Eight Lights for Chanukkah

Chanukkah is a time of blessing. At the coldest, darkest time of the year, this is a holiday that reminds us to gather around the warmth of the light. This year, we want to celebrate not only the eight literal lights that we kindle in the Chanukkah Menorah, but also eight Israeli organizations that are bringing light into the world.

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1) Hand in Hand: Center for Jewish-Arab Education in Israel
Hand in Hand is a network of integrated, bilingual schools combining peace education and top academic standards. Their mission is to increase peace, coexistence and equality between the Jews and Arabs in Israel. With three campuses--in Jerusalem, the Galilee and Wadi Ara--Hand in Hand builds partnerships to provide as many Israeli children as possible the option of an integrated, top-quality public education.


2) Kibbutz Lotan Solar Field
Awarded the 2006 Award for Ecovillage Excellence by the Global Ecovillage Network, Kibbutz Lotan is home to Israel’s first solar field. The solar field reduces Israel’s use of fossil fuels, and will further the mitzah of creating a clean free atmosphere for all of us. Additionally, Lotan’s Center for Creative Ecology is rooted in “Tikkun Olam”--the Jewish concept for repairing and transforming the world. The Center offers tours, workshops, and ecofriendly design and training programs. Lotan serves as a living classroom for sustainable systems.


3) The Jerusalem Secular Yeshiva
The Jerusalem Secular Yeshiva seeks to connect young Israelis who wish to maintain a culturally Jewish way of life to a heightened sense of social-justice and community solidarity. Unlike the religious yeshivot that many of their orthodox counterparts attend, students at the Secular Yeshiva spend their days in a pluralistic environment, studying contemporary Zionist thinkers, Jewish philosophy, the holiday and life cycles, and other traditional Jewish texts. The program combines study of Jewish texts and culture with social action and volunteer work in underserved neighborhoods.


4) Save a Child’s Heart
Save a Child’s Heart (SACH) is an Israeli-based international humanitarian project, whose mission is to improve the quality of pediatric cardiac care for children from developing countries who suffer from heart disease and to create centers of competence in these countries. SACH is dedicated to the idea that every child deserves the best medical treatment available, regardless of the child's nationality, religion, color, gender or financial situation. SACH is motivated by the age-old Jewish tradition of Tikkun Olam--repairing the world. By mending the hearts of children, regardless of their origin, SACH is contributing to a better and more peaceful future for all of our children.


5) Kiryat Ono College
Committed to inclusive education, Kiryat Ono College prepares ultra orthodox men and women for the workforce. A large percentage of ultra-orthodox men in Israel dedicate their lives to studying the Torah and are supported by substantial government funding. This has lowered the community's capacity for self-sufficiency. There is a growing realization in the ultra-orthodox community that it must enter the business arena and lower its dependency on subsidies. The ultra-orthodox campus at Kiryat Ono College allows ultra orthodox men and women to study in an institution of higher learning without compromising their religious values.


6) Ma’ale Film School
Ma’ale is the only film school in the world devoted to exploring the intersection of Judaism and modern life. The school unabashedly holds a mirror up to the most pressing issues in the religious Zionist community, including homosexuality, marriage and gender equality, and settlement in the Territories. Ma'aleh films are screened regularly at film festivals world-wide and consistently win top awards.


7) Nava Tehila
Nava Tehila is an emerging prayer and study community in Jerusalem, welcoming people of diverse backgrounds who wish to experience various expressions of spiritual life with a Jewish flavor. The community offers classes and workshops in Jewish spirituality, meditation, Kabbalah and Chasidut. Prayer is egalitarian and inclusive, open to people of all religious and spiritual traditions. Nava Tehila is affiliated with the Jewish renewal spiritual movement.


8) Encounter
Encounter is an educational organization dedicated to providing global Diaspora Jewish leaders from across the religious and political spectrum with exposure to Palestinian life. Through trips to Palestinian territories in the West Bank, Encounter participants meet Palestinian civilians and leaders to engage in thoughtful conversation about the complexities of Israel and the conflict.

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Hope your Chanukkah is filled with love and light,
Daniel and Leah


Have additions to this list? Feel free to comment and post them below!

Moving from Ambition to Compassion

This morning, I offered the following words of Torah at HUC. Text is below the video.



I’m thinking about writing a self-help book. You know, the kind that gives you detailed instructions on how to maximize your potential and change your life forever. By following my 5 easy steps, you can boost yourself into the national spotlight, influence top politicians, call the shots on Wall Street, and get your name in all the newspapers, while picking up a cool and easy million bucks along the way. I’m thinking of calling the book: How to be the Best at Everything… Ever.

I get the sense that there are more and more people like this in our world: people who don’t care what they have to do or how they have to do it, so long as they can get ahead; people who live to compete, and for whom losing is not an option; people with endless ambition and little compassion.

We see in Joseph exactly this type of ambition. Joseph dreams of being a great leader, and nothing will stop him. Everywhere he goes, he is successful. In whatever he does, “the Lord is with him.” He’s his father’s favorite. He’s made head of Potiphar’s household. Even in prison, the warden puts him in charge of his fellow inmates. And in all his responsibility, he looks great doing it!

But despite his skill and cleverness, Joseph exhibits no consideration for others. Although he is his father’s favorite, we have no evidence that he reciprocates his father’s love. He shamelessly reveals to his brothers his deep-seated superiority complex. And after his first dream enrages them, he goes ahead and reveals another one where the imagery is even more inflammatory—that that the sun, the moon, and stars bow down to him. As we read this morning, “Vayoseefu od s'no oto, al ha-chalomotav v'al d'varav / and his brothers continued to hate him more, on account of his dreams and on account of his words.” Throughout his journey in Egypt, we never once see him form a true friendship. His relationships are purely professional; even in prison, he befriends not common inmates, but high-ranking royal officials. And though he accurately interprets their dreams, he does so with a request: that when the cupbearer is free, he’ll remember Joseph and help free him too. He seems to operate under the code of “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.”

Elie Wiesel, in his book Messengers of God, describes Joseph thus: “His was a political awareness, not a poetic one. Shrewd rather than wise, he was a manipulator rather than a witness. ... While still a child, he behaved like a king. When he became king, he often behaved like a child.”

I get the sense that many of today’s leaders also aspire to be kings while behaving like children. They’re so obsessed with success that they’d do seemingly anything to get ahead. From Bernie Madoff to Rod Blagojevich, from the exploitative parenting on TV’s Toddlers in Tiaras to football coaches who hit their own players when they lose, somehow our culture has come to value success over all else.

As religious and spiritual leaders, we have a responsibility to help our communities see that ambition must be tempered by compassion, that the process is just as important as the goal, that winning isn’t the only thing that counts.

Joseph succeeds in all he does and certainly hurts a few people along the way. But his greatest success—the redemption of the children of Israel—comes only after he is able to make peace with his brothers. He discovers that all his ambition leads to nowhere but loneliness, that all his achievement can’t win him a friend. We see in him a real transformation, from Mr. Ambition to Mr. Compassion, from an arrogant brat who can’t hold back his ego to a loving brother who can’t hold back his tears. When he finally turns to compassion, only then does he truly earn the name “Yosef HaTzaddik / Joseph the Righteous”—not for his skill and cunning, not because he was the first of our people to “make it” in the gentile world, but because he learned that relationships are more important than being the best.

