Michael and Me in Neverland

In my second year as rabbi-in-residence at the University of Oxford, a Hassidic couple with 10 children came to stay with us for the Jewish festival of Sukkot. As we sat down to a festive meal with students, a twenty-something woman at our table looked quizzically at the numerous young children who surrounded their mother. "Are all these yours?" she asked incredulously. And when the mother replied that indeed they were, the student responded, "Don't you think that that's a bit too many?" The mother's eyes reddened, and she left the table. I followed her into our kitchen and apologized for the students' hurtful remarks. "That's OK," she said. "I get that all the time. But my rebbe told me never to be embarrassed for having a lot of children."

It was this story that came back to me last month when my family and I were guests of Michael Jackson at his Neverland Valley ranch in California. I know what you're thinking. Is this the most blatant display of name-dropping ever, or should we be waiting for a punch line? Neither is the case. Michael and I met a year and a half ago through Uri Geller, a mutual friend, who saw a commonality in Michael's and my own concern for the well-being of the human soul. He seemed to think we could learn from each other. I was skeptical. I had already tried to learn to moonwalk in the '80s, and it was not a pretty picture. Our friend insisted that I could gain more than better dance moves from a meeting with Michael.

So we arranged to get together at Michael's New York home. From the moment we sat down together, I was struck by his amazing sensitivity to the pain of all living things. For instance, when we discussed the fact that deer hunting was a common sport in the United Kingdom, Michael's eyes welled up. "I just don't understand that," he said. "How could someone shoot something that helpless and innocent?" I had to check my first response of cynicism to such a reaction. My usual answer of "Well, that's the food chain--survival of the fittest!" would have been a slap in the face to this man who, unlike so many of us, lives his life guided by a loving heart rather than a cold intellect. Later, he cried again when he spoke of how many parents couldn't care less about missing suppertime with their children. (I tried to wipe the guilty look off my face.) When his 2-year-old son Prince came into the room, Michael spoke to him with respect as well as affection, patiently answering his questions. It was clear that the little boy was the delight of his father's life.

We continued to spend time together, speaking not only of spiritual matters but also of all the things that friends talk about: art, music, books, childhood, and family. Michael attended synagogue with me in New York, and the experience was moving for both of us. The congregation welcomed him with open arms. Michael accepted shyly, and to this day still speaks of the overwhelming sense of acceptance he felt in that small, yet lively synagogue.

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