Thursday, July 18, 2013

Holy Ground

Today we took our first Biblical Archaeology field trip to survey some of the topographical and archaeological features of Jerusalem's immediate surroundings. I have taken tours of the landscape before, but this time I was looking through a different lens -- a more focused one, but also a much foggier one. Before I talk about the trip itself, I need to give you some context.

Our first class lecture divided Biblical scholars into two main groups: those who viewed the Bible as History, and those who viewed the Bible as Spiritual Literature. The interplay between these two schools of thought plays an integral role in determining how one approaches the study of Biblical Archaeology, which is a fascinating discussion in and of itself. But what really stopped me in my tracks was our professor's definition of the Bible:

"A multi-vocal literary creation, produced by a variety of authors and editors over many years and containing varying and even contradictory views, beliefs and language."

I'm still ruminating over the implications of this statement. I'm still mulling over the impact of presenting this definition of the Bible to the newest generation of Jewish educators, Rabbis, and Cantors. But that's a blog post for another day.

As we boarded the bus, I wondered where exactly we were heading. I knew the bus was taking us to the three locations listed on our syllabus -- Nebi Samuel, Ramat Rachel, and the Haas Promenade -- but I was caught up in bigger questions: how holy is this holy ground? To what extent do I believe that our ancestors traversed these same trails? And even as archaeological evidence proves or disproves the Biblical narrative, how do I navigate when I am caught between faith and fact?

Nebi Samuel

Inside this mosque, which used to be a church, is an underground chamber in which a small synagogue is located which contains the tomb of the Biblical prophet Samuel.

...I know. It's a mouthful. 

Riddled with bulletholes from World War 1, this mosque/synagogue/former church sits atop a hill overlooking Jerusalem. To get there, our tour bus drove outside of Jerusalem's '67 borders and into settlements and villages that were annexed two weeks after the war. When I think of settlements, I usually imagine ramshackle, temporary structures scattered across rural hills or valleys. But we drove through areas heavily populated with young religious families, apartment complexes stacked one on top of the other, shopping malls and office buildings flanking the busy streets.

The Olive Columns, an environmental art structure at the entrance to Kibbutz Ramat Rachel.

Panorama view of East Jerusalem from the hilltops of Ramat Rachel

Our next stop was Kibbutz Ramat Rachel, which contains within it some notable archaeological findings. We explored the ruins of the Biblical fortress Beit HaKerem, where warning signals were sent to Jerusalem at the end of the First Temple period. We also had a beautiful vantage point from which we viewed all of East Jerusalem, and got a clearer sense of which areas were populated by Arabs and by Jews.

Panorama view of Jerusalem from the Haas Promenade

Our final stop was the Haas Promenade, which was a familiar sight for many of us who came here during our orientation last week. This time, however, we were able to identify some of the clear signs of Israeli or Palestinian villages, such as different colored water towers or roofs. The promenade also provides some of the most beautiful views of the entire city of Jerusalem, and it was a gorgeous way to finish up our tiyul.

So now what?

My head is swimming with new information and new questions. Did this really happen here? Is this person really buried there? And is this land -- the land I will now inhabit for the next year of my life -- really the land of Abraham, Issac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah? And as Rabbi David Wolpe might further challenge: does any of that even matter in the first place?

As I conclude my first full week of classes here at HUC, I have many more questions than answers. It seems that the more I learn, the less I know. I remember writing in my admissions essay that the defining moment for me when deciding whether to enter the clergy was recognizing that Rabbis and Cantors and Educators will never have all the answers. We will, however, have ALL THE QUESTIONS. Maybe this will be my new normal. But for now, it feels good. It feels... Jewish. And it feels right.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Oriented

I was originally going to write a post about the last few days of Orientation, because there has been so much packed into the last week of my life that it seemed easy to fill up a post with it. Then, Shabbat happened.

The other night, a classmate and I were discussing everything under the sun when our conversation turned to "shop talk": questions of doubt and faith, struggles with prayer and with G-d. We embraced in each other that we had similar doubts, similar questions, and similar theories about the roles of prayer and religion, and the ways in which they function in our lives. It was a validating conversation, and one that made me feel safe in the knowledge that we don't necessarily need to have everything figured out. After a week of thought-provoking and mildly terrifying discussions about the enormity of our career paths, that conversation put me in a place where I could enter Shabbat feeling confident and safe, even amidst crises of faith and identity.  

