The Hidden Cave

If you’re sick of reading about contradictions and tensions and thought-provoking juxtapositions, you might want to visit another blog. Today, we began our Israel Seminar, a year-long exploration of Jewish and Israeli society, culture, and identity that will include both text and field study. The course will examine the stated and unstated aims of Zionism and the tensions inherent in actualizing those aims in Israel, given its complicated history and vastly diverse population. The course will also give us an opportunity to consider how we will teach about Israel, Israeli identity, and the relationship between Jews and this land when we are serving in congregations (or elsewhere) some day.

“Tale tale is told of an old man,” we read in S.Y. Agnon’s “Fable of the Goat,” “who groaned from his heart.” The only thing that comforted the sickly man was the amazingly sweet milk of a goat that he had bought and raised in his home. Curious as to why she provided “milk that was sweeter than honey and whose taste was the taste of Eden,” the man remarked to his son that he would like to know the daily whereabouts of the goat. The son willingly investigates, devising a complicated scheme to follow the goat and discover the origins of the Edenic milk.

What does he find? The goat leads him through a cave; the journey took “an hour or two, or maybe even a day or two.” And the young man found himself near “lofty mountains, and hills full of the choicest fruit, and a fountain of living waters”—a veritable Eden, a Paradise. And he asked some people there for the name of the beautiful place. They replied, “The Land of Israel.”

The story progresses, with gorgeous references to Biblical texts and other Jewish literature, in perhaps an unexpected direction, with the son remaining in Israel and attempting, in a very indirect way, to bring his parents there, too. He hides a note about his experience in the goat’s ear and sends her on her way. But the father does not find the note, and assumes his beloved son is dead, and mourns and weeps, and eventually, because he can no longer bear the sight of the goat who reminds him of his son, slaughters the goat.

And of course he finds the note. But the goat is dead and she cannot lead him to the cave. The weeping father mourns a triple loss: the goat with her comforting milk, his beloved and irreplaceable son, and a missed opportunity to enter the Land of Israel.

“Since that time,” Agnon writes, “the mouth of the cave has been hidden from the eye, and there is no longer a short way.”

For me, this year is an opportunity to find a way into Israel—not a short way, and along many hidden paths, through caves that will require me to grope in the dark, to squeeze through narrow passages. But these will be caves that will also reveal unknown beauty beneath the surface, great, expansive halls of stone carved by the mere action of water and time. I am willing to take the long way, and I am willing, too, to look for the hidden mouth of the cave.

And when I emerge, what Land of Israel will I discover? Will I be in Eden? Is Israel a Paradise? Should Israel be a Paradise? Can Israel be made a Paradise by human action, through tikkun olam, the repair of the world? Or will be Israel become a Paradise only through the intervention and will of God?

These are questions, I am learning, that have occupied Jews since the days of the Babylonian Exile—questions that lay beneath the rhetoric of early Zionists, questions that continue to spark controversy and argument between secular Israelis and ultra-Orthodox Jews who lament the existence of an Israeli nation-state.

For me, and hopefully for the Jewish people I will serve as a rabbi, the relationship between Jews (and I mean, of course, Jews of all kinds) and the Land of Israel is an ever-unfolding one. It has never been static, and I am grateful for that complexity, that movement, that layering. I am not sure whether this place is essential to my soul as a Jew, but I do know that, once you’ve tasted the sweet milk of Torah, ancient history, and Jewish rhythm that flows uniquely in and from this place, you want to know more about its source.

Hachnasat Orchim

Tzfat sits atop a hill with magnificent views of the Kinneret (the Sea of Galilee). Home to spiritual seekers, artists, and students of Jewish mysticism (Kabbalah), her narrow, winding streets are dotted with galleries and synagogues, ultra-Orthodox day schools and meditation studios. She is also home to a family who taught me about the mitzvah of hachnasat orchim, welcoming guests.

As a Reform Jew and a lesbian, I was a bit nervous about spending a Shabbat unlike any other I had celebrated: Avraham and Talie are baalei tshuva, Jews who turned to a more traditionally observant lifestyle (relatively) later in life. Their home is strictly Kosher and they observe the Jewish laws against touching the opposite sex. Would Shabbat in their home feel foreign to me? Would I, as a woman, feel excluded from the prayer experience?

