Contradictions of the Kotel

The following originally appeared on the Gateways and Tents blog.  

When the American students spent an hour unpacking their experience of the kotel (the Western Wall), we heard a few common themes. One theme was the experience of cognitive dissonance—that is, the contradiction that occurs when your heart is telling you to feel one thing, and your brain is telling you to think a different thing.

On one level, this contradiction is confusing and troubling. Our head and heart want to be in sync. On another level, this contradiction may be a perfect reflection of the kotel—a place that is itself full of contradiction.

Here are a few of the kotel’s contradictions.

First, the kotel is a symbol that unites the Jewish people. Go into any synagogue around the world, and you’re likely to find a picture of the Western Wall. The site has become the icon of Jerusalem, the defining image of the city towards which Jews all over the world pray. And yet, thekotel is also a symbol that divides the Jewish people. The struggle over who has authority at the Western Wall is the example par excellence of the challenge of pluralism. In this public arena, competing Jewish value-systems literally go nose to nose to try and answer the question: What does it mean to be Jewish?

Second, the kotel is a holy site. Thousands of years ago, there stood the First and Second Temples, the sacred center of the Jewish people, where families from all over the Jewish world would come three times annually to offer sacrifices to God. Since the Temple’s destruction, the kotelhas remained a pilgrimage site—except now, the Jewish people go there to commune with God not through sacrifice, but through prayer. And yet, the kotel is also a secular site. The Western Wall itself never was holy. Rather, it was a retaining wall that held up the earth upon which the Holy Temple stood. It is less like the sanctuary of Shaaray Tefila and more like sidewalk outside the 79thStreet entrance.

Third, the kotel is a religious site. And yet, it is also a political site. The division of life into separate categories, such as religion and state, is an entirely modern invention.The Temple was the seat of religious and political authority in ancient Israel. It was not only a center for ritual and sacrifice, but also for adjudicating civil law and social policy. Bible scholars refer to the Torah as the “constitution of the ancient Jewish nation.” So too, the modern State of Israel is often described as the “Third Temple.” Israeli law defines the State as both “Jewish and democratic.” The tension between these two values is evident not just in the struggle for pluralism at the kotel, but in every aspect of Israeli society. (This tension is perhaps most evident inissues of personal status—marriage, divorce, conversion, and burial—currently under the authority of the rabbinate).

These three contradictions—unity and division, sacred and secular, religious and political—are at the heart of kotel. And somehow, each contradiction coheres.

So when I hear our students expressing cognitive dissonance—that their head thinks one thing and their heart a different thing—I am at once empathetic that they do not feel more whole, and at the same time believe that they are right where they should be. Their experience is a reflection of the kotel itself. And because of these contradictions, no two visits to the kotel will ever be the same. It is my hope, therefore, that each of our teens will come back and visit for a second, and a third, and a tenth, and a two-hundredth time, knowing that on each visit, the contradictions will express themselves differently.

It is said that one sign of genius is the ability to hold two contradictory truths at the same time. May we be able to hold all these truths for ourselves, and may the kotel—with all its capacity for contradiction—be able to hold a space for each of us.

A Thread of Hope

The following originally appeared on the Gateways and Tents blog. 

Earlier this fall, the Israeli author Etgar Keret wrote in The New Yorker: “we have to believe that hope is not just another word in Israel’s national anthem but rather is a powerful force that can lead to change.”

 

On Sunday, we asked Anat Hoffman, executive director of the Israel Religious Action Center: “In light of the many challenges you’re fighting, what gives you hope?”

 

She pointed out that the first time that the Hebrew word for “hope,” tikvah, appears in the Bible, it appears in reference to a thread of string (see Joshua 2:18). She reminded our group that hope doesn’t come off the spool already wound into a rope, or a cord, or a thick, robust cable. Rather, hope comes from the tiniest of places—even as narrow as a bit of thread.

