Equipped with a quip, he gave the Hope

http://www.jewishworldreview.com | The passing of Bob Hope leaves a void in our culture. After a rollicking century in our midst, he takes his gentle soul to supernal realms. It behooves us to pause a moment, however scant, to reflect upon the tracks of a giant who walked humbly among us, seeking no greater reward than the vitality of our spirits. Always his hand was extended to us in the trenches, as we muttered and puttered and sputtered through the struggles of life, to lift us up onto terra firma.

We begin with the words of the Talmud: Rabbi Broka of Hoza used to frequent the marketplace of Lefet where he met Elijah the Prophet. He asked Elijah, "Is there anyone in this marketplace who will go to Heaven?" Just then two men passed by, and Elijah said, "These are men of the Next World." Rabbi Broka asked them, "What do you do?" They told him, "We are comedians. We make depressed people laugh. Also, when we see two people fighting, we get involved to negotiate a peace." (Taanis 22a)

Whether or not this story is intended literally, its point resonates with clarity. Depression and conflict are the products of being entoiled in the minutiae of this world. The jester defeats the tyranny of the moment, scourging the illusion with the rapier of his wit. Once things are no big deal, the negotiation towards peace and tranquility has well nigh been transacted. This is an "other-worldly" vision; it rises above the mirage of permanence that drapes the physical world.

Yet there is another avenue of escape that also masquerades as comedy. It burrows below the world, mocking randomly, targeting the paramount no less than the mountebank. This japery debases our culture rather than ennobling it; it creates the ultimate surrender to the moment. It does not say "Only the important things matter, so don't sweat the small stuff". Instead it says, "Nothing matters, so why sweat any of it?"

Indeed, never is this distinction more critical than in time of battle. Franklin Roosevelt said, "There is nothing to fear but fear itself", but one should not underestimate the potency of that emotion to smother us in its thrall. Look at us today engaged in a War Against Terrorism or, essentially, a war against fear itself. This country is not in any peril to its sovereignty from the various rogues and rascals sniping at our heels. But a hand reaching with impunity into our great hub of commerce and toppling our tallest building exposes us to a terror that eclipses the dimensions of the actual danger. So, too, it is for the residents of Israel, who are no longer facing client states of the Soviet Union, but are beset by gadflies who peck persistently at the core of a society's serenity.

So in a poignant irony of history, we sit in enchanted castles of technology, big machines whisking us up and down highways and airways, little machines enabling us to whisper into ears blushing across the globe, air cooling us in summer and warming us in winter, machines to refrigerate our food, wash then dry our clothing, bring news to our eyes and ears; we are surrounded by music at will like no people in history; still we tremble in our havens, consumed by a feverish frenzy of fear.

Yet the ones most entitled to their fear are those who face it with the most grace. They are the men and women who wear the uniform on our behalf, scorched and parched in the desert, logged and slogging in the mud, shivering and quivering on the tundras. They trudge and drudge down a path carved by scrabbling fingers in the most unyielding granite of existence; their way is lit only by the lonely torch of human courage. They laugh, they scoff, they rise above the ephemeral impediments that life throws down to block our course.

Students of the Bible in Hebrew will recognize this theme in the birth of the second Jewish forefather, Isaac, who theologically represents Gevurah - power without fear, but whose name means "He will laugh". By contrast, his half-brother Ishmael is sent away for "making him laugh". These are the two forms of laughter. The comedy of a Bob Hope that lifts people above fear, dispelling the temporary in favor of the permanent, elicits the invigorating laughter of Isaac. The comedy of a baser element, that circumnavigates fear by translating all meaning into farce, elicits the corrupting laughter of Ishmael.

As the heroes of the great wars of this century stood up against all the most corrosive evils of history, Bob Hope stood by their side, to equip them with a quip. With his infusion of vim, our fighting men and women marched with a smile and a grin and cut an ineluctable swath through the lines of scowling hateful killers. Who knows how many of us owe our lives, our peace, our prosperity, to one unflappable vaudevillian who faced down the cracking whips with whiplash wisecracks?

I close my eyes on this grim day and I see two processions. One ghoulish fearsome march of keening wraiths bears the biers of Uday and Qusay into the deepest bowels of Hades, as their victims pelt them with imprecations. The other, going upward, seems to stretch endlessly in ever higher arcs of light, as angels bring Bob Hope to his heavenly reward. All those soldiers and their descendants as well as a grateful nation and world can be seen lining that street. "Where does it end?", I ask a passing angel, and he smiles at me pityingly. "It never ends," he says. "That is the road that leads into the future. That is the road without fear."

JWR contributor Jay D. Homnick is the author of many books and essays on Jewish political and religious affairs. Comment by clicking here.

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