Nine months ago I opened the front door of my apartment in Alon Shvut and took a 20-minute walk that began to change my life. My wife asked me to reconsider—it might be dangerous, she said—but I went anyway. My heart beat just a little bit faster than usual as I walked through the Arab fields and vineyards that surround my home in the Judean Hills.
Just a few days earlier I had sat in my living room with a Protestant pastor from the US who had come to the Holy Land in order to meet Palestinians, meet Israeli settlers, and then introduce them to each other. He listened to my story of biblical Zionism and of passionate connection to the rebuilding of Jewish life in the biblical heartland. He heard of my identification with our forefather Abraham, with Isaac and Jacob and with the whole panorama of Jewish history—and then he invited me to a little gathering on a Palestinian farm plot at where Palestinians and Israeli settlers might be able to begin to get to know each other.
Never before had I met a Palestinian as an equal, never before had I socialized with one or broken bread with one. I knew nothing about them. We live so close to each other, and yet we are so far apart.
For us the Palestinians are the consummate other. The other that you ignore, that you never see. The other that you would never give a ride to, the other that you would never invite into your home. The other from whom you are completely distant, the other of whom you are thoroughly suspicious.
For 3 hours or more I chatted with them and ate with them. I looked into their faces from up close, and saw—despite my prejudices—human faces. And I heard stories that were so different from my stories, stories that created strange unfamiliar narratives from the same building blocks as my own narrative, but which I could not reject out of hand. The stories I heard—of deep connection to the land, of exile, of suffering, of humiliation, of loved one lost in the conflict—were authentic and they were real. Never before had I heard such stories. And they affected me deeply.
One Palestinian man—who turned out to be a very close neighbor, except that a very high chain link fence separates between our homes—told me of the fear evoked in the hearts of his children when they saw a settler with a big kipa and long beard like mine. I didn’t get it, until he explained that the kipa and beard were often accompanied by a rifle. And then I began to understand. I blurted out to him, “You say that you are afraid of us? No, we are afraid of you!”
As it began to get dark and there were about 25 or 30 of us left, we sat around in a circle and heard the life story of Ali Abu Awwad, former militant turned nonviolent peace activist. He spoke of nocturnal raids by the Israeli military, of rights denied, of prison. And I knew it was true. I had suppressed my memories of participating in those raids and guarding those prisoners decades ago as a young soldier—and it all came back to me, flooding my consciousness.
Ali’s reality made its way into my heart … and I will never be the same. His truth has not made mine any less true, rather it has shown my truth to be only part of the complex web of the reality in which we live. My life has become so much more complicated as I hold within my consciousness two conflicting truths that are both valid. Loose ends are dangling within me. I have become much more fragmented yet much more whole. As I embrace more and more partial truths, my horizons expand in the direction of the Infinite One, within Whom all truths find their proper place.
These days leading up to Rosh Hashanah are days of teshuva—soul searching and penitence. May my teshuva this year—the most intense and the most paradigm-shattering I have ever experienced—be acceptable before God.
Postscript – The events described above gave birth to Roots/Shorashim/Judur – The Israeli Palestinian Initiative for Grassroots Understanding, Nonviolence and Transformation. For more information, go to www.friendsofroots.net
These past weeks have brought a recipe of complication and hardship which have sent us reeling in disbelief. From Ebola, to ISIS, to racial strife, to the suicide of a comedic hero, to existential danger in Israel. I find myself waking in the middle of the night to check the news wire and see if things have gotten any worse.
I know I am not alone in my concern for our fragmented world. And yet, I also wonder and worry about us….you and me. I don’t just mean “worry about us” as it relates to world events. I worry that the world keeps throwing so much at us that we stop making time to look in the mirror to be sure that we ourselves are in balance. I am not suggesting that we be selfish. But I wonder if we use the complications of our world as a disguise from doing our own inner-work.
