Peace and Wholeness in Yerushalayim

The title of this post likely implies more insight than you are about to encounter, but two things have happened this past week that have led me to write this: (1) a friend requested that I talk more about my daily experiences and (2) I saw two shows that made me think differently about living in Jerusalem. (Warning: this post contains information on the new Batman movie, so if you haven’t seen it, wait till later to read!)

Many of you know that on Tuesday, July 22, a man driving a tractor purposely reeled into oncoming traffic. Several people were injured; thankfully no one was killed. All of the students in my HUC class are physically safe, though a few were near the location of the incident. We are all taking care of one another and being cautious.

I’m not telling you this to alarm you (let me stress: I am doing absolutely fine, and the city nearly immediately returned to all its normal functions) but to give a sense of what it is like to live in a place that does face frequent violence and constant tension between extreme factions, each of which believes the other has no right to exist.

So in the midst of “Arab” versus “Jew,” I did what any sane person would do: I went to see some drama.

Last Saturday, after Shabbat ended, several friends and I walked over to Beit Shmuel, a center for Progressive Judaism (Reform movement worldwide) here in Ir HaKodesh, the holy city. Sitting comfortably in our cushy seats in a perfectly air-conditioned theater, we laughed when the curtain rose and five drag queens posed in outlandish outfits. Calling themselves “Peot Kedushot”—“Holy Wigs” or “Holy Curls”—these gay-identified men of various ages lip-synched and sang a range of songs, from Israeli pop to American musical.

It was in many ways a typical drag show: much posing, lots of makeup, gorgeous legs, and catty jokes (at least, I think they were catty jokes: the entire show was in Hebrew). But in other ways this show was nothing but typical: just a few roads away from the walls of the Old City, Peot Kedushot challenged many laws, rules, and expectations in this city driven by a conservative,even ultra-orthodox, interpretation of Jewish law (which includes injunctions against both cross-dressing and homosexuality). Graffiti around the city announces “Homosexuals very dangerous for children” and “Homo=goy” (that is, non-Jew). Enter Peot Kedushot. In a medley of songs from Sister Act, a nun, an Orthodox Jewish woman, and an observant Muslim woman sang praises to their respective gods and viewed the others’ piety with skepticism and sometimes anger. In an aside, one performer informed the audience that there are three religions in Jerusalem: Yahadut, Islam, v’piguya—Judaism, Islam, and terror attack. But it was the finale that left us in awe, amazement, and admiration.

A spotlight shines on one performer. “She” removes her wig; a bald head reminds us that this person with glittery red lips and full breasts is a man. Another performer enters and the spotlight moves to her; she is wearing a leotard and tights, his smooth body hiding his gender. A third performer: fishnet stockings, a half-leotard, bare chest, smeared make-up. He was a glamorous woman, and he is a middle-aged man. A fourth: tight shorts and a bra that is soon removed, little makeup. He no longer looks like a ballerina, though his skills en pointe were certainly impressive. The final performer, perhapsthe most “feminine” of the group, the one who achieved the most “realness”: boxer-briefs, bare legs and feet, no makeup whatsoever. A cute boy—young and fresh-faced. They stand in a row at the edge of the stage, defiant faces, a fire in their eyes. “I am still a man,” they sing.

A few nights later, I joined more than half of my classmates at Jerusalem’s largest shopping mall to see the new Batman movie. For the most part, I found it entertaining in that easy, action-movie way: just sit back and watch the good guys clobber the bad guys. But I was also watching in Jerusalem, and sitting with my classmates, some of whom are having a particularly hard time adjusting to life in a city that is, underneath its resilience, on edge. In one crucial scene, two ferries –assumed safe—carry people out of Gotham City, where the Joker has threatened death and destruction. Then the Joker’s voice announces that each boat is rigged with explosives. One ferry, loaded with criminals from Gotham’s prison, has the detonator for the other ferry, loaded with innocent men, women, and children—and vice versa. At midnight, the Joker says, he will blow up both ferries, no matter what. But if the people on one ferry decide to detonate the other, the Joker will let the passengers on the first ferry live. It’s a classic “prisoner’s dilemma.” The ferries cannot communicate with one another, and they have to ask themselves: What will the others do? Shall we all die together, or do we save ourselves?