So maybe I’m writing the wrong self-help book. Maybe it’s not about being the best after all. Maybe the title should be How to Get Beyond Winning and Start Loving. Or better still, How to be Human.

Sukkot: By the Seat of Our Pants

We just got back from a ten-day trip around the north of Israel (with a brief visit to Ein Gedi and the Dead Sea in the south along the way). This album is called "Sukkot: By the Seat of Our Pants" because everything we did was planned on the day it happened (if not later). And yet, we still had a wonderful time! Below, check out our pictures.

Follow this link to view the pictures on Picasa.

Gilad Shalit: It's Complicated

This post is by Daniel and Leah

When people ask us what it’s like to live in Israel, the answer is almost always the same: “It’s complicated.”

Over the past five years one of the most unifying issues in Israeli society has been the desired release of captured Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit, who was abducted by Hamas in 2006 at the age of 19. On all sides of the political spectrum, the objective was clear—bring Gilad home. It was an issue that everyone could stand behind.

Tuesday morning, Gilad returned home. After five years of solitary confinement, no humanitarian aid or contact with the outside world, a gaunt and pale Shalit was returned to Israel and his family.

On a day which could have been marked by joyous celebration, the mood in Israel is decidedly heavy. Gilad’s return has come at quite a cost. In exchange for Shalit’s release, Israel agreed to return 1,027 Palestinian prisoners. It’s not the disproportionate 1-for-1,027 ratio that’s most troubling, but rather the résumés of the Palestinian prisoners who went free this morning. Among them are men and women convicted of terror attacks and murder. These people were not held in captivity for Israel’s diplomatic gain, but for committing serious crimes.

So how are we to feel on a day that is both joyous and somber?

On the one hand, we are overjoyed at the release of Gilad Shalit and his reunion with his family. The images of the boy being embraced by his father after five years of separation stir tremendous empathy. For Gilad, his family, and supporters around the world, this is the day they’ve been dreaming of.

On the other hand, how can one rejoice when murders and terrorists are being let free? After the deal was brokered, there were indeed many Israelis who protested the prisoner swap. Family members of terror victims petitioned the high court to stop the exchange. However, fearing that the window of opportunity to bring Gilad home wouldn’t stay open long, the court rejected the petitions and the exchange went forth as planned. For these people, whose lives have been ripped by terror, this is the day they’ve been dreading.

World leaders are hailing the exchange as a step in the right direction for the stalled peace process. Many are hopeful that this exchange will show that with hard work and negotiation, progress can be made. Indeed, both Israel and the Palestinians are hailing this day as a victory.

But one has to worry that “victory” may be too strong a word. In Gaza this morning, crowds lined the streets to celebrate the prisoners’ return. “The people want a new Gilad!” the crowd chanted, the implication being that if Hamas abducts more Israeli soldiers, Israel will be forced to release more convicted Palestinian prisoners. To the crowd, Shalit was not a human prisoner but a diplomatic bargaining chip.

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So the question becomes not “How do we feel?” but rather “How do we reconcile these conflicting feelings?” We’re at once joyful and mournful, hopeful and skeptical. It is impossible to erase one emotion to simplify the day.

It seems that the new developments in the Gilad episode reinforce our recurring motto: “It’s complicated.” And there’s no simple solution. The best we can do is learn to be comfortable with our discomfort, and continue to work and hope for a day when Israel and its neighbors can live together in peace.

Recommended reading (articles we've found helpful):

"Israel's Joy Tempered by Memories of an Intifadeh"

"Everyone's Son"

Misguided Heroism

Originally posted at OurYearInYerush.blogspot.com/
Last weekend, our class took a study trip to the Galilee region to learn about Israel’s early pioneers. On the trip, we visited the historical settlement of Tel Hai, the site of the first major skirmish between Jews and Arabs in Palestine. Tel Hai was established as a Jewish settlement in the early 20th century. At the end of World War I, the French and the British divided between themselves the lands of the former Ottoman Empire. Most Jewish settlements wound up in British territory, except for four sites, including Tel Hai. The surrounding Arab population was skeptical of the French, and thought Tel Hai might have been harboring French sympathizers. A group of Arabs was allowed to enter the settlement to look around. There was some miscommunication between the Jews and the Arabs and fighting broke out. Eight Jewish settlers were killed. Below, my response to the site.

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I was struck by our visit to Tel Hai. Before all else, it strikes me as peculiar that the focus of this site is not on Jewish-Arab relations, but rather on Jewish heroism. I expected Tel Hai, as “the site of the first major skirmish between Jews and Arabs in Palestine,” to engender a discussion on Arab responses to the chalutzim. I could imagine here a sensitive conversation on the role of otherness in Israel, on pioneering compared to colonization, on the difference between critical history and collective memory. Rather, this site politicized as a symbol of military courage. Mine is not a critique of our trip leaders, but rather of how the site fits into the Israeli national narrative. It makes me wonder how Tel Hai fits into the Palestinian national narrative.

I see in Trumpeldor’s dying words—“It is good to die for one’s country”—a rejection of the Old World experience. In its circumstances, the incident at Tel Hai very much resembles a pogrom. The surrounding majority enters a Jewish settlement; violence erupts; people are injured and killed. A pogrom is a catastrophe, but Tel Hai is a victory. Trumpeldor is seen not as a victim but a hero. At least in Palestine, a Jew can be killed for his country.

I can’t accept that it is good to die for one’s country. Har Hertzl, Israel's national cemetery, is not a “good” place. It’s a place of mourning, of sadness, of tragedy. I easily see a connection between Tel Hai and the suicide at Masada. Indeed, suicide was disproportionately common during the 2nd and 3rd waves of olim. Suicide accounted for 12% of all deaths. That’s nearly 1 in 8! History has labeled the Masada suicide as committed by “zealots.” Suicides tear families apart. We at once praise Trumpeldor’s martyrdom and condemn suicide bombers. Both types of bravery are misguided.

We see at Tel Hai a shift in the Jewish psyche. For the first time in centuries, we see Jews refusing to apologize for circumstances beyond their control. There are classic stories from the Old Country that you might live in Poland, but one day wake up to discover that your village is suddenly a part of Prussia. When Tel Hai suddenly became French, its inhabitants refused to apologize. This attitude is bold but dangerous. Still today, Israel can’t apologize for fear of looking weak. Imagine if this were how an adult acted in marriage—the marriage would break apart from inflexibility.

I say all this to illustrate what role place should not play in Judaism. While I’m glad that the Jewish state is in Israel rather than Uganda, I’d like Israel to be more flexible in order to achieve peace. I’d like to see greater compromise. As world leaders encourage Israel to pursue a two-state solution, I hope the settlers in the West Bank can reimagine what Tel Hai might symbolize. With a little more flexibility, there might yet be hope for peace.

Beit Cafe

Originally posted on OurYearInYerush.blogspot.com
Last night we performed at the HUC Beit Cafe (coffee house/talent show). Check out our performance in the video below.

Destruction and Mourning

Originally posted at OurYearInYerush.blogspot.com
Last night, on erev Tisha B’Av, we went to the Western Wall and had a fascinating experience. Below, our conversation and the event that followed.

