear God, wishing to feel Him. It was just after that tour when Gladys, my mother’s friend, sensing my hunger for something more than I could comprehend, gave me a book on Padre Pio. I felt compelled to read it. Once opened, it wasn’t closed until every word had run through my body like a forest fire. ‘Yes!’ I decided immediately. ‘Here is a priest who’s drenched in God and I’m going to meet him!’ A wave of gratitude swells my heart for, already, God is answering my prayer.

Two days ago in the early, frosty hours of the morning, I ran up the steep hill towards a dense cluster of people standing outside the church and squeezed myself into the mob of large-breasted Italian women earnestly muttering the rosary. How formidable those huge, wooden doors of the locked church looked; so thick it took twelve sturdy Italian men to prise them open. As the doors gave way we surged forward like a viscous liquid, spreading out into the dark, high-ceilinged church. People bustled into every available pew, pushing and shoving, hissing and complaining, dragging their swathed children behind them. Carried amidst a bundle of bodies, I landed in a pew alongside other women who dropped to their knees, bowed their heads and began round after round of the Hail Mary.

The clicking of rosary beads distracts me from my reverie. Where’s that sound coming from? I look around. Down the line on my right, an old man in a shaggy coat has emptied his pockets of tangled, marble-beaded rosaries and he’s dishing them out. A priest standing guard hushes us, pressing his forefinger against his lips. Like a naughty child chastened by his teacher, the old man scurries back to his place. The silence is so palpable, you can hear a pin drop.

I sigh, glad I can return to yesterday’s mass to relive that moment in the sharp silence when, as one, the crowd rose in awe, acknowledging Padre Pio’s entrance and watching him make his way slowly towards the altar to begin the rite of Holy Communion. The chorus of hundreds of voices responding ‘Amen’ to his making the sign of the cross sent chills down my spine. I must have seemed in a daze because the woman alongside me clasped her hands in front of my face whispering insistently that I should pray: ‘Pregare! Pregare!’

Instantly I began to talk to him fervently from my hungry soul. Padre, please help me! I want to know and feel God again. I’m lost and lonely and not sure what to do with my life. Please, please, answer me.

It felt as though I was begging for my life. Together with my pleas ran a niggling fear that he would ignore me because I’d slept with my ex-lover, Ramon, just a few nights ago for little else than rekindling a memory. Love on that altar was visible to us as Padre Pio, smitten by a man who sacrificed himself for us nearly two thousand years ago, took us along to meet the crucified Christ. It was almost too private a scene for me to watch. We were all gaping in awe, and had it not been for one of the priests who rang a bell to bring the Padre back to us, we may have lost him forever.

I couldn’t possibly have been prepared for what happened next.

He raised his head and the people in front of me turned, exclaiming, ‘You! He’s looking at you!’ They pointed their fingers at me. And he was. I felt his stare sear through my soul like an electric shock, but it was also warm and comforting. At that moment, my heart opened and I knew Jesus had returned to his original place within me. I was connected once again.

I still am, as I stand here, ready to thank Padre Pio. I no longer feel the terror of being alone and adrift. It’s as if an additional pulse beats in my heart. As a child who shrieked for her mother, I am soothed by the tender touch of the kind spirit of Jesus flickering in the hearth of my soul. As one would spend time with an old friend, so can I talk to him now.

And, in a few minutes, I’ll be face-to-face with the Padre, thanks to Bill, a Capuchin brother who assists English-speaking pilgrims. At first I thought I couldn’t receive a personal blessing from Padre Pio or confess to him as I don’t speak Italian, but I needn’t have worried for Bill knew the ropes. ‘I’ll request a billet for you, Michelle,’ he said. ‘You’ll be able to stand close to the Padre who can read your heart.’

What Bill doesn’t know is that he already has.

I glance at the closed sacristy door and wonder how Padre Pio felt, awaking from his collapse to find the palms of his hands pierced, his feet gaping with bleeding holes, and the dampness of a seeping wound in his side. He must have been terrified. Was his longing for Jesus so acute that Jesus granted him the same torment he had experienced as he died? Surely Padre’s great compassion for us is garnered from the heart of his beloved Jesus. I imagine his bandaged hands under his mittens and his blood crusting from dripping wounds. I think about how each step he takes must send spasms of pain up his legs, not to mention the clammy discomfort of blood oozing out of his side. Who has the honour, I wonder, of removing his bandages twice a day, washing his wounds and, with infinite care, bandaging them up again?