Several arguments are put forth, and the civilian ferry puts it to a vote, coming down in favor of blowing up the prisoners. On the prisoners’ boat, a riot is about to erupt. In the end, one of the civilians holds the detonator in his hand but ultimately cannot bring himself to press the button. A tough criminal approaches a police officer on the other ferry and quietly demands the detonator so that he can “do what should have been done” already. The audience expects him, of course, to blow up the civilians. Instead, he throws the detonator out into the water.

It wasn’t the dilemma itself that made me think about Jerusalem and terror attacks and heated conflicts. After the criminal tosses out the detonator, clearly making the moral and ethical choice, a few audience members at the Jerusalem mall clapped. I don’t know who they were or whether they were politically conservative or liberal, but these residents of a city under seige cheered for doing the right thing.

Jerusalem is a confusing place, maddening even. It is beautiful and familiar and strange and ugly. There is homophobia and there is a gay community center. There are ultra-orthodox communities who angrily force outsiders to leave and there are welcoming progressive Jewish synagogues. My prayer for this year is that I will get to know Jerusalem in all its layers and complexities, beneath its wigs and costumes, to come to know the true character of its people: people who long for wholeness and for peace.

That These Things Never End

This Friday evening at sunset, I gathered with a crowd of hundreds of Israelis and tourists at the modern pier of Tel Aviv to pray and “l’kabel et haShabbat”—to welcome the Sabbath. Shabbat binds together the Divine and the human. The sun sets and time turns the sixth day into the seventh without our intervention, but it is our intention to “remember” and “keep” Shabbat that confirms the holiness of this day of rest.

On a soft, wooden pier that sloped up and down like gentle hills, we sang Psalms and folk songs not only to mark the time of transition between mundane and holy but actively to invite Shabbat into our lives. We did so with the time-tested words of the siddur (prayer book) and with twentieth- and twenty-first-century songs and poems, including Hannah Senesch’s “To Caesaria”:

Eli, Eli
Shelo yigamer le'olam:
Hachol vehayam
Rishrush shel hamayim
Berak hashamayim
Tefilat ha'adam

My God, My God
May these things never end:
The sand and the sea
The rustle of the water
The lightning in the sky
The prayer of humankind

A haunting melody made by our voices, the rich sound of the cello, and the gentle taps of a drum was replaced, as we finished our singing, with the rush of the waves of the Mediterranean, a sea that somehow feels far more vast and open and daunting and amazing at the long shoreline of Israel. The waves ebbing and flowing paid no attention to the rhythm of our Psalms and petitions, but kept crashing against the pier, spraying us. Inevitably.

This morning, as I was still thinking about the perpetually moving sea, I received an email from a friend I have had since the age of ten. Her brother has cancer, and the prognosis is disheartening. As he nears what is likely the end of his life, both he and his family are struggling with their complex, churning feelings. My friend wrote, “I am taking my life and my brother’s illness one day at a time, because I know that is all I can do.” She is not happy that her brother is ill, but she accepts that he is and seeks out opportunities to be with him in ways that enrich and sustain them both.

On Shabbat, I stopped the flow of my work week, breathed in the salt air, and watched a mundane afternoon turn into a holy evening. But the rhythm of this world also continued: my friend tried to find ways to both worry for her brother and wish for peacefulness for him. These things never end: illness, grief, joy, the care of a friend.

We invite Shabbat for many reasons, among them the desire for rest, in imitation of God’s resting after the work of creation. But the prayers we offer to usher in the Sabbath also indicate that we are cared for, that these prayers are in some way accepted, received, welcomed.

“Kabbalat” is about an active welcoming, but the root “kabal” also means to accept. Perhaps prayer can serve as an interruption to the waves that never end. Perhaps it can serve as a comforting reminder that the waves never end.

Immersion

“Baruch atah, HaShem, Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, asher kideshanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu al ha'tevillah.”

The teacher doesn’t speak English. Ever. Our Ulpan consists of learning Hebrew in Hebrew. I feel like I am drowning, and I know I am standing in a mere puddle.