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Daniel:

The Kotel on erev Tisha B'Av 

I have conflicted feelings about Tisha B’Av. Traditionally, the holiday commemorates the destruction of the First and Second Temples. From my observation, mourning the loss of the Temple necessarily means hoping for a Third Temple. Indeed, just outside the Kotel Plaza, we saw miniature models of a rebuilt Third Temple. Are people suggesting that we destroy The Dome of the Rock? On other days in the Old City, we’ve seen dream-like paintings of the Jerusalem countryside with the Third Temple in its center, smoke from the sacrificial offering ascending to heaven. Is the ethical Judaism we practice today not sufficient?

What has sustained the Jews for thousands of years is adaptability to change. Jews have been their most successful in the Diaspora. The Middle Ages in Spain saw a blossoming of Jewish religious, cultural, and economic life. Jews in America today are the most prosperous Jewish community in history. The Purim story in Sushan, problematic as it is, stands as the first account of Jewish triumph in the Diaspora. Our intransigence has cultivated our creativity. And yet, life in the Diaspora has been hard for the Jewish people. In Spain and in Shushan, our golden ages eventually met a tragic end. Tisha B’Av reminds me of our frailty.

For 2000 years, our people have hoped to return to the land of Israel, to Jerusalem. Today we’re here. As a professor at HUC put it, we’ve already achieved a modern Third Temple—the State of Israel. I was moved on Tisha B’Av by the sight of an Israeli flag flying in the Kotel Plaza. This is a symbol of our triumph.

And yet, Israel itself is frail. Were the country ever to collapse or be destroyed, Jews worldwide would feel the effects. For all its complications, I love deeply what Israel symbolizes. I get physical anxiety thinking of the consequences of a destroyed Jewish state. It gives new resonance to Psalm 137, written after the Destruction of the First Temple: “By the rivers of Babylon we wept, remembering Zion.”


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Leah:
To me Tisha B’Av is a day to remember and acknowledge our scars—the scars of our people as well as our personal scars. When I said this to Daniel, he asked, “Then why do we gather here at the Kotel, at the ruins of the First and Second Temples?” After some thought I offered, “It’s like visiting the grave of a loved one that has passed. We don’t bring flowers and weep over a tombstone in hope that the deceased will come back to life. We go to remember, to mourn. To try to find closeness to that which has been lost.”

When we break a bone or tear open our skin, we are left with scars, some that we will see for the rest of our lives. Yet these scars are often far less painful than the unseen lacerations we carry within. We’ve all had destructions in our lives, things that have quite literally shattered us. Regardless of why and how we’ve been shattered, these destructions are a part of our history. To let them go unacknowledged diminishes the power of our resiliency. That is to say, I believe that we are stronger and more resilient for our tragedies than for our triumphs.

Suffering is not a concept that I often indulge in. I’ve always had a light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel kind of attitude, and not a sit-in-the-tunnel-and-throw-a-party-for-the-darkness kind of attitude. But this is a holiday that encourages us to stay in the darkness, to remember our destructions. As we sat on the stones that line the Kotel Plaza, my invisible scars came to light—images of heartbreak, loss, personal exile, and true devastation. As the tears fell down my face, I mourned. I grieved for the broken pieces of my past and faced the scars that they’ve left. Faced with these scars, I found tremendous faith, faith in the resiliency of the human spirit. With time and with love we heal. Our scars can serve as a poetic reminder of all that we’ve overcome.

On Tisha B’Av we come to the Kotel, a living wound of our broken past, and we mourn. On this day, acknowledging our scars is a way of owning them. We return to the destroyed temple to grieve our losses and hopefully to understand our resiliency, which is another way of saying exactly the same thing.


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Together:
The Talmud teaches that the theological reason for the destruction of the Temple was senseless hatred.

We were sitting in the Kotel Plaza having this emotional conversation about Tisha B’Av. Leah put her head on my shoulder, and I put my arm around her back. A few seconds later, an older man walked up to us with an angry look on his face. (It’s forbidden to engage in romance on Tisha B’Av.) He motioned at us, shooing us away from each other, telling us in Hebrew that we shouldn’t be hugging. “We’re comforting each other,” I said in English. He moved closer and continued to scold us. I tried to tell him to leave us alone, but he grew more enraged. Not wanting to make a scene, we got up, grabbed each other by the hand, and left the Plaza.

What if we had been two men or two women comforting each other? Would this have been forbidden?

We went to the Kotel seeking an honest and nuanced connection with this challenging holiday. We sat and discussed and grew and remembered. And then, with the simple flick of a hand, our connection was destroyed.

We came to the Kotel to mourn. We left with a new scar.

How Do You Spell the Word "Yarmulke"?

Originally posted on OurYearInYerush.blogspot.com

On the first day of rabbinical school, I started wearing a kippah. Having grown up at Jewish summer camp, the tradition of wearing a yarmulke always felt a bit formal. While working at Hillel, I would wear a kippah for Shabbat services, but would usually take it off for dinner. It just seemed like another article of clothing to have to straighten.

During HUC orientation, we listened to a talk from the VP of Academic Affairs, Dr. Michael Marmur. He spoke about his difficulty answering students when they ask: “Will we be expected to know (blank)? Will there be a test on (blank)?” As future leaders of the Jewish people, he says, we will be expected to know just about everything. We’re taking on the responsibility of bearing a 3,000-year-old heritage. It is important for us to realize, Dr. Marmur notes, that there is no way a five-year program could ever teach us the entirety of Jewish tradition. For exactly this reason, we can never take off our Judaism. That is to say, we can’t live a life divided between what we need to know and what we don’t.

HUC asks us to come to Shabbat services at the College a certain number of times throughout the year. That doesn’t mean that during the other weeks, we have Shabbat off. It isn’t as if the College has a certain quota of Shabbat services they expect us to fill. Rather, there’s a certain life they hope we’ll choose to live. Dr. Marmur wants each of us not to be a “bifurcated person”—a person who is divided. As Jewish leaders living Jewish lives, we must strive to be a whole person—to be as wholly ourselves as we can be in all situations.

It’s a natural tendency to for a person to act one way in certain groups and act another way in other groups. For example, when spending time with family, I have a tendency to revert to old behavior patterns, based on historical family roles. I become the youngest child again, the baby, quietly watching the action unfold around me, often irritable when I don’t get my way. When I act this way, I usually regret it and wish instead that I could at all times be “my best me.” I’m working hard on this balance.

For this reason, I really connected with Dr. Marmur’s words. I came home that afternoon and told Leah I was thinking about starting to wear a kippah full time. A couple days later, I was talking with a classmate who wears a kippah and mentioned I was thinking of starting. The next day, we passed each other on the way to class. He stopped me, reached in his pocket and pulled out a kippah. “I thought you might want to have this.” That was the start.

I have a dark-colored kippah for everyday use and a white one for Shabbat, holidays, and special occasions. I wear the dark one so as not to attract unwanted attention. In Israel, a kippah is often a religious or political statement. Various groups wear their kippot in different positions, colors, and sizes. (For more on this topic, see the film The Transparent Kippah.) In some neighborhoods and on some occasions, I choose not to wear one at all. I'm not wearing a kippah to make a statement. I'm wearing it for me.

