We Both Serve the Same Hashem

Among the Premishlaner's critics was Rav Yehuda Tzvi of Stretin, a talmid of Rav Uri of Strelisk. Once, when both Rav Meir and Rav Yehuda Tzvi were in Levov, a grocer there tried to make peace between them. He had a baby son and invited them both to the bris. He asked the Stretiner to be the mohel and the Premishlaner to be the sandak, but he did not tell the mohel who the sandak would be, nor the sandak who the mohel would be. Since neither asked, the plan worked well until the day of the bris.

The father of the baby collected the Stretiner from his lodgings in a fine carriage and explained that they would stop on the way to pick up the sandak. When the carriage drew up at the Premishlaner's lodgings and the Stretiner saw who the sandak was, he was surprised, to say the least. Rav Meir, seeing the Stretiner sitting in the carriage, said, “Meir has a minhag to tell stories. Now Meir will also tell a story, and whoever wishes to listen will listen.” And this is the story Rav Meir told.

In the days of the Spanish Inquisition, many wealthy Jews did not flee when threatened with conversion. They disguised themselves and hid their Jewish observance. Living as Christians in public and Jews in secret was against halachah, but they mistakenly believed it would soon blow over and be forgotten. They underestimated the Church and the Inquisition. In secret they kept mitzvos, lighting candles in cellars and gathering in disguise to daven, doing their best to seem good Christians to their neighbors and friends while trying to keep whatever Jewish customs they could remember.

Once a wealthy converso, a high-ranking government minister whom no one suspected of being a secret Jew, fell deathly ill. The family summoned a priest for his last rites and confession, as good Christians did. When the priest, a high-ranking bishop, arrived, everyone left the room out of respect. The dying man turned his head away. The bishop called in the doctor, who confirmed that the man was not so sick and could still speak. When the doctor left, the bishop understood why the minister had turned away.

Slowly he removed the cross he wore and, with compassion in his face, whispered into the dying man's ear a shocking revelation: he too was a secret Jew. He whispered, “Shema Yisroel, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echod.” The minister's eyes opened wide in astonishment. He turned his head and saw love and compassion, with no cross around the bishop's neck. He fell upon the false bishop and wept, and together they recited the Jewish Vidui. “Please, we are brothers,” the minister begged. “We serve the same Hashem. See that I receive a proper Jewish burial.”

Finishing the story, Rav Meir turned to the Stretiner and repeated the words, “We are brothers. We serve the same Hashem. My ways, which I received from my ancestors, may differ somewhat from yours, but why should there be machlokes between us? Why should there be anger and strife? We can serve Hashem openly and not in secret.”

Rav Yehuda Tzvi agreed. Rav Meir held out his hand, and together they said Sholom Aleichem and sat side by side in the carriage on the way to the simcha.