From the moment of my arrival, I knew I had to remain open to this Shabbat experience, forgetting my anxiety about fitting in or offending anyone or feeling singled out. Avraham and Talie welcomed me with bright smiles and an easy manner, considering me a family member (Avraham is my wife’s cousin). Their children included me in their games (giving me a chance to practice my Hebrew). Their (almost) four-year-old daughter patiently taught me new Hebrew words and switched from English to Hebrew frequently.

After Talie and I lit our Shabbat candles, Avraham led me to a local shul for Kabbalat Shabbat services. Concerned about my expectations for that evening’s prayers, he reminded me on the way that whatever shul we chose would have a mechitza. He made sure I was comfortable and went in the front door; I entered the back door to find myself in a tiny room divided by a thin lace curtain. The Ark of the Torah and the men’s section were clearly visible from the women’s section. Opening the siddur I had brought from home, I easily found my place in the service. As the psalms for welcoming the Sabbath began, I noticed that many of the women sang as loudly as the men. No one scolded them or asked them to be quiet: our voices joined together, men and women, singing joyously, “How great are your works, God, and how profound your thoughts!” Swaying a bit to the lively tune, I suddenly felt an arm around my back; the group of girls dancing next to me included me in their celebration and we danced together, jumping and swaying. I returned to Avraham and Talie’s house for dinner feeling lifted.

Avraham blessed the wine and the bread with sincerity, using the words of tradition but the melody of his own heart. Throughout the dinner, Avraham commented on the week’s Torah portion and the new month about to begin (Elul, a period of intense preparation for the High Holy Days). Denominational differences mattered less than similarities in terms of our thoughtfulness in approaching prayer and Torah. We related to God and tradition by relating to one another, reading texts and discussing them frankly. During Saturday lunch, Avraham and Talie welcomed more guests to the table: other baalei tshuva with slightly hippie leanings and two American women visiting Tzfat on a community service program. My status as a convert did not alienate me from the group; I was viewed as simply another kind of seeker, and our conversation was lively, friendly, and interesting. No one blinked an eye (at least, they didn’t show it) when I referred to Rachel as my “wife,” and I received much sympathy about our living apart for the year.

Praying and singing, studying and napping, playing with the kids and praying the morning blessings with Talie and their five-year-old son in the living room, I enjoyed a Shabbat of rest, meditation, reflection, and family. Together we went for a late afternoon walk through the old city, meeting up with a group of women and their children while the men went to pray the afternoon service. Talie introduced me to her friends and one invited us to Seudat Shlishit, the third meal of the Sabbath. And then my Shabbat was unexpectedly interrupted.

Wanting not to stand out and wishing to be counted as a married woman, I covered my hair when I was in Tzfat. I hadn’t thought about the simple question that would follow: Where is your husband? I tried to answer indirectly without lying or denying my relationship with Rachel, but eventually, sad about missing Rachel and frustrated with my own choice to mark myself clearly as married, I blurted the word “wife.” The woman’s face betrayed her disgust and she told me that, while I was still welcome to share the meal in her home, I could not discuss this in front of her children. I stammered that I needed her, then, not to ask me about my family life so that I would not have to lie. She walked away and I was left feeling foolish and sad. I missed Rachel and I immediately thought about how difficult a year apart will be. And I began to cry but tried to hide my tears.

Talie, of course, noticed my distress. When I explained to her what had happened, she did not hesitate but immediately embraced me and apologized. As a host, she felt responsible for my well-being, and she apologized (unnecessarily) for not discussing this with her friends before I visited. We both learned about assumptions.

I want to emphasize that I am not angry with the woman for saying her piece or at my hosts. I would not have wanted to be a topic of some kind of “warning.” This is not about my being “right” and the woman being “wrong.” The crux of my experience was not feeling left out or insulted but, rather, feeling cared for and included by Rachel’s family. They treated me quite simply as a person. We returned to their home for Seudat Shlishit and my tears were received with understanding, despite the very different relationship they have to Jewish law (which of course includes injunctions against homosexuality).

At the table, Avraham opened a book of stories by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach and asked me to choose and read one. I began to read about hosts and guests, and about the special taste of simple food prepared with love. Overcome with emotion, I had to hand the book to Avraham, who continued to read a story about profound generosity. We heard many tales that night: stories chosen supposedly at random but that spoke to our experience—stories about choosing a Jewish life and about connecting to the divine through human relationships. Talie and I cried, I think in joy and gratitude, and Avraham paused after each story to sigh in amazement at the way the tales fit our own paths.