I recognize what a growth opportunity this year in Israel and this rabbinical training represents. The way I see it, I can sit back, take everything in, and let the change happen to me. Or I can reach out and grab it, embrace the change.

Several folks have asked if I plan to keep wearing it when I get back to the States. As of now, I don’t know. Other folks have asked me how it’s going so far. It has its ups and downs. Unsurprisingly, putting on a kippah didn’t suddenly make me self-actualized. It does, however, serve as reminder to strive to be my best me, while at home and while away, when I lie down and when I rise up.

God is a DJ

Originally posted at OurYearInYerush.blogspot.com
During orientation, we were asked take a photograph of something in Jerusalem that inspired, motivated, or challenged us. Below, my response to some graffiti I found on Hillel Street.

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"God is a DJ"

This image struck me for several reasons. First of all, it’s hilarious. I imagined Moses bumping to Eazy E, cruising in his 64, bass thumping, speakers tweaked out, spinners, the works!

Second, it reminds me that there’s more than one way to be a Jew. For some, the only commandment is: “Thou shalt get down with your bad self!” I’m reminded of popular musicians like Kobi Oz and Idan Raichel, who use liturgical texts in their music, or even The Soulico Crew and Jaffa Road, who make their listeners feel good. These are the new prophets.

Finally, it reminds me of Oral Torah—the notion that Torah is comprised not only of the words on the page, but also the meaning between the words. That Torah is not set in black ink, but rather is open for interpretation in every generation. As the world changes, Torah changes with it. Our tradition teaches that this is not only valid, but that in fact the Oral Torah comes directly from Sinai. Here in Jerusalem, a city at once ancient and changing, it seems appropriate that Oral Torah be blasted at 300 watts.

One Wall, Two Perspectives

Cross-posted at OurYearInYerush.blogspot.com
Last Saturday night, we wandered around Jerusalem for five hours and found ourselves (quite accidentally) at the Western Wall. Below, our two reactions to one place.

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Daniel:

When I visit the Kotel, I see major inequality. The men’s section, taking up two-thirds of the Wall, with ample space to get up close and pray, next to the women’s section, where women stand in a crowd three rows deep in order to try and touch it. The varied stones the Wall is built of, unequal in size, remind me of the inequality between the genders. Once a month on Sunday mornings, progressive men and women gather at the Wall for the women to wrap tefillin, wear tallises, and read Torah. The police watch from nearby and often make arrests.

I have trouble understanding the ultra-religious. I want so badly to feel like one family, but all I do is judge them. I know I need to work on this.

On another afternoon, we walk down the street from our apartment towards the park, and on the walk we see in the distance the Security Barrier, the fence that separates Israel from the West Bank. Since its construction in 2002, suicide attacks in Israel have decreased by a half every year. And yet, I can’t help but think of the videos I’ve seen of peaceful protestors on the other side of this wall being beaten bloody and having tear gas shot at them. The stories I’ve heard of old women trying to enter Israel through one of the checkpoints, where there is much crowding and waiting, and the guards push her back and beat her. How can this Wall and that other wall carry such different meaning?

And yet, here at the Western Wall, I’m reminded of a beautiful I experience I once had. I was a counselor for a group of high school students spending the summer in Israel. As is common on Jewish youth trips, we had designed colorful group t-shirts to wear on our final day. And there we were, this group of 120 Jewish Americans, dressed matching in neon green t-shirts. And around us were men in black hats and robes, as well as young Israelis dressed in everyday work clothes with knit yarmulkes, and folks with dreadlocks tucked underneath a head wrap, and families of tourists in sunglasses and khaki shorts with cameras around their necks. And I thought to myself, this is what it means to be the People of Israel—varied in shape and in color, and yet whole.

To be here with Leah, together for the first time (I’m sure of many), and to see her reaction to this place, softens me. My grandparents and great-grandparents could only dream of this place, and here we are, casually strolling on a Saturday evening. This afternoon, we had set out with no intention of coming here at all. In fact, we had planned not to come, to save it for later. And yet, our wandering has led us straight here. What a beautiful city—that can hold both the restaurants in the German colony and the Houses of Study in the Old City; that can hold both the modern stores on Jaffa street and the beautiful gardens in Yemin Moshe; where the old kisses the new.

When I pray at the Wall, I am reminded that the name Israel means to wrestle with God. So I close my eyes, I rock forward and back, and wrestle with all my heart, all my soul, and all my might.

Leah:

The last time I was in Jerusalem was quite literally half a lifetime ago. The summer I turned 13 my family took a two-week Bat Mitzvah holiday through Israel. My memories of the trip are beautiful although slightly faded, as often happens over time. However, a small handful of memories were carefully wrapped and packed in a box in a corner of my mind, which when opened (13 years later) have reappeared as vividly as the day they were packed away.

The first moment we found ourselves in view of the Kotel, it was as if the memories began rattling in their carefully packaged box. I held Daniel tight as the tears came effortlessly running down my face. I was nothing short of shocked at the immediacy of this visceral reaction. I pulled myself together as we walked through the security gate and wrapped myself in shawls to cover my legs and shoulders. As Daniel took my hand the tears came flooding back. The dust was being blown off the box. We made our way towards the Wall and Daniel asked if I wanted to walk up to it. It was at that moment the lid of the box blew off and I was face to face with the memory that had prompted the free-fall of tears. I saw a 13-year-old me standing between my mother and grandmother, all holding hands, walking towards the wall. I saw myself standing between the two women who are the great loves of my life, placing our hands and heads on the wall and praying. In that moment, being Jewish meant something. Truly meant something. And in this present moment, standing in front of the Kotel, holding hands with the man I love, it meant something again.

It is no secret that I have had a tumultuous relationship with Judaism. I am a Jew. I have a strong sense of Jewish identity and the traditions of my history hold a deep, enduring importance in my life. But I’ve never really found a way to tap into my spirituality through my religion. Unable to connect with my spirituality through Judaism, I set out in search of meaning. I’ve traveled all over the world, experiencing foreign cultures, and studying eastern religion, philosophy, and art. I was taught Theravada Buddhist prayers in a fishing village in Thailand, I meditated with Buddhist monks in Tibet, I was taught Jainism by a priest in a marble temple, I celebrated Rosh Hashanah while trekking the Nepali Himalayas and I spent Yom Kippur meditating on an Ashram in India. It took traveling around the world for me to be able to look in and find spiritual fulfillment. However this spiritual growth was something entirely separate from my religion.

Somehow, standing in front of the Western Wall, a wall that is just a wall, I felt something. Something unexplainable. Something that felt, dare I say, spiritual.

Wrapped in the arms of the man I love, remembering a moment that happened half a lifetime ago, imagining what it might be like returning to this same place with my own daughter, her hands in mine and my mother’s… for me, this is what it means to be a Jew. Yes, the Kotel is just a wall, but for thousands of years it has stood as a symbol our history, of my history.

Most days I would look at the Western Wall with frustration. Frustration, at the separation of men and women. Frustration, that women are unable to wear tallit and pray aloud. Confusion, at some of the seemingly antiquated behavior. Worry, at the state of tolerance in Israel. A collection of conflicting feelings over this exalted wall.

