Sun-warmed stones

One of the things that has surprised me about living and praying in Jerusalem is how out-of-sync my reaction to the Western Wall is from those of my classmates. One of them is seriously considering Aliyah because he feels such a deep connection to the culture, but feels nothing when he prays at the ancient holy sites; to him, they’re just piles of rocks. Another, deeply critical of the Occupation, cannot go near Robinson’s Arch without being painfully reminded of the homes that were leveled to create the plaza and archaeological park. But while I can understand both perspectives, my own reaction to the Kotel is always profound and prayerful. However challenging it is to get up in time for Shaharit in the Beit Midrash on other days of the week, I gladly rise a half-hour earlier to ensure I get to the Kotel on time every Wednesday.

While I attend Women of the Wall every Rosh Hodesh with grim determination to support our right to pray as a minyan in the women’s section despite Orthodox backlash, what’s far more meaningful and pleasurable is praying in a mixed group by Robinson’s Arch with my full community, male and female. Unlike in synagogue, I wander around the platform, sometimes close to the group, sometimes off on my own where I can eye the ancient mikveh where my ancestors purified themselves before visiting the Temple. Each week, when I pray for the rebuilding of Jerusalem, I try and remind myself to look down at the piles of rocks below, or up at the dirt wall and scaffolding dividing us from the Orthodox sections, evidence of the senseless hatred we need to overcome in order to be worthy of wholeness and redemption. I watch the birds that dart and swoop between the caper bushes growing between the clefts in the rock: mourning doves and sparrows, pigeons and hooded crows. Their songs remind me that even different species can coexist here, how much more so different sects of humanity.

The one drawback to praying at Robinson’s Arch is that the closer platform has been closed off all year due to damage from a falling boulder, so instead we pray on a platform 20 feet from the wall itself. While it means we’re far enough back to have a beautiful view, a wider perspective, I miss the intimacy of touching sun-warmed stones and imagining that their glow is because they are somehow imbued with God’s presence or with the prayers of the faithful. When I have gone over to the women’s section, I have felt a thrill when I get to touch the stones for even a moment, to say hello to God at such proximity.

Ironically, while my experiences of praying at the Kotel have made it clear to me that I have a deep and undeniable connection to the land of my ancestors, the challenges around praying there (and praying in Israel in general) have made it equally clear that the modern state of Israel will never be my home. My love of this land will always be tinged by exile, by the mingled joy of standing by the stones my ancestors made holy and the sadness of recognizing how much repair is needed.

Identity Politics

I am struggling with when to be uncovered.
I keep trying on old identities that no longer fit.
I am living with the imperfect realities of healing.
I am often left speechless by the wonder of the world.
I pray in geek.

I wonder when it’s safe to stop bracing for all possible disasters.

I am never without my

• keys
• wallet
• phone
• pills

but somehow my kippah is always elsewhere.

I don’t know whether I want to be uncovered.

I don’t want to move through the world braced for attack.

I don’t want my covering to be a barrier to loving and being loved here.

I don’t know how to be uncovered with God.

I am tired of negativity.

I have covered this topic so many times, even I am sick of my complaints.

I am uncertain where the boundary lies between authenticity and the dictates of my defaults.

I am not sure what I’ve left uncovered.

Why Hanukkah

I’ll be honest; I’ve always found Hanukkah mildly irritating. Not the holiday itself; I enjoy the candles and my dad’s latkes as much as anyone, and ever since I discovered that the niggun my family uses for “Al ha-Nisim” is unique, I’ve treasured it all the more.

No, what’s frustrated me is its elevated position in the American consciousness. As I’ve tried to explain to friends more than once, the fuss around Hanukkah makes as much sense as making a big deal out of Arbor Day. Somehow, rather than honoring our own High Holy Days at their own times and in their own ways, equality means we have to make Hanukkah an epic affair of gifts and decorations and bad pop albums because whatever holiday falls closest to Christmas has to be celebrated exactly like Christmas. (The fact that my Christian friends also loathe the commercialism of Christmas and would prefer a more subdued and meaning-full celebration is another issue for another time.)