It’s 8.10 a.m. Where is he? How dare I be impatient at a time like this, I chide. Padre knows all about waiting, I remind myself. Confined to a library for over three years, he obeyed, putting his trust in the Church’s need to discern if his wounds were genuine. I cringe at the thought of the torment he must have felt when doctors stuck their fingers through his palms. Instinctively I look at the skin of my own palm, grateful for its smoothness, just as the door from the sacristy opens and a hush falls on the group. We hold our breath in awe.

His brown cassock is frayed at the edges, his hands hidden within its large sleeves. I wonder if I’ll get a whiff of the scent of roses that he is said to exude. Padre Pio peers at each person. He stops for one, passes the other. Somebody cries out, another falls at his feet. Time stands still. My throat is parched, my shoulders tense as Padre Pio moves cautiously along the rows of people, helped by a priest holding his left elbow. He’s in no hurry. One by one, we pilgrims drop to our knees as he passes. He’s getting closer. I tremble. With a swift flick of his hand, he waves away the person next to me. She scuttles off.

I’m on my knees, earnestly looking up with my face inches away from his. His dark-brown eyes pour into my pleading gaze. I’m at his mercy. Lifting his right hand, he taps me on the top of my head. I feel his touch a second time, lightly, his holy fingers touching the rim of my forehead, so slight yet firm. His eyes deepen, dissolve into an abyss and I disappear…

I, Michelle, no longer exist.

I am everywhere, everything.

I am every atom, every living being.

I am the seas, the skies.

Boundless I am being, itself.

I am the Alpha and the Omega.

Before the beginning and after the end, am I.

I go on forever and that forever has a feeling.

It’s love.

I am complete, innocent.

No one is judging me.

Held in the embrace of kindness,

Softer than a mattress of poppy petals,

Gentler than the kiss of a baby,

I am free.

Undefined as the ether,

Immeasurable.

Exquisite as the dawn am I.

Faceless yet every face

I am consciousness itself.

Stumbling to my feet, I back away. Padre Pio has moved on. My body feels light and feathery, as though my cells have been replaced by new ones. As high as Everest, as wide as the face of the earth and even deeper than an ocean, I’m soaking in waves of acceptance so thick they’re chocolate. I hear a thousand cats purring with contentment in my ears. Not all the money in the world could make me feel more secure than I do at this moment.

I gasp as Brother Bill clutches my elbow and I feel icy air stabbing at my face. Even though the snow is falling, I feel warmed by the knowledge that I will never be alone again. Finally, I have been reunited with the One, indivisible.

‘Michelle, are you okay?’ He looks concerned.

I can’t respond, nor can I control the stray tears seeping down my cheeks. I feel embraced, forgiven and completely at peace. No, it’s more than that. It’s as if I’ve never done any wrong. Pure as the snow around me, I’m soft and precious. I continue to experience myself as larger than my body. I’m everywhere and everything at the same time and nothing can harm me. In a state that’s far from the realm of the senses, I have no shape and I make no sound. I cannot be defined by texture or colour. Expanded, I feel what it is to be eternal. No longer confined to this body, there is nothing to fear – certainly not the future. I have food that you know not of, Jesus said, and that food is nourishing me now. Brother Bill gazes into my eyes and he understands the connection I feel. Slowly, he leads me down the hill towards my pensione. Before leaving me at the door, he dips his hand into a large pocket of his cassock and places a wooden rosary blessed by Padre Pio into my palm.

I spend three days in this altered state of consciousness, coming out of it only gradually. Since my experience with Padre, I have no appetite. Aware of Monte Nero and Monte Calvo rising three thousand feet behind me, I relish their solidity and find it mirrored within me. Having visited the shrine of my namesake Archangel Michael on Monte Sant’Angelo, I feel nothing can shake the peace I carry. What a perfect choice he is for me, with his name in Hebrew which means Who is like unto God? And with the teaching my Rabbi expounded of Michael leading Daniel from the Lion’s Den! Sister Cornelius, my kindergarten teacher, also taught me that Michael is the angel to call upon at night in bed when I’m afraid. So I’m covered on both fronts.