But this night was different than other nights. On this night, the Kotel stood as a symbol of my history. On this night, this Wall was more than a wall. On this night I was more than a girlfriend, a daughter, a granddaughter… on this night I was a Jew. And for the first time in a very long time, that meant something.

Home, Sweet Home

Cross posted at OurYearInYersuh.blogspot.com
Hi everybody! After two long flights, a couple of delays, many cups of coffee, and three NYTimes crossword puzzles, we arrived safe and delirious in Jerusalem. Since then, we've been hard at work cleaning our apartment and making it our own. This is just the start, but we wanted to share the beginnings of our new home. Happy browsing!

Namastov,

Leah and Daniel

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Our Apartment

"Sustaining Our Commitment to Social Justice"

Last week, on Shavuot, I went to the Manhattan JCC’s midnight learning session. I heard Ruth Messinger, president of American Jewish World Service (AJWS), talk about “Sustaining Our Commitment to Social Justice.” AJWS is an international development organization that works to alleviate poverty, hunger, and disease in the developing world.

Ms. Messinger opened the conversation by looking at three Jewish texts on tzedakah (literally “justice” or “righteousness”). Each text gave a different answer to the question “Whom am I obligated to help?” One text suggested that we give first to our own kinsmen: other Jews, our own relatives, our own townspeople. Another text suggested we gave non-preferentially: equally to Jews and non-Jews. The third text highlighted the problem in giving first to our own kinsmen, namely that there are many poor people without any wealthy kinsmen. This text further took issue with creating a hierarchy of giving, claiming that “people do not act this way,” but rather give more indiscriminately.

We then launched into a conversation on how we personally decide whom we are obligated to help. Ms. Messinger pointed out that many people say they have two or three causes to which they contribute. But if most people checked their bank statements, they would find they make contributions more indiscriminately than they might think. One participant said he chooses causes based on what feels right. Another said she gives to causes that helped her in the past, like her afterschool program or summer camp. Another said she gives to causes when asked, like when a friend asks for a contribution to her walk-a-thon.

But what about the stranger on the street who asks for money—are we likely to give to this person? One young participant, seemingly in high school, shared the regret he felt after a homeless person recently asked him for spare change and he declined to give. Many other participants had similar stories. A woman in the back of the room said that in this case, she follows the halakhic ruling: that if a stranger asks for food you are obligated to give, but if a stranger asks for money it is up to your discretion. When approached for money by the homeless, she asks if she can buy them a sandwich instead. Another woman said she will give money, but then asks the recipient, “Pray for me.” Ms. Messinger emphasized the power of this interaction—that even if you’re unable or unwilling to give, speaking to the person adds an incredible level of humanity.

The group noted that we are indeed more likely to give to an organization that to an individual, but Ms. Messinger stressed the importance of doing your due diligence. She implored us all to research our charities on Charity Navigator or GuideStar to see how effectively they will spend your donation.

One participant shared her frustration at spending so much time trying to define and categorize her giving. She prefers to “live a with open heart”—to spend less time worrying how she’s doing tzedakah and spend more time actually doing it! Ms. Messinger acknowledged this frustration and shared AJWS’s guide for living charitably, symbolized by a six-pointed star. The points are:

1) Learn more
2) Teach others
3) Be of service
4) Do advocacy
5) Give money
6) Consume ethically

A participant added to this list “Invest ethically”—that is, buy from companies who use sustainable practices, shop locally. Ms. Messinger noted that of the small portion of our tax dollars that go towards alleviating global hunger, 75% of that money goes to subsidize American agribusinesses. She’s seen giant cargo ships full of tax-subsidized, American-grown rice being shipped off to Central and South America, where that rice will likely put a local farmer out of business. Instead, that tax money could go to help local farmers in third-world countries invest in irrigation technologies.

Ms. Messinger shared a teaching of the ancient rabbis, who asked, “If you have $1,000 to give, which is better: to give all $1,000 to one person, or to give $1 to 1,000 different people?” The ancient rabbis decided it is best to give $1 to 1,000 different people, because it exercises your “tzedakah muscle.”

To the participant who prefered to “live with an open heart,” this teaching shows the value in worrying about how you do tzedakah. Even when it seems that your contribution is just a drop in the bucket—or that it might cause more negative harm than positive help, or when it becomes emotionally taxing—we must still find a way to sustain and exercise our tzedakah muscle. It is the regular worrying about tzedakah that enables you to do more tzedakah.

There are many ways to do tzedakah. But to retreat to being overwhelmed is a luxury we simply cannot afford. As rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel taught, “In a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.” In a world of such great inequity, we have a responsibility, Ms. Messinger stressed, to get involved and stay involved. As Rabbi Tarfon teaches in Pirkei Avot (2:21) “You are not required to complete the work, but neither may you refrain from starting it.”

What's an MP3?

Every year, for the days between our birthdays, my brother and I celebrate the Five to Ten--a time to take five-to-ten minutes each day to work on creative projects. Together, we create and tackle a prompt or a project. It allows us to work on something together, even if we're not in the same city.

This year, David and I are both in a time of transition. I'm starting rabbinical school and he's getting married. In order to experience how change is at once gradual and sudden, we assigned ourselves to take an object, and each day during the Five to Ten, make a change to it. The idea is to see how change happens over time.

I actually chose a few objects--a vinyl record, a cassette tape, and a CD. I wanted to see how these objects gradually--over time--transformed into the iPod. To do so, I would need scissors and plenty of glue. Enjoy!

The Five to Ten

My birthday is May 5. My brother's birthday is May 10.

A couple years ago, David and I started celebrating the days between our birthdays with an annual tradition we call "The Five to Ten." From May 5-10, we spend 5-10 minutes a day working simultaneously on some sort of creative project. One year, we had to write a poem each day about members of our family. Another year, we were to select a song each day that holds special significance for us. Another year, we wrote each day about interesting things we learned in college or grad school.

This year, David and I are both in a time of transition. I'm finishing my time working at Hillel at Emory, my time living in Atlanta, and moving to Israel for the year with my girlfriend Leah to start rabbinical school. David is getting married. We're using the Five to Ten to honor our transitions. On May 5, we were each to select an object make slight changes to that object every day until May 10. The idea is to see how transformation happens gradually over time. Check back again soon for photos of my project.

Parshat Emor--Jewish Holidays and Transition

This Shabbat was Parshat Emor, in the book of Leviticus. Below, audio from a d'var torah I delivered this week at a Hillels of Georgia staff meeting and again at our seniors' graduation reception.

How the Jewish holiday cycle helps us recognize transition.

We Are Dreaming Outloud

If you've spent much time in Freedom Park, you might have noticed this awesome quote scrawled on the pavement. If you haven't spent much time in Freedom Park, you should!


(Click the title of this post for video.)

Full text:
If I could whisper softly into the absolute, after saying thanks, I might make a wish. Tonight I would wish for understanding. I would wish that these scripts, sometimes held in disdain, were understood as coming from a place of purity, and by way of an ancient disposition. We have been scrawling these mysteries on our walls since before there were walls. I would wish that these expressions were considered fundamental and innate: as having emerged from our very humanity. We’ve got a need as human beings to surround ourselves with the beauty of our own imaginings manifest. We are dreaming outloud.