I fret that we obsessively watch the world; react to the world; yell at the world—and, then, well, we forget to look at the mirror and inquire about our own role in the drama we call life.
We rabbis are beginning to prepare for the Jewish Holy Days. The coming season is one we refer to as the season of Teshuvah—of turning; of change, of reflection, of renewal. In the coming weeks, we will be reminded that we all have primordial purpose; a reason we are here on earth. During the year, our vision becomes clouded and unclear. The burden of our responsibility is heavy; indeed, we work diligently to fulfill everything we are supposed to get done and be for everyone else. And, so, we forget to remember why we were put here in the first place. We forget that we are unique and important and vital to the cosmic process of our beautiful universe.
These days, we cannot help but be called by events in the world. We are summoned to do our part in picking up the pieces of brokenness. I hope we feel the need to create clarity in the fog of confusion. But, we are also called upon to change and evolve as human beings if not first, then at least simultaneously.
I am asking my community during these days to pay attention to the complexity of the world, but to also take a few minutes away from the world’s noise and reflect. I am asking them to think about how they are doing; to think about why they are here; to think about how fulfilled they are in life; to think about their relationships; to think about their jobs; to think about how they act; about the way they are treated.
How are we doing in the midst of the madness? While the world has gone a bit mad, I wonder about all of us, who constitute in small pieces, the makeup of our world. The world does not just exist on CNN; it exists within our own reflections as well. When we look, I wonder how it is that we love, speak and share. I wonder about our sense of compassion, sensitivity, jealousy, anger, guilt, joy and sadness. I wonder which parts of ourselves we need to change, so the world can change also.
The world is trembling. There is much for us to say and do in response to it all. But in the meanwhile, I am thinking about what we owe ourselves in our own process of evolution.
I hope as we head towards the Season of Change, that we find the renewal within to help renew our world.
When I was growing up, I used to listen to records of GI Joe or Sci Fi stories that came with an accompanying book. The reading was punctuated by a high pitched beep that cued the listener to turn to the next page. It always seemed forced and artificial. Whether or not you have a chance to finish the words yourself, let alone take them in and reflect… It’s time to move on. Not that GI Joe vs. the String Bean Monsters from Outer Space was likely to require much rumination…but still.
These past few days, under much more serious circumstances, I have felt like I have been listening to one of these records. Seven weeks of bloodshed… of anguish over Israeli teens abducted and murdered, heartbreak over the brutal slaying of a boy from East Jerusalem, terror of rockets and fragments showering down on Israeli cities, despair over faces and names of Palestinian men, women, and children getting lost in both the sheer number of victims and the knowledge that the ordinance that took their lives was aimed at a cruel and deadly foe that hides underground and plots the death of as many Jews as possible. And after all these days of violence, a cease fire that lasts longer than 24 hours. Beep. Turn the page.
And yet, even with uncertainty about the significance of the current hiatus and with great certainty that the bigger story is far from over, there is something comforting about the forced and artificial cue to move on.
After all, this very concept is built into the structure that underlies Jewish time. The last three weeks the conflict paralleled the darkest period in the Jewish calendar and the day the cease fire began to take hold was Tisha B’Av, the fast to relive the sorrow of Jerusalem’s fall and the brokenness that endures in the world. However, our tradition teaches that even before this darkest of days is over it is possible that the messiah has come into the world. And the next Shabbat is the occasion of Nachamu, the comforting words of Isaiah promising that the night ends and peace will dawn. Beep. Turn the page.
Three weeks of decreed darkness, capping months of terrifying bloodshed, now gives way to seven weeks of consolation. Seven weeks that lead us to Rosh Hashana and its promise of a brand new year of possibilities. The Shofar sounds. Beep. Turn the page.
