The Michael Jackson Tapes Read Free Page A

hello, and let me know that Mr. Jackson had allocated thirty minutes for our meeting. Michael, who was languishing in his career and ostensibly working on a long-delayed album that finally emerged in 2001 as Invincible , was very different from what I expected—quieter, shyer, yet more open and more accessible than his public image would suggest. He introduced me to his children, Paris and Prince (then about one and two), showed me pictures that had arrived that day from a concert in Germany, and openly talked about a host of topics including raising kids, the challenges of living in a fishbowl, and my life and work as a rabbi.
    The conversation was more pleasant and substantive than I had expected for a man I believed to be inordinately materialistic. Our meeting went well beyond thirty minutes and by the time I left I felt that, for reasons I could not explain, Michael, a famous recluse, was becoming close to me.
    After that we spoke on the phone a few times and made plans for a second meeting. This time Michael himself answered the door, but only after checking that no paparazzi were standing outside. I had brought two small gifts with me. The first was a mezuzah, the roll of Biblical parchment that Jews affix to their door which brings the divine presence into one’s home. Normally, only Jewish homes display them, but I said to Michael, “God is the source of all blessing. Let this mezuzah always remind you of that.” He was moved by the gift and we jointly affixed it to his front doorpost. I also brought him a Chanukah menorah as a symbol of God’s light that should illuminate his life and home.
    Again our conversation was open, warm, and surprisingly trusting for a man I was told was so private. He showed me a full-page picture in The New York Post of him walking out of a meeting with the Dalai Lama the day before. He said that he found his conversations with me more enlightening than those he had had with the Dalai Lama. Flattered and a bit embarrassed, I responded that the Dalai Lama was a truly great man and that I was not in his league, not a guru of any kind,
but simply a man who had chosen to be a rabbi as a direct consequence of his parents’ divorce and that I was trying to figure out the labyrinth of life using the profound moral code found in God’s law, the Torah. Along the way, I sought to share with others what I had discovered about mastering life and establishing an ethical and spiritual foundation into which we could all anchor our lives.
    As I was leaving his townhouse, Michael suddenly said, “You know I’d really love to go to synagogue with you.” Surprised at the statement, I asked him if he was serious. “Yes, Shmuley, could you please take me to synagogue?” I replied, “Sure Michael. It would be a pleasure. I will take you to a synagogue I love.”
    The next week was the major Jewish festival of Simkhat Torah, the happiest day on the Jewish calendar. I took Michael to the most musical of all the synagogues in New York City, the Carlebach Shule founded by legendary Jewish folk artist Shlomo Carlebach, whose beautiful and soulful melodies have become justly famous.
    No one except the rabbi knew that Michael was arriving. Jews do not activate electronics on holy days, so we took no pictures, made no recordings, informed no press, and tried to make it a truly personal and spiritual experience. When he turned up, the congregants were excited to see him and welcomed him warmly. He, in turn, put away his shyness and seemed to feel at home, humming along with the music, swaying with the rhythms, shaking the hands of all who greeted him, and blushing all the while. In his speech, the rabbi said that he hoped “Brother Michael” enjoyed this somewhat different kind of music. Michael, looking blissful, seemed enraptured by the atmosphere. This was clearly a man with a spiritual bent who hungered to be reconnected. He later told me that that