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

Click thumbnail to view album...

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.”