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JUNE 1999 EDITION
by Avraham Schwartzbaum
Excerpted from "THE BAMBOO CRADLE,"
Reprinted with permission of Feldheim Publishers.
A visiting American professor on a Fulbright Scholarship to the Republic of China, Schwartzbaum held part-time positions in three universities throughout the country, teaching sociology and industrial relations. The quaint hilltop quarters he and his wife, Barbara, occupied in Tamsui had been graciously provided by his Chinese hosts.
Halfway down the mountain path, Schwartzbaum decided he would take the train this morning. He enjoyed sharing the ride with the many schoolchildren who usually rode to the city at that hour. This morning was no exception. Knots of children in twos, threes and fours, schoolbooks strapped on their backs, hopped, pushed, skipped and otherwise made their way into the train compartment. Whenever he watched them, he always discovered a smile on his face.
But the smile quickly faded when he remembered his own situation. He and Barbara had been married for seven years. They led busy, interesting lives traveling, working and studying. But in their quiet moments, when all around them was still, they would feel the palpable silence and vast emptiness that only a child could fill.
Schwartzbaum joined the crowd climbing the stairs from the local platform to the main terminal. He purchased his ticket to Taichung, then headed across the huge hall toward his assigned gate. Suddenly, a bright splash of color caught his eye, a small red parcel on a vacant bench. He thought he saw it move. His curiosity piqued, he decided to investigate.
Tiny dark eyes met his own. His briefcase fell from his hand as he reached for the baby. He picked her up gently and held her close. A note fluttered to the ground.
In the following piece, Allan Schwartzbaum describes one key moment of transition:
What was necessary, I concluded, was first to be rooted in a Torah perspective. The sequence I had followed - first completing my secular studies and then, years later, going to yeshiva - was fraught with danger. How many of my classmates had fallen by the wayside? How many, although materially successful, seemed to be disenchanted, adrift and listless? I continued to grapple with the issues involved until eventually reached a partial resolution that satisfied my own need to reconcile the secular with the spiritual. I recalled that most universities have a School of Arts and a School of Sciences. This traditional organization of academic subjects into the Arts, which normally embodies humanistic studies such as philosophy, literature, language, music and art, and the Sciences, which includes both the physical and natural sciences, suggests a key distinction. The Arts or Humanities stresses the relativeness of human conduct and endeavor. Tastes, fashions, ethics, values, all vary with the historical epoch, the prevailing socioeconomic conditions, and ongoing cultural exchanges. Societies, with their critics and spokesmen, serve as the arbiters of what is good, beautiful, just and deserving. There are no eternal standards, only emergent criteria. There is no place for an omnipresent Creator whose transcendent, unvarying wisdom guides man. Great art and literature is seen as a product of individual genius. This genius, however, has its origins in God's gift to the artist. The Torah says, "I have selected Bezalel son of Uri, son of Chur, of the tribe of Yehudah, by name. I have filled him with a Divine spirit, with wisdom, understanding and knowledge, and with the talent for all types of craftsmanship." (Exodus 31:2,3) Unless the artist acknowledges this debt, the works fashioned by his hand become idols glorifying what man has created, rather than offerings praising the Creator of man. Possibly, if one approaches an area of secular study with a firmly-grounded Torah perspective, the risk of falling prey to that arrogance is minimized.
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