 

That evening, as our group gathered at the Western Wall, we wound ourselves in a circle around one of our female group members who wished to be wrapped in a tallit. As she put on the fringed garment—itself a visual reminder that whole cloth is woven only of loose stings—we tied together our own of little thread of hope. HaTikvah—not just the title of Israel’s national anthem, but a powerful force that can lead to change.

Cutting Through the Darkness

This post is by Leah

Every morning I walk six-minutes to the train. And every day on that six-minute walk, I pass blocks of twinkling lights, Vermont trees for sale, and figurines of snowmen, Santa Claus, and nativity scenes. At some point during the day someone will ask me what my plans are for Christmas. I’ll catch myself humming “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” or any number of Bing Crosby’s other Christmas treasures. I welcome the joy of the season and wish others “Happy Holidays.” On my walk home, I pass the blocks of twinkling lights, Vermont trees for sale, and figurines of snowmen, Santa Claus, and nativity scenes. And for the past two nights, I’ve walked into my apartment, decorated as it always is, save a silver menorah sitting on the window sill.

For eight nights every winter, in the darkest month of the year, I light candles in my window and say the same blessings that have been said for thousands of years. And with this small action, with a few flames flickering in a window, I am making a conscious choice to say, “This is a Jewish home. This is a home guided by a deep and historic need to bring light into the world.”

I walk through the world as a white woman. When most people see me these days, I am wished a Merry Christmas. I, and many white Jews of my generation, have achieved the American assimilation that Phillip Roth could have only dreamed of as a child. Yet it is this very assimilation that is causing, for me, a crisis of identity. How does my whiteness interact with my Jewishness? How do I reconcile my white privilege and my deeply internalized Jewish oppression? And moreover, what is my social ethical responsibility as a white woman, as a Jew, and as a human being? How can I engage my experiences of oppression as a tool for empathy building and as inspiration for action in solidarity with others who carry their own historic oppressions?

For thousands of years there have been those who believed that Jewish lives don’t matter. I am profoundly blessed to be living in a pocket of the world where the value of my Jewish life is not questioned. And there is certainly no one questioning whether or not my white life matters. Yet, there are systems in place that behave every day as if black lives don’t. And that is a problem. I believe that it is my responsibility as a Jew to stand up and say that all lives matter, especially those that are persecuted and marginalized. Today, it is my responsibility to say that Black Lives Matter; because if I don’t raise my voice and take to the streets to pray with my feet, than I am not living up to the moral imperative of my people.  

Tonight I am going to walk home past the blocks of twinkling lights, Vermont trees for sale, and figurines of snowmen, Santa Claus, and nativity scenes. Tonight I will light four candles in my window and I will say the blessings that Jews have said for thousands of years. And tonight as I light the Hanukkah candles, I will also say that Black Lives Matter. Because light, even if just a few flames flickering in a window, is the only thing that will cut through this darkness. 

Covenant = Partnership

The following source sheet was prepared for adults in the MASA Family Learning Program at Temple Shaaray Tefila, Manhattan.
[PDF version]

Opening Thoughts

“Whatever was created in the first six days of creation needs further preparation.”

-Genesis Rabbah 11:6 (c. 500 CE, Land of Israel)

“To be both created and yet creator is the heart of Jewish religious consciousness.”

–Leo Baeck (1873-1956, Germany)

“There is only one way to define Jewish religion: Life is a partnership of God and humankind.”

-Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972, Poland and USA)

Covenants with Noah and with Abraham

“God blessed Noah and his sons and said to them: ‘Be fertile and increase and fill the earth. … Every creature of the earth shall be yours to eat, and also the green grasses. You must not, however, eat flesh with its lifeblood in it. …  Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed. … I hereby establish my covenant with you and your offspring to come: never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.’”