Learning the Hebrew language, as several HUC professors have promised our incoming class, will be the key to unlocking the beauty and richness of Jewish tradition. I began studying Hebrew just last year, first in a short, relatively informal course on Biblical Hebrew and then in a frantically focused course in Modern Hebrew with one goal in mind: passing the HUC Hebrew proficiency exam. I passed, with flying colors no less, but I did not immerse myself in the sounds and the rhythms of Hebrew. In fact, I did just the opposite of what traditional Jewish learning calls for: I buried my nose in a book, turned only to reading and writing, and ignored the physical and the communal. We spoke little in class and I didn’t seek out opportunities to listen to Hebrew as an everyday language.

Now I am called to immerse myself in Hebrew, both inside the classroom and in the ocean of language that is Jerusalem: the crowded covered lanes of the shuk on a Friday morning, when everyone is preparing for Shabbat dinner; the noisy bar in the German Colony where young people from all over the world drink and play and converse in cadences I have yet to grasp; the Israeli radio station with its eclectic mix of world music and politically sharp lyrics; the home of a Jerusalemite family who invites HUC students to lively Shabbat dinners. And the classroom, where the questions and the answers are in a modern language that reaches back to an ancient past.

I was drowning, and then I thought about immersion.

In Hebrew, there the verb root “taval” means “ to immerse.” In the ritual of tevillah (literally “an immersing” or “immersion”), Jews visit the mikveh (ritual bath) each week in preparation for Shabbat. One practices tevillah before entering marriage and upon converting to Judaism, among other purposes for the mikveh. It is a ritual of purification and a means of marking the transition between one state and another, between one point in time and another, between stages of life.

But there is also “tavah”: “to drown” or “to sink.”

This week, I have feared drowning, and it led me to fear the immersion itself. But “tavah” also means “to seal,” “to imprint,” or “to stamp.”

In the mikveh, the body falls beneath the surface. Floating, we are surrounded by mayim chayim, living waters, flowing from a natural source and gathering into a pool that can embrace us in our entirety. I want my Hebrew study to be an immersion that changes me, brings me from one state to another, from the mundane to the holy. An immersion need not be a drowning, but we cannot be imprinted, affected by Hebrew, without at least getting into the water.

“Blessed are you, HaShem (The Name), our god, sovereign of the universe, who makes us holy with his mitzvot and commands us concerning the immersion.”

Inside Out

July 15, 2008. My mother told me a few days ago that, while I was a bright child—reading at age three and loving school from the very first day—I have always been anxious about academic transitions. On the first day of first grade, my mother reports, I said worriedly, “But I don’t know that grade.”

Orientation begins tonight, and intensive Hebrew class (Ulpan) begins Sunday. I don’t know this grade, either, but my academic style has changed much since the age of six. I love school and I am confident in my academic ability. But this is a different kind of schooling, one that asks not only for intellectual mastery and growth but for spiritual exploration and personal development, for an expansion of head and heart.

In Hebrew, mind and heart are conveyed by one word, “lev.” A perpetual student like me needs to be reminded that the mind cannot guide the body alone; the heart must be deeply involved in any endeavor, and it is particularly necessary on the path to becoming a compassionate, effective,and knowledgeable rabbi. How do we locate the place of “lev,” of heart and mind together?

This past Erev Shabbat (Friday night, the Eve of the Sabbath), the incoming HUC students gathered in the Jerusalem residence of the College President, Rabbi David Ellenson. He shared with us some words of Jewish philosopher Franz Rosenzweig. Rosenzweig called for “[a] learning that no longer starts from the Torah and leads into life, but the other way round: from life, from a world that knows nothing of the Law, or pretends to know nothing, back to the Torah” – a path “[f]rom the periphery back to the center; from the outside, in.”

Who is an outsider? For Rosenzweig, the outsider is the Jew in the modern world, and what is required of that Jew is “a new sort of learning. A learning for which—in these days—he is the most apt who brings with him the maximum of what is alien. That is to say, not the man specializing in Jewish matters; or, if he happens to be such a specialist, he will succeed, not in the capacity of a specialist, but only as one who, too, is alienated, as one who is groping his way home.”

Groping my way through the crowded alleyways and covered markets of the Old City of Jerusalem, I entered the Church of the Holy Sepulchure, arguably the holiest site in Christianity, the place of the crucifixion and burial of Jesus. In the back of my mind, I had always known about this place, and considered the possibility of coming here one day. I never imagined the manner of my visit, the reason for my presence in Jerusalem.

