Josiah Franks

By Ed Wingham

As we search for the real answers that mark our lives, many of us center our search through our faith, a real belief in One greater than we. This story, Josiah Franks, is such a quest, a journey into the unknown complete with the unexpected.

Josiah, though a devout Jew, reaches beyond the divide and finds comfort and challenge through Jesus and his ministry. Though his story marks only the early years of Josiah's life, his encounters with others totally outside the protected realm of Judaism, ushers him on a journey for a life time.

Josiah's quest is our quest, if we will take it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Wingham
• Release date: Jul 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466085077

Ed Wingham

Retired and allocating most of my time to part-time teaching and writing. I enjoy being active (jogging and biking), church, eating breakfast out and family and friends. I live in Tipp City, Ohio, and enjoy small towns... I'm a Cleveland Browns fan and like college football as well. As of this date, I have published one story, "The Trumains", to the Kindle, but more on the way. Thanks much.

Book preview

Josiah Franks

By Ed Wingham

Copyright © 2011 by Edwin W. Wingham. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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First Printing, 2011

http://www.edwingham.com

My sincere thanks to all who have critiqued this work and provided inspiration to continue.

Introduction

Josiah Franks is a story of a quest, a quest for completeness. Josiah searches for alignment with his own inner being, to discover the course that only he can travel. This is a story that will resonate with us all as we too stare into the chasm and fill the vacuum with life-giving substance. The search for completeness strives to be fully human, fully alive, and totally in compliance with and abiding in the One, the God of all creation.

The search within us must branch outward from our own boundaries into the unknown, the unchartered, the choppy seas and the serene sunset. No direct course can be drawn for this journey for each pathway is unique as each of us is particular and peculiar to our Creator. The journey’s first step will point us to seek the lost sheep and leave the ninety-nine behind. The step will be cumbersome and clumsy and our balance may be uneven but our sight will be focused forward, and though we may see dimly at first, the final step will show a pristine image adorned in radiant colors.

Chapter 1

I was born Josiah Benjamin Franks on May 9th of 1977. Not a particularly significant day, as few famous events occurred to my knowledge, but it was, however, a day that my mother delivered her first child and what would be her only. My mother, God rest her soul, was born Mary Blumenthal in Prague in 1941. She, like her entire family, escaped the horrors of that era by securing her passage on a merchant ship bound for America and New York City. She would make her way in that strong Jewish community ever obedient and ever the loving child of Aron and Sarah, to grow and become an attractive and capable musician who dedicated her life to the piano. For through her love of music, she would meet and marry the son of a rabbi, Joseph Franks, and the rest, is, well history. Thus I am and thus I will be.

My father, like his before him, was a tailor and ran a mercantile shop in the Bronx. He was doggedly persistent, kept long hours but never opened for the Sabbath. He was a devout and stern icon not only for the family but in the synagogue as well. There may have been folks who barely tolerated him from a business perspective, but he garnered the respect of all colleagues and the community by his honesty and frankness. His hobby, though he could have made his living doing so, was carpentry and he displayed his handiwork throughout our modest home by the artful furniture and enhancements he made. His consummate skill supplemented our existence as he often made pieces for friends and patrons barely covering his own cost for materials. I learned much from my father, and his views helped shape me into the man I became.

My childhood was mostly ordinary and predictable. I was reared with a strong sense of discipline and rarely wavered from that pathway. My mother taught or tried, to her credit, to teach me the finer points of music, but it wasn’t a skill that would ever blossom. Oh, I made a few recitals and lumbered my way through a Chopin or two, but even she recognized that I would never support myself in Carnegie Hall. I preferred to trail my father as he painstakingly measured and sawed and coerced the misshaped lumber into a finished product. He patiently explained the finer aspects and showed me the delicacy of honing the wood by hand to ensure quality and beauty. I was tempted to make carpentry my vocation, but there was a stronger call, an ache inside that I could not avoid, an ache that would energize and haunt my soul demanding compliance.

Rabbis from the local temple would frequent our home on a regular basis, and their visits were always a cause for the best we had to offer. I vividly recall the meals prepared with the finest kosher delicacies with wine and dessert. The conversations would range from the mundane to the exotic, and I thrilled to listen to the dialogue and the good natured banter as my father offended and defended, depending on the topic. My mother, though the chief entertainer, never shied away from offering her opinion on all matters foreign and domestic. Perhaps because of her example, I felt able, when possible, to interject as well. I wanted to know answers to questions which plagued me, problems which remained unsolved decade after decade. Why were there poor walking our streets, sleeping on steam grates, begging for food? Weren’t we the richest nation and couldn’t we afford to care for those less fortunate? My questions were often direct, and I would be gently scolded by father so as not to offend our guests. Often, Father would motion me to a chair outside the central circle of our honored guests.

You are too precocious, Josiah, my father would often say.

But who, if not they, the rabbinical leadership, would give direction to these problems, these cancers on the American landscape? Our exchanges encouraged me that answers could be found but discouraged me that little if anything had been done. The ache that burned inside found form from those visits, and I longed to debate and probe for answers.

Rabbi Yosef, or as he preferred to be called Joe, was a mainstay at nearly every occasion. He was a recognized scholar and though devout, was extremely comfortable discussing topics spanning a broad range, as well as not only tolerating me but encouraging me to dialogue and develop my thoughts. I often targeted him for my comments and inquisitions anxious to decipher his erudite responses. He had a pensive but welcoming demeanor and was universally respected. His wife had died unexpectedly in 1990 of a massive stroke; the loss had buried him in a deep depression. But his faith and desire to serve eventually uplifted him and allowed him to return to the temple.

I read vociferously, to include books, manuscripts, magazines, and newspapers. My education, though formal and thorough, prepared me primarily to realize that the entire world was not Jewish, that is, that Jews must develop a defensive posture to survive. I didn’t want to spend my energy constantly defending my belief, right or wrong. Pondering my neighborhood, the boroughs around me, and the differences in style, culture, vocabulary, and dress, I calculated my question to Rabbi Joe, carefully hoping to elicit his heart-felt response.

Do you believe, Rabbi Joe, God will usher into His kingdom people of religions other than Jewish?

My, my, my son. My, My. You can generate the most delicate questions, can’t you?

He bowed for a moment. I wasn’t sure if he had turned to prayer or simply was composing his response so as to mitigate any objection from others.

I believe, my son that God’s mysterious ways transcend our capacity to understand. Let me turn the tables. Do you believe Josiah that God is the creator of all things?

Yes, Rabbi, yes.

Well, why, my son, do you pose this question? Are you about to convert?

My mother sighed and my father laughed but assured the guests that conversion was not imminent.

No, Rabbi Joe, but I believe that there are people, an untold number of people, who love God in ways that may not be part of, or should I say, consistent with our Jewish understandings and beliefs. I cannot imagine that God would turn His back on them.

No, my son, neither can I. God’s ways are mysterious, my son, and I do not think that we can decipher the code that unlocks the magical vault of God’s mind. I suggest to you, Josiah, that many see God as a puzzle wrapped in an enigma. The question for each of us is in what way does God speak and in what way do you hear?

I pondered that response as our guests mingled and the afternoon wore down to its logical conclusion. Rabbi Joe had agreed that God would be an accepting God, that those who labored in lands unknown are also eligible for the heavenly landscape. There surely could not be another answer that would be so exclusive, so limiting, so parochial.

"The hour is growing late, Josiah, but with your parents’ permission, I would turn to you a bit and ask you in what ways you can make a difference in today’s world. Perhaps it isn’t I that have