Rise Up Atlanta

Rise Up Atlanta, currently installed in Freedom Park. Riding my bike by there today, I stopped and talked to the artist, Charlie Brouwer. Atlantans loaned him nearly 200 ladders to build the piece, which is held together by industrial zip-ties. Folding ladders, extension ladders, step stools in every size, color, and function come together in unique variety. A favorite of mine (not clearly visible in the photos) is an American flag-patterned folding ladder near the top of the structure. Mr. Brouwer is able to climb the core of the structure to add more ladders. Get there and check it out!

A Many-Pronged Lamp

The campus minister for Reformed University Fellowship asked me recently which aspects of Jewish life were most crucial to my identity. How much was religious/spiritual and how much was peoplehood/cultural?

Indeed, I far more often connect to my Jewish identity through peoplehood than through spirituality. But the instances of spirituality carry far more weight. So in a way, the two sort of balance each other out, the way a pound of feathers balances out pound of lead.

Orah, Horah, from
Salvador Dali's Aliyah, the Rebirth of Israel

It strikes me that this is a perfect model for Shabbat. Six days we live in our mundane, day-to-day lives (which, incidentally, still carry much valuable work). But one day a week is special, is holy, carries more weight. This is the image of the seven-pronged menorah.

This isn’t to say that experiences of Jewish peoplehood (or Jewish ethics, or Jewish memory) are less valuable than experiences of Jewish spirituality. Rather, it recognizes value in both. And their mutual value only further validates their individual worth. It’s like a great poem—that a single poem can at the same time hold seemingly contradictory meanings and neither one be less true. This is genius.

It further strikes me that this is the reason I want to be a rabbi. I’m a good people-person. I’m relatable, fun, easy-going, likeable. I’m able to connect with people on a six-days-a-week level, on the everyday stuff. And then, if they want, I’m ready to talk about that one-day-a-week stuff, that intimate stuff, that holy stuff.

So I guess I couldn’t say that any one aspect of my Jewish identity is more important than any other. It takes the one to make the other.

A Hipstamatic Day at Stone Mountain

Have you used the Hipstamatic camera on the iPhone? It takes really cool pictures. So do Leah and I =) Here are photos from our great day at Stone Mountain (click the image for high-res). Are we hip? Maybe. Are we very cute? You tell me!

Jewish-Arab Coexistence in Israel

At Taste of Limmud, I went to a session on Jewish-Arab coexistence in Israel. The session was specifically about Jewish relations with Arab-Israelis, who are citizens of the State of Israel and live with its borders (not in the Gaza Strip or the West Bank). The discussion was led by Elie Rekhes, head of the Konrad Adenauer Program for Jewish-Arab Cooperation at Tel Aviv University. He answered the question: Why is coexistence important?

1) In its Declaration of Independence (the closest thing Israel has to a constitution), Israel is committed to “equal citizenship and due representation” for its Arab inhabitants
2) In order to preserve Israel’s status as a democracy, co-existence must work
3) It is a moral Jewish imperative
4) It is in Israel’s best economic interests
5) It is important for Israel’s public image
6) It can only strengthen Israel

Coexistence is difficult because of a paradox of identity. Rekhes described three concentric circles (see image). There is a confounded sense of who is the majority and who is the minority. One of Rekhes’s colleagues put it thus: “An Arab minority with the mentality of a majority, living within a Jewish majority with the mentality of a minority.” This plays out in common feelings of victimhood.

Liberal Zionists should think of the challenge of coexistence as an opportunity to show the world how to treat a minority. Jews, of all people, should know what it feels like to be the minority. And to an extent, Israel treats its minority well. Arabic is an official state language and Arabs have full citizenship. Nevertheless, there is much de facto segregation and even a few attempts at de jure segregation (see the so-called Rabbis' Letter, encouraging Jews not to rent or sell homes to non-Jews.) Liberal Zionists cannot accept this sort of blind racism. Have we forgotten that “we were strangers in the land of Egypt?”

In 1948, there were 100,000 Arabs living in the Jewish state. Now there are 1.5 million. This constitutes 20% of Israel’s population. Of that 20%, 83% are Muslim, 8.5% are Christian, and 8.5% are Druze.

Since the 1993 Oslo accords—the acknowledgement of the PLO as the administrative body of the Palestinian people and territories—Arab-Israelis began to reexamine their relationship with Israel. This reexamination took place on three levels: socioeconomic, political, and national.

On the socioeconomic level, the Oslo accords put the Arab-Israelis in a double periphery: on the one hand from their Jewish neighbors and on the other hand from their counterparts in the West Bank. Only 20% of Jews live below the poverty line, whereas 67% of Arabs live below the poverty line. And though Arab-Israelis may have already been accustomed to this economic disparity, they were suddenly also poorer than Arabs in the West Bank, due to increased international support. This dual periphery caused Arab-Israelis to say, “Why not us?”

On the political level, Arabs suddenly recognized their own political impotence. Arabs have full voting rights in Israel, and there are Arab representatives in the Knesset. But because of Israel’s coalition system, Arab parties have very little influence and are often excluded from coalitions and bargain-making. Political focus shifted from the Arab parties in the Knesset to the PLO.

On the national level, the Oslo Accords unified the Israeli-Arabs. Rather than groups of minorities (Christians, Muslims, Druze), they saw themselves as a single indigenous minority with collective rights. They wanted to be acknowledged. Arabs started wondering how Israel’s national symbols pertained to them—the national anthem, with its references to the “Jewish heart;” the flag, with the Star of David; the state emblem, the Menorah. Some scholars have noted this phenomenon by coining the phrase “Israel is democratic for the Jews and Jewish for the Arabs.”

A more recent turning point was the Second Intifada in 2000. The Arabs’ pent-up anger came out in the form of violence, bitterness, and anti-Israel demonstrations. Jewish political opinions moved rightwards, with the emergence and strengthening of political parties like Israel Beitenu (literally: “Israel, our home”), whose 2009 election slogan was “No loyalty, no citizenship.”

Rekhes asserts that, at the very least, there is recognition of the problem. Recent years have seen a call to positive, constructive solutions. There is a growing number of NGOs dealing with Jewish-Arab issues, working the fields of education, economic improvements, and creating space for encounters between Israelis and Arabs. Furthermore, there is government recognition of the need for improved relations, in the form of the Or State Commission of Inquiry (which should be, in my opinion, only a first step) and a Jewish minister of Arab affairs. Finally, there is recognition among world Jewry, in the form of the Inter-Agency Task Force on Arab-Israeli Issues, a coalition of 93 member-organizations.

From this American’s perspective, there is still much work to be done. If there is to be a two-state solution (which seems to be the obvious solution), I wonder about the fate of the Arab-Israelis. And I’m proud that my girlfriend will spend part of our year in Israel working on Arab-Jewish relations.

Mysteries of the Seder

With Passover approaching, I’m reminded of a session I went to at Taste of Limmud called “Mysteries of the Seder.” The session was led by Clive Lawton, co-founder of Limmud.