I have never needed Shabbat more than I did at the end of this week. After long days of programming, tours, lectures, discussions, ice breakers, outings, and placement tests, we all needed Shabbat. Shabbat in Jerusalem is remarkable in and of itself; watching an entire city shut down at the sound of a siren is chilling. In the past, though, the separation between Shabbat and the rest of the week didn't seem as distinct. This time, Shabbat was palpable. I could feel the energy of our entire group shift as the sun began to set.

We had text study and services outside in a garden on HUC's campus. When we were given the opportunity to find our own space to pray silently, I walked to a ledge overlooking the city. My surroundings were my prayer book. I prayed with eyes intermittently opened and closed, not sure whether to turn inward or look outward because both practices were intensely meaningful. There was something about being in Israel, in Jerusalem, and on the HUC campus that made me feel safer and more open than I ever had. 

Dinner was outside in the courtyard, and it was delicious. But it was entirely eclipsed by what happened afterwards: the singing. The HUC pre-Ulpan group led a song session after dinner, and it was one of the best experiences I've had in Israel thus far. In our little corner of our table, three or four cantorial students sat close together, singing and smiling and holding hands and harmonizing. I hadn't felt that much joy since Hava Nashira. But it was different this time, because as I looked around the table I came to the realization that these beautiful souls would be singing with me for the next five years. I felt so happy and lucky to be among people who are as lit up by Jewish music as I am. Despite the stress and the nerves, I know I am in good company this year.

I was still riding the high of the song session when a group of us decided to walk from HUC to the Kotel to pray. I had never gone to the Kotel so late at night on Shabbat before, and of the three times I've visited the Kotel over the last two weeks, last night was the most remarkable. Though I have been there many times throughout my life, last night was the first time ever that I felt dizzy approaching the stones. The closer I got to the wall, the harder it was to breathe. That feeling of being small and overwhelmed is the feeling I try to internalize whenever I recite "Adonai S'fatai Tiftach" before the Amidah. But I had never truly felt it before last night.

I pressed my forehead against the wall and closed my eyes. I had approached the wall with my own prayers in mind, but as soon as my fingers touched the Jerusalem stone I immediately felt the prayers and the energies of the millions of people and generations whose hands and foreheads and tears and lips had touched that same stone. My prayer was no longer about me. It was about a collective strength, a collective peace, a collective healing. It was a prayer experience I will never forget.

As clergy we have many daunting responsibilities, one of which is to be an effective vehicle for the prayers of the congregations we lead and represent. Last night gave me a taste of what it truly means to carry the prayers of others on one's back. As I walked backwards, inching away from the wall, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and resolution come over me. I hadn't said a word of what I had planned to, but that didn't matter to me anymore.

Shabbat Shalom u'mevorach l'kulam. 

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

The words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart.

I've started writing this entry six times already and I've gotten nowhere. Here goes seven:

Monday morning was Rosh Chodesh Av, the first day of the Hebrew calendar month of Av. A group called Women of the Wall gathers each Rosh Chodesh to pray together at the Western Wall, the holiest site in the Jewish religion. (To learn more about Rosh Chodesh and why Women of the Wall chooses to gather at the Kotel each month: http://womenofthewall.org.il/rosh-chodesh/what-is-rosh-chodesh). Women of the Wall's mission statement in a nutshell is to exercise our rights as women to pray aloud, to read Torah aloud, and to wear tallitot (prayer shawls) at the Western Wall. Each Rosh Chodesh, hundreds of women (and men who support WOW's mission) recite the Rosh Chodesh Hallel service, which includes wearing tallitot, singing, and reading Torah. 