I used to think that there were two different mindsets when it came to living Jewishly: the experience of those living in Israel and the experience of those, like myself, living in the Diaspora. But the virulence of anti-Semitism that has erupted over the past few few weeks in response to the Israel-Gaza conflict, as I will describe below, has shaken this paradigm in my mind. And it has caused me to think about a brand new question: What does it mean to be a Jewish-American at a time when Israel is strong and secure but when fellow Jews in other parts of the world are being persecuted for being Jewish?
The response in many parts of the world to the latest outbreak of Israel-Gaza violence has been nothing short of stunning. In Turkey, a columnist from a leading pro-government paper wrote a letter to the Chief Rabbi of Turkey in which he said it was not a bad thing for Jews to be killed just for being Jews and that those who “come out with your Jewish identity” and support Israel deserve “an eye for an eye approach.” Paris has broken out in spates of anti-Jewish violence that are eerily reminiscent of Kristallnacht, with pro-Palestinian mobs targeting Jewish shops, lighting smoke bombs, and throwing stones and bottles at riot police. Nine synagogues have been attacked in France since Israel launched Operation Protective Edge, prompting a resurgence in the vigilance of Jewish Defense Leagues there. A leader of Germany’s Jewish community said some of the German demonstrators have shown an “explosion of evil and violence-prone hatred of Jews.”
In fact, things have gotten so bad in Europe that the foreign ministers of Germany, France and Italy on Tuesday condemned the rise in anti-Semitic protests and violence in their countries over the conflict in Gaza, saying they will do everything possible to combat it. By castigating native Jewish populations in the press merely for being Jewish; by rioting, pillaging synagogues, and shouting anti-Semitic screeds, those who, before, claimed that being anti-Israel was distinguishable from being anti-Semitic now have removed their facades. The degree of anti-Semitic hate in the world recently reported by the Anti Defamation League (they found that more than 25% of those surveyed harbor deeply anti-Semitic attitudes) is, tragically, being confirmed in real time through actual—not to mention social—media.
Yet here I sit, in the U.S., and I don’t feel any of this animus. To be sure, there are episodic bouts of anti-Semitism here, such as the tragic shooting at the Kansas City JCC a few months ago, but I never have felt an existential threat to myself, my family, or my community merely for being Jewish. To the contrary, as has been assessed ad naseum, 94% of U.S. Jews feel proud to be Jewish. And, a more recent Pew study found that Judaism is more accepted than Catholicism, Evangelical Protestantism, or any other faith in America. Not only are Jews thriving in America, but we also live in a country whose political elite strongly endorse Israel. Unlike the criticism and acrimony in Europe and the Middle East, the House and the Senate both passed unanimous resolutions supporting Israel in its response to Operation Protective Edge.
How, then, should I reconcile the psychological dissonance of my own security in my Jewish identity at a time when fellow Jews are being threatened for holding to that same identity? Obviously, empathy and support for our beleaguered brothers and sisters, through the Joint Distribution Committee, the Jewish Federations of North America, and other major organizations, are important. So, too, is vigilance in showing the world when anti-Israel attitudes really are anti-Semitic. But there is more soul-searching I feel I need to do, more theological and philosophical struggle to try to come to grips with what it actually means to be a Jew today in light of this reality. I encourage you to send me your thoughts on how you have dealt with this struggle, and I pray that peace will soon return to our Holy Land.
The Jewish world is full of debates. Get the latest in MyJewishLearning’s weekly blogs newsletter.
It’s Israel week on the Rabbis Without Borders blog. My colleagues Ben Greenberg and Alana Suskin discussed debates among university Hillel organizations about inviting anti-Israel speakers. Just before that, our blog featured the words of a young Canadian in Israel re-thinking his own views.
Of course, we don’t have to be registered university students to explore multiple perspectives and begin a dialogue that leads to deep rethinking. We can begin with the simplest of tools, actually: a traditional Jewish text and a commitment to asking questions.