Lawton posits that seder—and more generally, the many, varied complexities of Judaism—is not just kids’ stuff. He pictures an amusement park: somewhere you take your kids because they like to go on the rides, but you wouldn’t choose to go to on your own. Eventually, your kids out grow the amusement park and you both wonder why you continue to come. The seder should not be like this. Instead, the seder should be thought of like the theatre. If your kids are too little, you hire a babysitter and leave the kids at home. Theatre is too sophisticated for a four-year-old, but too important for you to miss it. When your kids are old enough, you bring them to age-appropriate shows—Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz. Then, when they’re older still, you take them to more and more sophisticated plays—Romeo and Juliet, The Crucible, Waiting for Godot. So too with Jewish experiences. If you simplify them too much, your children will never grow to experience them in their full, beautiful complexity. Lawton puts it very well: “Judaism is something you grow into, not something you grow out of.”

With this as a backdrop, Lawton launched into a sophisticated yet warm discussion on the mysteries of the seder. He talked about the 10 plagues. Here in the middle of the seder, as the excitement has been building, we take a solemn pause to remember the suffering of the Egyptians. It is to remind us that many blessing are brought at the suffering of others. And we don’t simply say “The Egyptians suffered 10 terrible plagues,” but rather take the time to spell them out individually. Take a modern example. We might say: “We think of those who are suffering from the catastrophe in Japan.” But instead, we say, “We think of those who are suffering from the catastrophe in Japan. Those whose homes crumbled in the earthquake. Those whose possessions were washed away in the tsunami. Those who were exposed to nuclear radiation. Those who were afraid at the continuing aftershocks. Those who aren’t able to get clean water and food. Those who are separated from their loved ones. …” In this way, we more fully acknowledge their suffering. This is what the seder asks us to do.

Lawton stressed that the most important thing in the seder is not accuracy but meaningfulness. It doesn’t matter if you follow all the rituals in every detail exactly as they are outlined in the haggadah, so long as you make every bit of your seder meaningful. After all, this is where Judaism gives us room for creativity. Judaism often tells us what to do, but doesn’t often tells us what to think about it. He gave a beautiful illustration using tefillin. The two boxes of tefillin are in fact not identical. Both boxes contain four blessings. In the box you wear on your arm, all four blessings are on one scroll of paper and in one compartment. In the one you wear on your head, each blessing is on an individual scroll and in an individual compartment. This is to show that there is only one thing we are required to do (with our arm) but many ways to think about it (with our head).

Lawton helped answer why we dip twice on Passover. Once, we dip the parsley in salt water and once we dip the marror in charoset. The parsley in salt water reminds us that even when we are feeling fresh and young, like a sprig of parsley, we should remember that life sometimes brings salty tears. On the other hand, when we’re weighed down by bitterness, like the marror, we should remember than can again be sweet, like the charoset. It is to show both sides of one coin.

He gave a midrash to help explain why the charoset—supposed to represent the mortar of slavery—should taste sweet. There’s a midrash that when Pharoah ordered the death of all male Hebrew babies, the Hebrew men went into despair. “Why bother to continue to procreate if Pharoah is only going to kill them?” The men became very “flaccid.” The women, on the other hand, were brave. The dressed in their finest clothes, wore their finest make-up and perfumes, and went to the orchards. There, they beckoned the men to follow and be seduced. Under the orchards, they made love—as in the scroll we read on Passover, Song of Songs. The charoset, therefore, is made of sweet dates, figs, apples, and nuts—to remind us of the sweet love made under the orchards.

World Read Aloud Day

Last Wednesday night, a group of nine friends gathered at The Marlay House in Decatur to share selections from our favorite books and poems. The gathering was part of World Read Aloud Day, a global literacy awareness event organized by LitWorld. Our group that day was just a small part of the over 200,000 people in more than 58 countries celebrating the power of words. We read aloud to each other and talked about good books and authors.

Daniel R. read from Franz Kafka's The Trial
Mimi H. read from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's poem "Ulysses"
Rachael B. read Judith Viorst's poem "If I Were In Charge of the World"
Dan S. read from Roald Dahl's The BFG
Leah J. read from J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan

The selections were philosophical, whimsical, silly, heartfelt, funny, poignant--as varied as the readers themselves. World Read Aloud Day reminds us of the power of the written word to brighten the mind and the power of community to warm the heart.

"Israel for Dummies"

Israel for Dummies is a stipended six-week course that will educate 15 Jewish Emory students to become confident, effective Israel advocates. Organized by Danielle Eisenberg (B’13), Sarah Green (C’11), and Rebecca Friedman (C’14), the course will usher in a new cohort of Israel leaders at Emory. By attending a ninety-minute class every week, students will learn key dates and figures in Zionist and Israeli history, social issues in Israel, the history of the conflict, the peace process, the role of the media, issues of religion and state in Israel, and the relationship between Israel and America. The course is non-polemical and demonstrates mutuality—it presents unbiased facts and lets students develop their own opinions.

Israel for Dummies is unique in that it is not intended for your typical pro-Israel student leader. Rather, it is geared towards beginners, towards students who are just starting out on their Israel journey. The 15-member class is made-up of underclassmen, some of them current Taglit-Birthright Israel applicants or recent alums. These students are not yet involved in Israel activity on campus, have not traveled to Israel on a long-term or summer-long program, and haven’t taken any relevant Israel coursework at Emory.

“As the president of Emory Students for Israel, I have found that many students love Israel, but their lack of knowledge scares them from getting involved. I see this program as a great way to break down this barrier and increase the number of active pro-Israel students on Emory's campus.” – Sarah Green, co-president of Emory Students for Israel

The course is taught by educator Dotan Harpak. Dotan has had extensive experience as an Israel educator, including tenures at with the AVI CHAI Foundation and the Jewish Agency for Israel, as an Israel education specialist for the Union for Reform Judaism, and as the education director for URJ Henry S. Jacobs Camp. He is a candidate for an M.A. in Politics and Government from Ben Gurion University of the Negev, with thesis work on American-Jewish political discourse on Israel.

Students may bolster their in-class learning by simultaneously completing an optional online Israel advocacy course from Jerusalem Online University. Additionally, students are required to attend two campus lectures, events, or film screenings related to Israel. Students are incentivized to apply their stipend towards a summer 2011 Israel travel program, such as Livnot, Pardes, Amirim, Me’or, or others. At the end of the course, students are expected to make an enduring commitment to Israel advocacy on campus. For example, they might take a leadership role in Emory Students for Israel, EIPAC, or the Hillel Israel Committee, or take on an Israel-related internship, such as the Grinspoon Israel Advocacy Internship, CAMERA Fellowship, at the Consulate General of Israel to the Southeastern US, the Institute for the Study of Modern Israel, or the American-Israel Chamber of Commerce.

“I believe that Israel for Dummies is the perfect fit for a campus like Emory. It will not only educate Jewish students about Israel, but allow them to feel more comfortable discussing Israel in public and group settings. I hope that through this program, a greater feeling of connection to Israel will be spread through the student body.” – Danielle Eisenberg (B’13), Grinspoon Israel Advocacy Intern

This project is funded in part by the ICC Israel Advocacy Grant Project and supported by the AVI CHAI Foundation.

