Once upon a time, in a land stitched together by old prayers and laughing rivers, there lived a rather reluctant mystic named Rabbi Tzofiel Featherbeard. He had two great loves: tea with scones with jam and cream and naps, and one minor inconvenience: he was the Chosen Keeper of the Rose.
Now, this wasn’t just any rose. This was The Rose— the Rose of Israel, the Rose of the Soul, the Shekhinah-in-Bloom sort of rose. It shimmered in thirteen shades of mercy and hummed lullabies to the moon when no one was listening.
But alas, the Rose had a problem.
It was growing in the middle of a Very Thorny Situation.
And not metaphorical thorns, mind you. Real thorns—snapping, sarcastic, slightly neurotic thorns who had formed a union and refused to let anyone near the Rose unless they passed a Fivefold Test of Foundational Goodness (which they made up on the spot and frequently forgot themselves).
So Rabbi Featherbeard, in his stripey socks and jam-stained prayer shawl, sighed a very long sigh and consulted his Book of Mostly Useless But Occasionally Important Mysteries.
He muttered, “If this is about the Ten Sefirot again, I’m going to need more tea.”
At that very moment, the door blew open and in burst a dazzling creature: Seraphina, the Cup-Bearer of Salvations, riding a flying lion named Geoff.
“Rabbi Featherbeard,” she declared, “the Rose is fading. You must lift the Cup of Yeshuotbefore the thorns file a celestial grievance. Also, the stars have stopped singing Psalm 116, and frankly, it’s throwing off the whole rhythm of the cosmos.”
Rabbi Featherbeard blinked. “Do I get biscuits?”
“No,” Seraphina said solemnly. “But you do get five companions: one for each strong leaf that holds the covenant.”
Just then, five oddballs tumbled out of the tea cupboard (because of course they did):
Malki the Melancholy Maggid, who could only speak in riddles and limericks.
Tzipporah the Topsy-Turvy Nun, who had once danced with St. Teresa in a dream and never quite landed.
Gilbert the Goat, a descendant of St. Gilbert of Sempringham, who wore spectacles and refused to chew anything without theological reflection.
Lady Tamar of the Desert Wind, who had ridden with prophets and pirates and wore a necklace of lost cities.
And finally, Fr. John Joseph the Slightly-Burnt, who was perpetually singed from trying to cook spiritual meals with real fire and only half a recipe.
The group set out at once, journeying past the Seven Mansions of Confusing Directions, across the Vale of Velikovskian Echoes (where rogue planets occasionally screamed past on vacation), and into the Realm of the Rose, where Time wore a nightcap and occasionally forgot it had duties.
Upon reaching the thorns, the Fivefold Test commenced.
Speak the Name of God Without Saying It. (Malki sneezed and accidentally passed.)
Tell the Rose a Joke That Makes Her Blush. (Fr. John Joseph recited a Lenten limerick. It was terrible. It worked.)
Dance Like the Psalms Were Sung Backwards by Angels. (Tzipporah won this round while upside down.)
Answer the Riddle of the Cup. (“How many salvations fit in a single sip?” Tamar answered: “As many as are needed, and one more for your enemy.”)
Quote the Zohar while Being Tickled by a Thorn. (Gilbert, bleating nervously, quoted, “The rose is the Lady of Israel.” The thorns wept.)
At last, Rabbi Featherbeard approached the Rose. She was pale and wilting, her petals curled inward.
He reached into his bag and pulled out the Cup of Yeshuot, filled it with Tearwine drawn from the dew of the suffering righteous, and gently gave her a drink.
The Rose unfurled, humming the names of God in tenfold light.
And lo! The thorns turned into laughter, the stars remembered their song, and the mystical gates of the Zohar opened like a well-placed pun — surprising, illuminating, and slightly overdue.
Rabbi Featherbeard didn’t say much. He just sat with the Rose, sharing a bit of leftover challah and wondering if this meant he’d finally earned a nap.
(He had not.)
For the Rose is eternal, the thorns ever circling, and somewhere, always, someone must lift the cup again.
The end. Or the beginning. It’s hard to tell with roses!