People seek out Tzfat for inspiration and learning, for an emotional and not only an intellectual connection to Judaism. On that hill I found a new way to relate to a different kind of Judaism. I was opened to the complexity of the Jewish people, and to the meaning of hachnasat orchim.

Separations

It wasn’t my first trip to the Western Wall, but it was my first time there in a huge crowd. I didn’t make it all the way to the actual stones; hundreds of women crowded together, praying silently. They brought their children with them, far past bedtime, to sit in chairs or simply on the ground in the plaza. They read from the book of Lamentations, swaying to the rhythm of their own reflections.

On the fast day of Tisha B’Av, Jews commemorate (and some very much mourn) the destruction of the Temple and other calamaties. In Israel, many travel to Jerusalem, to the Kotel, considered a remnant of the ancient Temple (though in reality a retaining wall, part of the entrance to the Temple area but not originally part of the Temple itself).

A group of HUC students walked down into the valley and up again to Mount Zion to observe and to participate. On our way, as we sang psalms about Jerusalem and the Babylonian Exile, a faculty member pointed out a few interesting aspects of Israeli custom at the Kotel on Tisha B’Av. He called the holiday a combination of mourning and reuniting; people who haven’t seen each other in months run into one another at the Kotel and rejoice at the reunion, only to continue on to recite the heart-wrenching words of Lamentations. We would hear different melodies for chanting these verses, he told us, Jewish melodies from all over the world.

But, of course, I heard no melodies.

Large dividers cut the plaza in two. On one side, men. On the other, women and children.

It’s called a mechitza, and its function is to separate.

The word “mechitza” does not come from the Hebrew word for “division” but from the word “half.” But that night, as on all other nights and all other days since just a few decades ago when extremist notions took hold, the plaza was not split in half, not evenly. The smaller women’s side had been expanded for the holiday, but it was still overflowing with women, girls, strollers, infants, toddlers napping and crying and asking questions. On the men’s side, there was room to walk without tripping, an opportunity to make it to the Kotel without being separated from your friends, to approach this relic of Jewish history in a group.

And there was another important inequality: the melodies.

Certain Jewish traditions claim that women distract men from prayer, that our voices draw men down from thoughts of the spiritual to a baser level. So women do not pray aloud at the Kotel. No haunting melodies for Lamentations, no wailing nigunim (wordless tunes). On the men’s side, individuals chanting aloud and groups singing together—people praying in the Jewish way of praying: collectively.

I pushed my way back through the crowds to the section of the plaza farthest from the Wall itself and searched for my friends. They had forlorn faces, furrowed brows. Our male classmates were still down by the Kotel, perhaps observing, perhaps participating. We slowly made our way toward the mechitza to hear some of the melodies, faintly, and to simply look. Tears came, and words of anger.

I don’t know if I can explain that feeling of separation. For me, the injustice of this separation stems not (or not only) from the division of men from women but from the purported reasons. To argue that women distract men from prayer is to link women always, only, and irrevocably with the erotic and the sexual. Women tempt men, and so they cannot be seen or heard, lest they lead men away from the task of prayer. This way of thinking refuses to acknowledge women as full and complex human beings, reduces us to the instinctual. I cannot pray aloud at the wall because my voice would not be heard as one of prayer but as one of seduction.

I stood next to the mechitza and I thought about walls—to keep people in and to keep people out. And I thought back to just a few weeks before, Erev Shabbat, which we celebrated just around the corner from the Kotel, on the southern side of the Temple Mount. There, a group of men and women joined to pray old and modern words. As we concluded, we read aloud about Israel and its place in the world as “the dawning of hope for all who seek peace.”

Hope and peace, I read, and as I looked out from the spot that once represented an entrance to the Temple, a place to come near to what is holy, I saw a wall.

Curving like a snake from the horizon where the desert begins, cutting along the line of the valley and beneath the shadow of green hills, the Wall of Separation divides East from West, Muslim from Jewish. Does it mark, too, a line across which certain voices must not be heard?

I admit I have much to learn about Jersualem, about Israel, about separations and connections and divisions and communities. But I know, for now, how it felt to declare “the dawning of hope” with that imposing wall in plain sight. I know, too, how it felt to face the dark and silent night isolated from the community of the Jewish people, barred from voicing the words of tradition. Little hope, little peace.

But the small kehillah of my female classmates, huddled together at the back of the plaza, alternately teary-eyed and firey-eyed, reminds me that walls can be furnished with gates and windows and doors; they can be climbed with ladders and ropes; they can be relocated to encompass more territory; they can be torn down.