-Genesis 9:1-11

“God spoke to Abram, saying: ‘This is My covenant with you: You shall be the father of a multitude of nations. And you shall no longer be called Abram, but Abraham shall be your name. … I assign the land you sojourn in to you and your offspring to come, all the land of Canaan, as an everlasting holding. I will be their God. … Every male among you shall be circumcised. … Thus shall my covenant be marked on your flesh as an everlasting pact.’”

-Genesis 17:3-13

Who was more righteous?

“Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his generation. Noah walked with God.”

-Genesis 6:9

“The Eternal said to Abram: ‘Walk in my ways [lit: ‘before me’] and be blameless.”

-Genesis 17:1

  

Noah was blameless “in his generation”

Some of our rabbis interpret this to Noah’s credit. How much more righteous would Noah have been had he lived in a righteous generation! Others interpret it to Noah’s discredit. Noah was righteous in comparison to his generation, but had he lived in Abraham’s generation he would have been considered as naught.

-Rashi (1040-1105, France)

Abraham responded to Distress

When God told Abraham what God that God was planning to punish the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah, “Abraham stepped forward and said: ‘Will You sweep away the innocent along with the righteous?’” (Gen. 18:23). Whereas when God said to Noah, “I have decided to put an end to all flesh, because the earth is filled with lawlessness” (Gen. 6:13), Noah remained silent and did not intercede.

-The Zohar (13^th century, Spain)

Revisiting the question of who was more righteous

Rabbi Yehudah said: It may be compared to a king who had two sons, an older and a younger one. The king said to the younger one, “Walk with me,” and to the older one, “Walk before me.”

Rabbi Nehemiah said: Noah may be compared to the king’s friend who was walking in the mud. The king looked and saw him and said: “Before you sink into the mud, walk with me.” Thus God said to Noah: “Before you drown in the flood of wickedness, build for yourself an ark.”

Abraham may be compared to a king’s friend who saw the king walking through a dark alleyway. When he saw the king, he began to shine a light for him through the window. When the king looked up and saw him, he said to him: “Before you give me light through the window, come and walk in front of me and give me light there.” Thus God said to Abraham: “Before, you gave me light in Mesopotamia; now, come before me and give me light in the land of Israel.”

-Genesis Rabbah 30:10

Small But Mighty

Every Chanukkah since I was three years old, my dad has written a Chanukkah play. On the Saturday night of Chanukkah week, 30 families from our small Jewish community of Tallahassee, FL would cram into my parents’ house for our annual Chanukkah party. And while the parents schmoozed downstairs, the kids would go upstairs to learn and rehearse the Chanukkah play that my dad had written that year.

The plays would retell the story of Chanukkah—but instead of an epic battle between the Jews of ancient Israel and their Hellenizing neighbors, these retellings would focus on the small-but-mighty Jewish community of Tallahassee, trying to maintain their identity as a cultural minority in the South. The plays were full of corny jokes and puns (“groaners,” we used to call them), and rewritten songs from classic Broadway musicals. The plays were invariably cheesy, and as we kids grew older, we grew more and more embarrassed about performing in them.

But when I look back on those Chanukkah plays, I recognize that they were not only about a small-but-mighty Jewish community trying to retain its identity, the plays helped to enable that community’s identity to form and grow.

After the play was over, all the families would go out onto the back porch and light our menorahs—one for each person that was there. And for one night in Florida’s panhandle, the light of all those candles and the sound of all those voices singing the blessings helped to illuminate the dark. Like the Maccabees, like their oil that shouldn’t have lasted—we may have been small, but my, were we mighty.

It's Me

The following was delivered as a dvar torah at the Temple Shaaray Tefila Shabbat morning minyan.

In the summer of 1964—exactly 50 years ago—our beloved teacher, and one of the brightest minds in the history of American Judaism, Rabbi Dr. Eugene Borowitz, was arrested in St. Augustine, FL for praying in an integrated group of black and white men outside of a restaurant. In the sweltering 3:00 AM heat of the St. Augustine city jail, Dr. Borowitz wrote the following words: “We have been vocal in our exhortations of others, but the idleness of our hands has too often revealed an inner silence; silence at a time when silence has become the unpardonable sin of our time.”

