The Western Wall beckoned at the beginning of the new Hebrew month of Kislev, 5760.
I was studying at the Conservative Yeshiva for a month and residing at the Ratisbonne, a French Catholic monastery in the heart of downtown Jerusalem. My neighbor for the month was a sixty year old nun from South Africa named Trudy.
Although I had lived in Israel and visited there many times, I had never ventured into the Holy Sepulchre where the Tomb of Jesus resided. Trudy, who had been in Israel nine months, had never experienced the Western Wall, known in Israel as the Kotel. We made a deal on that rainy early morning in December that we would share each other’s holy places.
Trudy and I awoke before dawn and started the 30-minute walk to the Old City. We wanted to be present for the Rosh Chodesh morning prayers that are being sustained by the Women of the Wall, an organization of religiously and socially diverse women who come together once a month on the New Moon at the Western Wall. We reached the Kotel and immediately gazed at the gathering of women on the separated women’s section of the Western Wall. In lullaby hush tones we heard the singing and chanting of some sixty women. We drew closer to this monthly prayer circle. We lingered with them in a bittersweet prayer cocoon for twenty minutes. Like pregnant women getting ready to give birth, they packed their prayer books and the Sefer Torah (the Scroll that held the Five Books of Moses) in anticipation of their journey towards motherhood.
Since the religious municipality that governs the Wall prohibits women from chanting directly from the Sefer Torah’s scroll, the women journey half a mile to a more secluded and less public space known as Robinson’s arch.
The ancient space offered a stone carved table for our precious Sefer Torah. Several women unwrapped the scroll from a large blue duffel bag, and like a newborn baby, they placed her gently and lovingly on this changing table.
The rain turned sun reigned on us; the chatter turned silence shone inside. Trudy and I watched and waited for the next prayer chapter.
As the women prepared the sacred scroll for the reading, they asked if anyone would like to come up and receive an aliya, an honor.
I scanned the women’s faces, absorbed the question and hesitated before I answered. ”Yes, I would like an aliya.”
The woman standing next to me was wearing a special “Women of the Wall” tallit embroidered with the names of the four matriarchs on each corner.
“May I borrow your tallit for my aliya?” I asked this stranger pleading as I spoke.
“Yes, but of course,” came her quick unequivocal reply.
The tallit made my aliya complete. This slow holy motion moment remains in my memory.
I returned to my place next to Trudy and removed the tallit from my shoulders. I thanked this beautiful lady for her generosity.
“What a wonderful way to inaugurate my new tallit with your blessings. This is my first time wearing it. Thank you.”
“You are the blessing,” I said.
Sometimes what we need someone else has to give.
A few years back, the son of friends wore a green shirt to school on St. Patrick’s Day that said “Kiss Me, I’m Irish.” The response from his teachers, “You’re not Irish, you’re Jewish.”
To many people it might seem odd to think of Jews celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. But for Rabbi Sara O’Donnell Adler and many other Irish Jews or Jews of Irish decent, nothing seems more natural. Rabbi O’Donell Adler goes out of her way each year on St. Patrick’s Day to dress in green and wish everyone a happy holiday. Not a big fan of pubs or of corned beef (she is a vegetarian) she makes sure to call family members, send cards and share the luck of the Irish on this special day. O’Donell Adler was raised Jewish but her father was Irish Catholic. While she did not adopt his religion she is proud of her ethnic heritage. When she married Jeremy Adler, she could have dropped the O’Donnell and all the questions that come with it, but chose not too. On the contrary, she fought long and hard to make sure that the entire name was displayed prominently on her ID badge at the University of Michigan Hospitals where she is a chaplain. Does it cause confusion or negative comments? “No,” laughs O’Donnell Adler, on the contrary it is frequent positive conversation starter.
The Irish American longing for Ireland, is something that resonates strongly with Michal Morris Camille of Marin CA. Morris Camille was born in Israel but her father was born in Belfast. As a diplomat representing the government of Israel, the family lived all over the world but always saw Israel as home. Even as a representative of the Israeli government he was still seen as Irish and called on to sit in the grandstand at St. Patrick’s Day parades or judge Irish beauty contests.
In many ways, the American celebration of St. Patrick’s Day fits easily with Jewish life. Though it’s origins are clearly religious, St. Patrick’s Day as it is celebrated in the United States is a largely ethnic diasporic holiday, which helps those living at a distance affirm a commitment to homeland, that may exist only in realm of longing not in the realm of experience. The ability to gather and celebrate a common heritage, to recall the place from which one originates, is common to both Jews and Irish living outside their homelands. The broadening out of this particularistic ethnic celebration into the mainstream of American life provides a model for Jews as we continue to integrate into American life. So whether or not your roots lie in the Emerald Isle or elsewhere, happy St. Patrick’s Day.
The important thing is not how many separate injunctions are obeyed but how and in what spirit we obey them. -Baal Shem Tov
The purpose of the shiva minyan is to comfort the mourner.
Last week I was called upon to facilitate a shiva minyan for a woman whose brother had died in another city. Now that the mourner was back home, she wanted to complete her seven days of mourning with her own local community.
People poured in during the day, but as the seven o’clock evening hour approached, only a few people remained. So we waited for a minyan, the obligatory quorum of ten to be able to pray. When seven-thirty arrived, so did the tenth person.
I assessed the situation. Two Jews, two Hindus, two Baptists, two Evangelical Christians, one Catholic — and me, the rabbi.
Shiva is the most therapeutic of Jewish mourning rituals. It honors the journey of the bereaved by providing friends, family, and co-workers a proscribed setting in which to express their sympathies and condolences.
“‘Shiva’ means seven, the holy number of the days of creation and the number of days Jews withdraw from daily life to mourn a beloved,” I explained.
“Has anyone been to Jerusalem?” I asked, not knowing what the response would be.
“Oh, yes!” came the feedback. “Several times,” echoed the African American couple sitting directly across from me.
“As you might remember, there are seven open gates in the Old City. In ancient times, there were eleven gates, and the Temple in the ancient city of Jerusalem had a separate path set aside for the mourners. As the mourners came through this selected gate, they came face-to-face with other members of the community, and the people expressed the recognition of their loss by reciting this Hebrew verse.”
HaMakom y’nachem etkhem b’tokh sh’ar aveilei Tzion v’ Yrushalayim.
I had them repeat the words after me and focus on their friend who stood with a torn black ribbon on her jacket above her heart indicating externally her internal private grief.
We formed a circle around the mourner and recited the verse in unison.
May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
Suddenly and in harmony, we were all on the same page of the heart. We have all traveled on the same path of loss and bereavement. Language was not the barrier. Faith traditions didn’t separate us from the realities of life and death. How easy it is to create a sacred comforting space among our diversities.