Progressive American Jews oftentimes don't realize how lucky we are to be able to participate fully in Jewish life and ritual. Practicing our religion freely is a luxury to which we've grown accustomed. I have been praying, singing, and wearing tallitot for my entire life and haven't thought twice about it. However, the American Jewish reality is drastically different from the Israeli Jewish reality. Here in Israel, progressive Jewish groups are a stark minority. There is a Masorti movement here with which I am proud to affiliate, as well as Reform communities and egalitarian minyanim. For the most part, however, there is only one Judaism here in Israel that really counts: Orthodox.

Of the many tenets of Orthodox Judaism, some of the strictest rules dictate gender roles. One ruling in particular, kol b'isha erva, translates roughly into the concept that the singing voice of a woman is in and of itself a sexual provocation. Thus, Orthodox men are not allowed (unless under very specific and oftentimes uncontrollable circumstances) to hear a woman sing. This prohibition extends to live concert performances, recorded songs, and prayer. That means women can't sing, let alone pray loudly. And they certainly can't wear tallitot, a Jewish practice that Orthodox Jewish law reserves only for men.

Basically, our very presence at the Western Wall was extremely problematic for the Orthodox community that showed up by the thousands to protest on Rosh Chodesh morning.


They jeered and booed and sang and screamed to try to drown out our prayers. They threw eggs at us. They crowded the Western Wall plaza, pressing up against barricades to shout insults as we passed.

I felt perfectly safe -- physically, at least. We were escorted and guarded by IDF soldiers and Israeli police officers the entire time. I was surrounded by members of the varied Jewish communities I've been a part of throughout my life: American Jewish University, Hava Nashira, Pardes, and now Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion. I knew in my heart that I had nothing to worry about.





But I was really truly terrified. The hatred I felt from behind the barricades made me feel vulnerable, invalidated, and deeply sad. The insults infuriated me. How could my fellow Jews live with themselves, waging a war of words on us as we recited the Shema? How could they, in good conscience, boo and jeer at us when we began the Amidah? It seemed to me the most un-Jewish thing they could possibly do.

All I wanted was to pray. All I wanted was to celebrate the new month surrounded by the people that add significance and meaning to my life every day. All I wanted was to exercise my right to speak to G-d. The same G-d that each and every human being on this earth confides in and cries to and speaks with every day in synagogues and churches and mosques and meeting houses. One G-d. One humanity. Isn't that what matters?

I posted a status on Facebook shortly after I returned home from the Western Wall that morning. Over the next five hours, I watched a heated debate unfold over a series of approximately 80 comments. The comments centered around two Orthodox Jews and multiple Progressive Jews battling back and forth. There were emotions. There were assumptions. There were accusations. There were egos. And there was absolutely no resolution -- not that I ever expected one. But the exchange was a striking microcosm of the bigger philosophical and theological issue that is at the heart of the war between Orthodox and Progressive Jewish communities.

I can't even pretend that I've processed all of my thoughts and reactions to Monday morning's events. But I do know concretely that the outpouring of concern and support from the people in my life has been extraordinary. I have received messages from people who are neither Jewish nor political, but who read through all 80 comments and wanted to share their reactions privately. I've had conversations with friends and colleagues that bode well for the future of the Jewish professional world. And despite the discomfort and sadness, I feel hopeful that we will continue working towards meaningful and positive change in our communities, both here and at home.

Thursday, July 4, 2013

This Land Is My Land

Whenever I ask people why they choose to make aliyah (immigrate to Israel), the most common response I receive is that they feel more at home in Israel than they do in the States. I definitely feel that tension, and it was especially palpable yesterday. Celebrating the 4th of July in Israel was a bit of a surreal experience. (Don't worry, family -- I'm keeping my promise about coming home from Israel at the end of this year!)

As an American Jew with a strong connection to the Jewish Homeland, I feel a sense of belonging and national pride in both places equally. My body feels more at home in America, while my soul feels more at home in Israel. Navigating the space between feeling far from home and feeling as though I've returned home has been exhausting and exhilarating, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Yesterday, the HUC community gathered in Abu Tor (a neigborhood in Jerusalem about a 30 minute walk from the apartment in Rehavia) for a barbeque. The location was perfect, and we had beautiful views of the Old City and surrounding areas. It was the first real opportunity I've had since arriving in Israel to talk at length with most of my classmates, and I am even more confident that this group of people is the absolute best! I'm feeling really excited about being "stuck with" most of them for the next couple of years!