It was strange, I admit, to look at the oil lamps, the crucifixes, the altars, and the intricate mosaics, as an observer, decidedly not a pilgrim. I respected the sanctity of the Church for Christians, stepping as quietly as possible and taking photographs only where permitted. My inside and my outside turned around on themselves like a Mobius strip: the inside of childhood piety now the outsider status of the convert; the outside appearing like a casual tourist mixed with the “inside” knowledge gained from Catholic school; the feeling inside of wanting to share this experience with my faithfully Catholic family and the feeling inside of contentment at being a Jew in Jerusalem.

Rabbi Ellenson in part offered us Rosenzweig’s words to warn us against measuring ourselves only against an academic set of standards, against worrying that those students with “Jewish degrees” somehow have an advantage over the rest of us, against assuming that an ivy-league degree and strong academic ability will be all HUC requires of us. The learning I am about to engage in is the learning of the “lev,” the heart-mind—the kind of learning that requires us each, whether raised Catholic or Jewish, whether perpetually constant in our faith or spiritual seekers, to approach the study of Judaism, Jewish history, Jewish religious law, and Jewish practice from the outside.

Learning from the outside cannot be the disinterested, dispassionate, cold observation of the scientist, but must be, as Rosenzweig urges, a “groping [our] way home.” Home: Jerusalem, Israel, the Diaspora, North America, Judaism, the synagogue, the Jewish people, Jewish text, tradition-based Jewish knowledge, compassion, open-mindedness (and open ears), and the family, too.

Shehecheyanu

I’m not a mystical person, but I definitely expected my entrance into Jerusalem to be moving. If I cry watching commercials, shouldn’t I cry as I enter one of the world’s most ancient—and yet still vibrant—cities, the holiest place of several major world religions, including the religion of my childhood and the religion not only of my present and future but of my future life’s work and calling?

We got off the plane in Tel Aviv at 5:30 in the morning. No one sang when the plane landed. Waiting in line to pass through customs, pushing our way into a shared-ride taxi to Jerusalem, and chatting with the young Orthodox woman next to me (37 years old, 11 children, and a very narrow idea of how one can, must, be Jewish) didn’t exactly stir my soul.

And then it was several days of climate problems: dehydration, loss of appetite, resulting hunger. I felt uncomfortable and out of place. My physical sensations led me to think I shouldn’t be here, I don’t belong, I am not ready for this.

I drank more bottles of water than I can count. I started to feel better. I put up some familiar objects in my new bedroom. I ate. I explored the shuk (outdoor market) in the safety of a group of students and our very able interns. Things started to look up. Shabbat services at Hebrew Union College and an engaging lecture by Dean Rabbi Michael Marmer and President Rabbi David Ellenson reminded me why I am here, and the amazing privilege I have to be studying here, with these people and at this instution.

But today was the first day I felt moved to really pray in thanksgiving and awe—and I mean that in the literal sense of the word—at being here, at this time, in this place: Jerusalem, 2008, nearly a year from my (adult) bat mitzvah and just four years after taking the Torah scroll in my arms and receiving my Hebrew name.

I stood at the Western Wall, surrounded by women, divided from the men by a barrier (mechitza) I thought would dominate my thoughts and interrupt my experience. The plaza is broad and expansive, with smooth light stones. The sun beat down on us, still hot at 4:30 in the afternoon. A few bookshelves lined with prayerbooks stood at the edges; some women sat in chairs, praying quietly near the wall or waiting for friends and family.

Many women approached the wall with fervor, davening (praying) with the traditional swaying motion or pressing their foreheads to the warm stones. Others backed away from the wall when they were finished, refusing to turn their faces on the Presence, the manifestation of God that some believe exists here.

As I approached the pocked stones, I was not overcome by a wave of mystical emotion. I didn’t have any visions. I’m not sure I even felt what these other women sensed as the Presence.

But I was stirred.