Parshat Vayakhel--Level Five Leadership and a Map of the Cosmos

World Read Aloud Day

Nearly 1 billion people entered the 21st century unable to read a book or sign their name. Imagine your world without words.

World Read Aloud Day raises awareness for global literacy. On Wednesday, March 9, we'll join thousands of people worldwide to celebrate the power of words and stories. Join us at Dancing Goats Coffee Bar in Decatur at 6:30. Bring with you a passage from a book that you have found meaningful or memorable. Be prepared to read aloud!

"Few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later - no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget - we will return." -Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Shadow of the Wind

Hazon Food Conference 2010

Originally posted on the Jewish Food Alliance Blog. Written by Mimi Hall, Director of Building Operations at the Marcus Hillel Center.

In December, I attended the Hazon Food Conference East at the Isabella Freedman Retreat Center in Falls Village, CT with the help of the Shearith Israel Community Supported Agriculture (CSA).

On Thursday December 9,  I arrived and missed the beginning of Vermicomposting and instead went to hear about “Growing Your CSA.”  This session opened my eyes further to potential membership communities, including the idea of targeting pre-schools in membership drives.  New mothers are really into nutrition...who better to join a group that supports local farms and delivers organic produce weekly to their neighborhood?  These CSAs have appeal not only to indie-types who want to eliminate steps between their consumption and the production of their food, but also new families yearning to feed themselves with delicious and nutritious produce. At this session I also met Jennifer from Houston who runs a CSA through her Jewish Community Center.  She, Naomi Rabkin and I were the extent of the Southern contingent at the conference.  Small and mighty, we started a conversation about the challenges that face our Southern communities - very different than those in the NE and California - one that I hope to continue now that we are back in our respective cities.

The CSA at Shearith Israel was founded in 2006 by Naomi and a core group of dedicated volunteers.  (CSAs are very cool and are popping up all over the U.S., Jewish and secular, that are a blog post all their own.  For more information please contact the Jewish Food Alliance.) I joined the Shearith CSA for the summer share in May 2010 and then stayed on for the fall share through November.  Not only did receiving new and different produce each week stretch my culinary ability and imagination but also allowed me to connect with other like-minded “foodie” types in my intown Atlanta community.

Thursday evening and Friday passed in a blur; I tried to get the most out of each session I attended.  Stacey Oshkello’s session on sprouting inspired me to seize an easy-ish opportunity to produce some of my food by sprouting my own almonds.  I went to an 8AM session on Friday about the national Food Policy.  Advocates presented on the array of policy issues from food stamps, to school nutrition to the production, distribution and subsidies of different foods.  Next I heard from Steven Wynbrant about his enormously successful experiment in creating an urban mini farm.  I wanted to bottle his energy and attach a spray nozzle.

After the last session on Friday - a walk around the lake where I met the famous Adamah Goats -  I noticed the grey of the sky darkening and the beginning of snow flurries as I hurried to get ready for a shockingly early 3:45 PM candlelighting to bring in the Sabbath.  The spiritual service challenged my prayer comfort zone, the Friday meal was wonderful and then we went into the evening program, a panel on the “State of the [Jewish Food] Movement.”

At the Friday night address Nigel Savage, Executive Director and Founder of Hazon, mentioned the teaching of Rabbi Simcha Bunam, a Hasidic master who taught that we should carry a scrap of paper in each pocket.  One that reads,  “The world was created for my sake” and in the other pocket a scrap that reads, “I am but dust and ashes.”  This balance between humility and the compulsion to make an impact came up throughout the conference and continue to pepper my thoughts.  When I question the impact of my turning off monitors around the Hillel building, I struggle with this issue.  When I encourage my friends to eat more consciously, I struggle with this issue.  When I wonder who will read a blog about my experience at a Jewish Food Conference, I struggle with this issue.  Following the panel, I voiced my cautious pessimism about the relevant impact of our individual actions to some new friends.  They gently but fervently reminded me that for every doubt that I have there are hundreds of grassroots organizations forming that support agents of change for communities worldwide, and thousands of people affecting change and therefore changing the world for the better.

Throughout the sessions I attended I learned about food. Obviously. But I also had numerous conversations related to challenges with growing, healthy Jewish communities and issues facing them. Examples: the growing relevance of accepting patrilineal descent, the impact of informal Jewish education, maintaining rituals versus sanctifying time.  These conversations, like mine with Jennifer about Southern CSAs are ones that I hope will continue into 2011. Shabbat concluded with the third meal, the seudah shlishit, where we were able to taste goat cholent.  The entire room was silent, thanking hashem, yes, for providing, but I would argue equal thanks were going toward the goat for giving its life and the loving souls who nurtured and then ended that life.

The conference re-energized and enforced for me the concept of mindfulness at mealtimes.  The “borei pri’s” aren’t necessarily my thing, but taking the time to think about what I am eating and how it got to my plate is something I can try to do before I consume.

Even with the best of intentions, at Sunday lunch when confronted with the yummiest burrito fixin’ line of my life, I didn’t hesitate to begin chowing down.   Check out me and Joelle Berman with the most satisfying burritos. Ever.

I am very grateful that I was able to be a part of an intentional, spiritual, Jewish community for even this brief conference.  I ask myself, “How can I take the best of this national movement and practically apply what I’m learning to my life and my home community?”  I know that personally I’d like to sprout some almonds and mungbeans, but what tangibly can I do beyond my own kitchen?

Neat things are already happening around local, organic food in Atlanta.  There are local co-housing, intentional communities, and excellent restaurants that emphasize locally raised protein and locally grown produce.  Neat things relating food and the Jewish community are also in the works.  The newly formed Jewish Food Alliance has untapped potential for bringing Jews together around food.  Disjointedly new Jewish mothers are signing up for secular farm-shares and CSAs.  Self-defined “foodies” are voting with their dollars and shopping at places like the Morningside Farmers’ Market and the Peachtree Road Market.  How can we unite these individuals in a new definition of Jewish community?

I want to play a role in defining Jewish, ethical consumption and in uniting southern Jews with the local food movement already rooted in Atlanta.  Can I support the founding of more congregational CSAs?Practically, what else can I do?

I’d like to participate and foster ‘greening’ our Jewish institutions in Atlanta – simple things like recycling (that has been around since before I was born!) still aren’t happening in every office at every Jewish agency.  I wonder... can I recruit my colleagues to become scrap-paper using and  “turning-out-light fairies” to lead within their institutions?  I question the feasibility of sustainable kashrut.  At Hillel my heart sighs every time we fill dozens of bags of trash from the one-time-use utensils necessary to maintain kashrus.  Can I find green dishwashing detergents and proper storage for china so that we can lessen our dependence on paper-goods and therefore lighten our environmental impact?  Can Hillel (reallyGoodfriend’s Grill at Ray’s Bistro) participate in Emory’s composting program?  I hope that my resolutions are feasible enough to hold and that Atlanta is ready and will welcome greening practices and access to yummy, organic food.

Click here to browse the complete schedule.  If you have questions about CSAs or about starting one in your community please comment below or contact the Jewish Food Alliance (in Atlanta) or Hazon (elswhere).

Mimi Hall is a resident of midtown Atlanta, a food lover and the Director of Building Operations at the Marcus Hillel Center at Emory University.