The Siddur includes many prayers that refer to the land of Israel; here I will highlight just one. This short paragraph is found, in slightly different forms, in the prayer books of every Jewish movement, towards the end of every Amidah prayer, whether weekday, Shabbat, or holiday. The theme of the paragraph, worshiping God who dwells in Zion, was set by the year 200 C.E.; the precise wording has changed along with Jewish circumstances and philosophies. Below are two different modern versions, in English translation.
Accept the prayer of Your people Israel as lovingly as it is offered. Restore worship to Your sanctuary. May the worship of Your people Israel always be acceptable to You. May we witness Your merciful return to Zion. Praised are You, Lord who restores his Presence to Zion (Siddur Sim Shalom, 1985, Conservative movement).
Take pleasure, GRACIOUS ONE, our God, in Israel your people; lovingly accept their fervent prayer. May Israel’s worship always be acceptable to you. And may our eyes behold your homecoming, with merciful intent, to Zion. Blessed are you, THE FAITHFUL ONE, who brings your presence home to Zion (Siddur Kol Haneshamah, 1999, Reconstructionist movement).
The Conservative wording asks that worship be restored to the Temple sanctuary; the Reconstructionist version asks that worship be acceptable wherever it is offered. Modern Judaism teaches that God is everywhere, and thus people can pray everywhere. So is there or is there not something special about worship in Jerusalem?
What is your experience? Have you been moved to pray in unique or passionate ways while visiting Israel? Does thinking about Israel intensify your prayers for peace and justice? Do you believe that putting a written prayer into the Kotel sends it straight to God? One of my relatives insists that the Kotel is an idol; how would you respond to him? Do you know where the Holy of Holies is said to have been? Do you agree with the recommendation of Israel’s Chief Rabbinate to avoid the site? Do you know about recent Jewish-Muslim tensions on the Temple Mount? If you were a responsible government official, how might you mediate?
The Conservative version hopes that we may “witness” God’s “merciful return” to Zion (a historic name for Jerusalem); the Reconstructionist one asks that “our eyes may behold” God’s “homecoming, with merciful intent.” Both “witness” and “behold” refer to the same Hebrew word, v’techezena. In Biblical Hebrew, its root chazon, typically refers to a prophetic vision. Does the prayer ask that we literally see the return, or that we gain a clear vision of what a compassionate return would look like?
How would a compassionate return look? Like the vision of Ezekiel, where no foreigners would enter, and only priests of one of Aaron’s many lineages could be certified to serve? Like the vision of Isaiah, where a new line of priests, representing multicultural Judaism, would be created? Or like the vision of Zechariah, where the renewed Temple would host annual interfaith Sukkot services?
Both the Conservative and Reconstructionist versions hope for the return of God’s shechinah, which they translate as “presence.” What sort of shechinah would you like to see return? Shechinah as understood in early rabbinic literature: the presence that originally accompanied the Israelite camp in their 40 years of wilderness wandering, a presence strengthened by correct ritual and ethical behavior, that also accompanied the Jews during exile to Babylonia? Would a return of this presence require that all Jews make aliyah and turn their backs on the creative diversity of the diaspora? Would its return depend on Israeli Jews practicing mitzvot, including compassion for the strangers among them? How would such compassion respond to Palestinian proposals for a right of return?
Or would you like to see the return of the Shechinah as described in the mystical work Zohar, one of ten cosmic energies that make up the Godhead; specifically, a feminine motherly energy who feeds all creatures, and without whose embrace God is unbalanced? Would the return of this Schechinah include widespread respect for the practice of gender-egalitarian Judaism, even at the Kotel plaza?
Is your head spinning yet, or is it just beginning to clear? Read the text, consider the questions, and click on the links. Recognize the political pointers in the Siddur. Use them to help you clarify your own commitments and actions. Remember that every prayer is also a prayer for understanding.
The Jewish world is full of debates. Get the latest in MyJewishLearning’s weekly blogs newsletter.
An abridged version of this post appears on OnSophiaStreet.