On Thursday night, two others of our most beloved teachers—Rabbi Shai Held and Rabbi Jill Jacobs—were arrested for their participation in the protests on the Upper West Side. The next morning, Rabbi Held wrote: “A friend, an African-American, told me that when her young daughter saw a picture of Jill Jacobs and me at the protest, she said, "Mommy, they are not black. That is so nice of them." I cannot describe how deeply this moves me and how profoundly it breaks my heart. Let us dream of a world—let us build a world—in which my friend's daughter can say, ‘Mommy, they are human, too, And that is their responsibility.’”

In these past couple of weeks, I’ve found myself wondering what on earth I—an upper-middle class, college-educated, white, Jewish male—could possibly say about race in America. Of course, my heart breaks over the lives that have been lost. Of course I’m horrified to read statistics like this one: that in 2012 alone, 313 people of color died at the hands of police officers, security guards, and vigilantes.

And yet, I find myself thinking: “It isn’t me who shot Trayvon Martin. It isn’t me who shot Michael Brown. It isn’t me who choked Eric Garner. The painful debate about race in America isn’t about me.”

But saying “not me” doesn’t get us very far.

Two weeks ago, we read the story of Jacob, who, when asked by his blind father, “Which of my sons are you?” lied and said: “I’m Esau—not me.” And while Jacob’s deceit is far more outright than our own, we’re fooling ourselves if we imagine that race is America is about someone else, and “not me.”

In this week’s Torah portion, we find Jacob confronting his past. As he prepares to be reunited with his brother, he spends the night wrestling with a strange man, who at the end of a long struggle, asks him the same question that he had been asked so many years ago: “What’s your name?” But this time, Jacob tells the truth. This time, Jacob says: “I’m Jacob. It’s me.”

In the face of all this civil unrest, it can be hard to say, “It’s me.” The problem of race in America is so deeply woven into the fabric of our society that it’s often beyond our awareness. Whether or not whiteness is the primary identifier by which those of us who happen to have white skin identify ourselves—whether we primarily think of ourselves as Jewish, or in gendered terms, or some other indicator of identity—there’s no denying that when other people see our white skin, they make certain judgments about us based solely on our whiteness. Take for example the following video that’s been getting a lot of attention on the internet: three actors are given the task of pretending to steal a bike that’s locked to a sign in a public park. When a young white man tries to steal the bike, passersby notice but do not stop him. When a young black man tries to steal the bike, people intervene and call the police, even when he tries to explain that the bike has been left there for a week without an owner. When a pretty young woman who happens to have blonde hair tries to steal the bike, people go so far as to help her cut through the chain. Social experiments like this one demonstrate what Nicholas Kristof of the NYTimes has said about race in America to be true: that it is “not a black problem or a white problem, but an American problem.”

It’s time for Jacob to say, “It’s me.”

But where does owning our own privilege get us? How do we say “it’s me” without falling only into feelings of guilt, rather than feeling empowered to make change?

Rabbi Joanna Samuels teaches that there are two types of activism. One type of activism seeks equality—equal education, equal opportunity, equal protection under the law for blacks and whites. And the other, perhaps more elevated and certainly more difficult type of activism seeks systemic change—an America that takes responsibility for the success or failure of its most disadvantaged citizens, rather than wagging fingers and saying the fault is all theirs. And how, Rabbi Samuels asks, do we move from equality activism to systemic-change activism? By becoming an ally. By raising our voices, and saying: “It’s not just you. It’s me too. It’s us.”

If we can say “it’s me—it’s us,” then Dr. Borowitz’s words will continue to ring as true today as they did 50 years ago: “Injustice in St. Augustine, as anywhere else, diminishes the humanity of each of us. … We came here to stand with our brothers, and in the process, have learned more about ourselves and our God.”