Old Jewish joke
Okay, I wrote this up yesterday as preparation for a short video I wanna do of it…yeah, I know it’s been done to death, but although a google prior-art check turned up plenty of alternative versions, as Schwarzenegger once said, “All of them were bad.” Especially unforgiveable are the ones that get their theology all screwed up, and have the Rabbi arguing for Original Sin (which isn’t part of Jewish doctrine) instead of the Pope. I found an actor (he doesn’t know I’ve found him yet) who has the perfect booming voice…the spitting image (aural image, anyway) of my departed uncle who loved corny jokes just like this:
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One gray, rainy day, the Pope wakes up in a really bad mood. “Today,” he announces to nobody in particular, “I’m going to expel all the Jews from Rome.” He gets up, his servants bring him breakfast. “You know what I’m going to do today?” he asks the guy pouring his coffee. “I’m going to expel all the Jews from Rome.”
They dress him up, he climbs onto his throne. His court assembles for the morning’s business. “First off, you there,” says the Pope, pointing to the closest cardinal, “find me the top Jew in Rome. I want him here by noon at the latest.”
“What for, Your Excellency?” asks the cardinal.
“This morning, I decided, I’ll kick all the Jews out of here.” explains the Pope. “My mind’s pretty much made up. I just want to give him fair warning.”
The cardinal heads off on his mission, and the day drags on. It’s mid-afternoon by the time he returns to the court, bringing a guest with him, a little old man with a long gray beard, dressed all in black.
“Who’s this?” asks the Pope.
The cardinal looks a little embarrassed. “Er…we’re not sure, Your Excellency.”
“What, you don’t know?”
“Oh no,” answers the cardinal quickly, “everyone we asked, they said he’s the wisest man in the ghetto.”
The Pope frowns. “So he’s the one in charge?”
“Well, for miles and miles around people come to see him. Who owns that stray goat? Whose bastard child is that? Problems in philosophy, the natural sciences, riddles that have no answers, he’s the one they talk to.”
“Why doesn’t this fountain of wisdom speak up for himself?”
“Well…” stammers the cardinal.
Still the old Rabbi is silent.
“I’m getting irritated,” snaps the Pope.
“But, Your Excellency, he doesn’t speak Latin.”
“Greek?”
“I don’t think so.”
“French? Turkish?”
“He’s a very holy man, they told us. So he can’t speak any common language, you see, only–”
The Pope holds up his hands. “Silence!” The Pope lurches to his feet and stalks down from his throne. He stares at the Rabbi. And the Rabbi stares back.
The court watches and waits.
The Pope extends his right arm and points straight out the door.
The Rabbi looks hard at the Pope, then slowly points down at the ground.
Shock flashes across the Pope’s face. He thumps his chest, once, twice.
The Rabbi’s eyes narrow. He points up at the ceiling.
The Pope snorts in anger, and grabs a communion wafer and a chalice of wine from the nearby altar. He shakes them furiously at the Rabbi. The audience trembles in excitement…
…but the Rabbi shakes his head again and smiles. He reaches into his robe and produces a shiny red apple. He takes a big bite.
The Pope blinks once, twice, and then slowly nods in agreement. “The man is right,” he breathes softly. “It pleases me to change my mind,” he says to the Rabbi. “The Jews may stay. Now get out of my sight.”
And the Rabbi is grabbed and hauled out of the room. The Pope sighs deeply and climbs the stairs to his throne again. “Let me tell you what happened,” he says to the court:
He extends his arm and points. “I said, ‘Your people have turned away from God.’” He points down at the ground. “And he said, ‘No, God is here with us.’” He thumps his chest. “I said, ‘I, the Pope, say God has abandoned you.’” He points at the ceiling. “And he said, ‘Who can say? God is above us all.’” He mimes shaking the wine and wafer. “And I said, ‘But you have sinned, you have rejected Christ!’ Then he said, ‘Are we not all sinners?’” He mimes biting the apple. “It’s true.”
It’s still raining, and the sun is setting at the ghetto gates by the time the Rabbi returns. He shows his papers to the guards, and is allowed to enter. Despite the weather, people gather all around him in the street, worried and eager for the story.
“Rabbi, what happened?” “Were you frightened?” “What’s the Pope like?” “What did he say?”
The Rabbi raises his hands for quiet.
“What a conversation I had,” he begins.
“It doesn’t start out well.” He points away. “‘The Jews are gonna get out,’ says the Pope.” Points down. “‘No, we’re gonna stay here,’ I say. Does this make him angry!” Thumps his chest. “‘I, the Pope, say you’re out.’ Finger in the air. “And then, I’m sorry to tell it, I lose my temper. ‘Up yours, my friend!’ That’s what I say.”
The crowd gasps, hanging on his words. “Yes?” “Then what?”
The Rabbi shrugs his shoulders. “He’s a very strange man, but not so bad after all. He just said, all right, forget the whole thing, break for lunch.” He pulls the apple core out of his robe and tosses it into the gutter. The rain washes it away.