I am on Kibbutz Ein Dor, near the city of Afula in Northern Israel, visiting my 18-year-old son, a participant in the HabonimDror Workshop program. A road lined with trees circles the kibbutz. My late cat Yogi – my dreamtime wisdom guide — and I sit on a bench by the road, quietly contemplating. The air is still; the sky glows with twilight; the temperature is neither too hot nor too cold; the world is absolutely perfect for a human being.
Cosmic, messianic; a perfected world of beauty and peace; good for the human body, heart, and soul; the kind of dream I want to dwell in forever.
Until my alarm clock – an iPhone app — rings.
As I reach to turn it off, I see the notification: an unusual early morning email from the HabonimDror office. What parent would not be concerned?
I just wanted to inform everyone who may have heard about the suspected terrorist incident in Afula today that all of the Workshoppers are safe and on kibbutz. Nothing to worry about.
In an instant, my cosmic dream turns practical. My parent radar had received J’s reassurance. Relief at my son’s safety and trust in my parental connection fill me. Who needs email when your dream guide takes you astral traveling?
When I enter the kitchen, my husband says, “A stabbing on a bus. I noticed it in The New York Times. You might get more info from Haaretz.”
Sure enough, Haaretz, a liberal Israeli newspaper, already has a full article posted. There I read that a Palestinian who entered Israel illegally has stabbed an Israeli soldier, claiming revenge for his jailed relatives. A 16-year-old Palestinian and a 19-year-old Israeli. The 16-year-old is in custody and the 19-year-old is dead.
What parent would not be concerned?
Strip away all the politics and that’s what you have here: children. Motivated by terrible beliefs, traumatic experiences, a sense of responsibility, a desire for meaning, or a social current beyond their control, children take on what they imagine to be adult decisions.
At least, that’s how I see it through my parental eyes. Through my eyes still heavy with the dream of a world perfect for all human beings. I see two boys, not two representatives of countries or social movements, caught in tragedy. A universalist perspective, to be sure.
Just one year ago, the blogosphere buzzed with commentary on an exchange between Rabbis Sharon Brous and Daniel Gordis. Rabbi Brous suggested we try empathizing with our enemies as fellow human beings. Rabbi Gordis wrote that if we do so, we betray our own people.
Their exchange raised a familiar philosophical problem: moral vs. ethical commitments. And the double demand they place on us.
Israeli philosopher Avishai Margalit defines morals as imperatives based on our connection with a group. A moral mode disposes us to favor those closest and most like us. Ethics, Margalit says, are formulated when we step outside the group’s perspective. Ethics express a reasoned view about what is best overall.
Margalit does not favor one approach over the other, but notes that both have a role to play in healing trauma. Group solidarity gives meaning to loss and turmoil; universal awareness makes clear that evil anywhere affects all human life.
On Wednesday morning, I felt a double demand. My first concern was for my own son. When that was satisfied, I stepped into a larger view. The relationship that connects me so deeply with my son became a basis for empathy towards the sons of others.
Of course, I am not in Israel or Palestine. My personal traumas come from non-ideologically motivated injuries. Though I try to understand others, I do not stand in their shoes. It might well be harmful to preach empathy when self-protection is needed. Or to preach self-protection when empathy is needed.
Small-group solidarity is only one part of the fullness of human experience.
The symbolism of my dream seems so much deeper now.
I sit at the edge of a circular road. Inside the road sits the kibbutz, home of a tightly knit group. As I look outwards, I see a world perfect for all human beings. I sit with Yogi the cat, who embodies the full experience. She is both inside my family and outside my species. In her calm cat pose, she watches as I shift between seeing her in these two ways. She does not judge either one as better or worse, but understands that both are living parts of our relationship.
She brought me all the way to Afula so that I could see what she sees.
Image: Kibbutz Ein Dor, kibbutzimofisrael.netzah.org. Cross-posted at OnSophiaStreet.