Here, between stones rubbed by countless hands for thousands of years, the sincerest prayers were deposited, written on scraps of paper, folded or rolled and tucked carefully into the cracks between the stones. This place marks an interface between the human and the Divine. Some of the prayers may be mundane, but whatever their content, I saw them today as the hopefullness of humans, the potential for religion to act not as a mechitza but as a way to relate: to one another and to the divine. The wall motivates a literal and a spiritual reaching out, as pilgrims hold out their arms to the stones, contemplate their own lives and histories, or pray in the words of their traditions.

I put my hands to the stones, thinking about all the others who had been here before me, praying in thanksgiving or in anguish, making supplications or simply standing in a crucial site in history. I forgot about the mechitza and instead found myself in tears: not fearful tears or sad tears or homesick tears, but tears of real gratitude, in the words of the traditional blessing, for having been enlivened, sustained, and enabled to reach this very moment.

I stood in front of the holiest earthly site for the Jewish people as one individual among many, not standing out, yet I brought with me my entire history. In this place, all prayers are accepted into the cracks between the stones, including the prayers of a grateful convert/future rabbi.

Go Forth

Before we even know anything about Avram, the man who will become Avraham the Patriarch, we learn about God’s command: “Go forth [or, get yourself going] from your land and from your birthplace and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you” (Bereshit 12: 1). In this land, Avram will become “a great nation,” blessed, and a blessing to all peoples (12:2-3). Avram did not hesitate but “went forth as God had commanded him” (12:4).

By no means am I Avram. But I’ve been thinking about him often as I pack up my belongings and fly to Israel. What does it mean to go forth, to leave your land, your birthplace, your father’s house?

While I’m hesitant and apprehensive and anxious, I am perfectly willing to go forth to a new land, to live by a Jewish rhythm under a Jewish calendar, to immerse myself in the Hebrew language, to learn new customs and explore the beauty of Jerusalem, an ancient city with a vibrant, modern life. I’m perfectly willing to leave Brooklyn (my land)—for a time—and travel around Israel, walking on the land of the Tanakh (Jewish Bible), climbing the high points, floating in Yam HaMelach (the Dead Sea).

But leaving my birthplace, leaving my father’s house… ?

My Dad jokes that I’ve converted in more ways than one: lesbian, Jew, New Yorker. As long as I don’t become a Yankees fan, though, I haven’t traveled too far.

I left my birthplace a few times, depending on how you count it. The night before I started college, just twenty minutes from my childhood home, I felt like I was leaving my birthplace forever. And when I moved from the Boston area to Washington, DC, I learned to live outside New England, away from the familiar accent, the good pizza dough in the supermarket, the cobblestone streets and Colonial history. Then I moved to New York, to Brooklyn, and found a new land that began, quickly, to feel like home, hopefully the birthplace of some future Kramer-DeBlosi children.

Maybe leaving my father’s house simply means making a house of my own, creating an adult life. I did this years ago, Rachel and I confirmed it in 2004 when we met under the chupah and committed ourselves to establishing our own Jewish home.

But, when you’re a convert to Judaism, the notion of leaving “your birthplace and your father’s house” is more complicated than striking out on your own to live in a different building, in a different city.

For Avram, leaving his father’s house meant moving, sure, but it also meant leaving the religion of his family—a religion he was skeptical of all along, say the Sages. For Avram, that leaving was seemingly simple, as easy as smashing the powerless idols sold in his father’s store, gods of wood and stone who cannot see, cannot hear, cannot smell, cannot eat.

When I left the religion of my family, I did not do it with the simplistic surety that my parents are wrong and I am right, that their Christianity is tantamount to bowing to false idols while my Judaism is Truth. For me, Judaism is true and right; it enriches my life and provides me with a way to connect to others, to challenge myself to live ethically, to experience joy and wonder and gratitude. But I never want to imply that, in becoming Jewish, I have smashed the religion of my parents into so many splinters, so much dust. I left, yes—completely, sincerely. But I left as an individual, and my family continues to practice Christianity, completely, sincerely.

As I leave my land, my birthplace, and my father’s house—places one never leaves completely and leaves over and over again—I want to think about this going forth as a continuing challenge to learn the meaning of and eventually to enact the call God made to Avram: to be a source of blessing for all peoples. It’s not an abandonment but a crossing. Avram is, after all, “Avram Ha-Ivri,” Avram the Hebrew, the one who crosses over to a new land, a new way of life. I hope to do so without cutting off the past, to do so as an act of connection.