I'm up early this morning to prepare for my first Shabbat in Jerusalem since 2010 -- and it's going to be fantastic. My room mates and I are hosting about 15 people tonight, and we have a to-do list about a mile long! Businesses in Israel start shutting down for Shabbat at around 2pm on Friday afternoons, so the window of time for Shabbat prep is dwindling by the minute. We're cooking a chicken dish, and asking everyone to bring something when they come by tonight. Those who know me know that my cooking skills amount to boiling water, microwaving TV dinners, and (once in a blue moon) whipping up a mean from-scratch Puttanesca sauce. But I have a feeling that with the help of my room mates, I'll be cooking circles around Mario Batali by the end of the year. ;-)

Speaking of room mates, I seriously struck gold with mine. Jacob and Liz are two of the most wonderful human beings (not to mention friends) I have ever known, and living with them has been an absolute joy so far. I couldn't ask for better people to come home to every day.

On that note, I'm off to join the pre-Shabbat rush. If you want more reading material, check out Liz's newest update on our apartment blog: http://westsidechazanim.blogspot.co.il/

Shabbat Shalom l'kulam!

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

In The Beginning

Time has a way of losing its meaning here. I arrived in Israel on Monday morning, and from the moment I stepped off the plane the minutes and hours began to blur. I keep forgetting what time it is, what day it is, what month it is. I can sleep for an hour and it feels like an eternity, but when I sleep for six hours I wake up feeling sleepless. But aside from all that, everything feels absolutely perfect. I am exactly where I need to be.

We finally got internet in the apartment, which means I can not only blog but I can also skype and facetime -- FINALLY. Today, I got to see some of my all-time favorite faces- my family (dogs included), my girlfriend Michelle, and my best friend Julie. It feels amazing to finally be able to truly keep in touch with people and start communicating again. You don't realize how much you rely on internet until you're without it for 48 hours!

I am living in a beautiful apartment in Jerusalem on Rehov Ramban with two fantastic cantorial classmates, Liz and Jacob. The three of us auditioned together, got in together, and decided to live together. I hope our neighbors are prepared for a whole lot of singing over the next ten months! So far, our living situation is pretty lovely. With the exception of a few minor glitches (massive shower flooding, no gas in our oven or stove, and a couple of awkward conversations with our landlord), we are all settling in smoothly. We went grocery shopping tonight and learned that all three of us are masters at hunting down a good bargain while stocking a mostly empty kitchen. So, armed with a kitchen full of chicken, eggs, milk, butter, pasta, cereal, and a dwindling supply of Israeli candy, we are ready to conquer week one.

The first night I arrived in Israel, I went to my all-time favorite place in all of Jerusalem. I walked from my apartment to the Mamilla Mall, walked through the mall to the Jaffa Gate, and walked through the Old City to pray at the Kotel. Three years ago, I stayed at the Mamilla Hotel with my family and we quickly made the area our new stomping ground. The walk from Mamilla to the Kotel is flooded with memories, sights, smells, and emotions that crystallized my very first impression of Israel. A few nights ago, they all came back to me in full force and I felt absolutely giddy -- like I had finally come home. The littlest things excited me: the crowds wading through the sea of Jerusalem stone, the street musicians pouring their souls onto strings, the haphazard swaying of people lost in prayer. It felt familiar and comforting to return to somewhere so steeped in meaning on my first night in my new home.

I've been to campus twice now, and spent a fair amount of time getting to know my classmates and colleagues. I am absolutely blown away by the class I am a part of this year and for the next four years. These people are brilliant, kind-hearted, articulate, passionate, mature, and committed. Most importantly, I am finally among like-minded people -- people who talk about faith, people who seriously engage with their communities, people who crave musical and intellectual and spiritual nourishment. I am so excited to learn with and from everyone this year.

I'm completely wired and wide awake, but the Israeli clocks tell me that it's past my bedtime so I'm signing off for now.

PS- follow my apartment's blog for more updates from me, Jacob, and Liz throughout the year! You can find us at: http://www.westsidechazanim.blogspot.co.il