Coming to Israel and being part of a majority culture for the first time, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was afraid I’d see the excesses of an American Christmas with Hanukkah symbols swapped in: a barrage of songs about dreidels and miracles on every radio station, endless advertisements pressuring me to show how much I love friends and family by showering them with presents for eight nights straight, TV episodes where everyone realizes the true meaning of the holiday, blue tinsel and lights eclipsing real life.

Instead, I found a level of meaning I had never found in the holiday before. Hanukkah wasn’t tied to commercialism or end-of-year sales—sufganiot were elevated to an art form and candles were available everywhere, but that was about it. Instead, windowsills and porches boasted menorahs of all shapes and sizes. Going out to dinner one night, I saw a bunch of casually dressed young people light a menorah at the bar and sing the prayers and the traditional holiday songs while hugging each other, the way people might sing happy birthday on any other night. Then I turned my head to see young ultra-Orthodox guys outside, wandering the neighborhood, handing out doughnuts from stacked flats, asking nothing in return.

The holiday cut across all divisions in such a gentle, innocent way: no tension about who could or couldn’t participate, just people all over the country kindling lights and singing songs to keep the dark at bay. The candles and the songs and the smell of frying were sense memories of childhood, reminding us that we’re family. They sparked in me a joyful connection to the holiday I had never felt before, and to Israel as well.

I’ve heard it said that the miracle of the first night of Hanukkah isn’t that the light burned—after all, there was certainly enough fuel for one day. Rather, it was that the people had enough hope and faith to try even when their efforts seemed doomed to failure. That kavannah, that rebellion against cynicism and inertia, speaks to the heart of what I saw in this year’s festivities. It feels very much worth celebrating.

Dancing with the law

After class tonight, we discovered police had shut down the entire street, a major thoroughfare. We all wait to see what the commotion is—a protest? A parade? A visiting dignitary? No, they’re moving a Torah scroll from one synagogue to another with music and lighted tapers and dancers and a canopy to honor it. Only in Israel!

Hartman retreat

I haven’t talked at all about Hartman, which is a shame, because it’s been a wonderful part of this year. The Hartman Institute runs a seminar that is open to rabbinical students from all streams, and since rabbinical students from all around the world are supposed to spend a year in Israel as part of their training, that means it’s a chance for me to spend a few hours each week forging friendships with future Reform, Conservative and Reconstructionist rabbis (there is also a Modern Orthodox seminary that takes part, but they didn’t have students in Israel this year). We get dinner together, catch up on how the week has been, study together, and walk home together late into the night. One of the instructors, Melila, is one of the foremost authorities on Zohar, and while I’ve never been able to wrap my head around Jewish mysticism, she finds inroads I can follow.

So we had a retreat together to the Arava desert, at Kibbutz Ketura. We got there late at night, when the sky was pure Milky Way, and I got to check another item off my Israel bucket list by walking out past the lights and just looking up for a while. As part of my never-ending birthday celebration, the kibbutz gave me a slice of cheesecake upon my arrival. Yonatan, an Israeli HUC student, led us all in movement exercises, and then we went to settle in.

In the morning, I walked out of my shared room and my eyes filled with tears at the beauty of the mountains; Ketura is in a bowl surrounded on all side by glorious peaks. Our group went on a hike through a part of the desert where the sand was all cool, frictionless silk, which meant you could launch yourself off a cliff down a 100-foot drop and moon-walk the whole way. It was enchanting.

That night, Andrew and I led Friday night services together for the group, which was so much fun, and in the morning, I was one of the people reading Torah (reading my Bat Mitzvah portion for the first time since my Bat Mitzvah). It was hugely important to me, in front of a Hebrew-speaking audience, not to make a single mistake, and I nailed it.

Both our instructors did beautiful sessions for us on mysticism, and then we took a tour of Ketura, which is a leader in green energy thanks to the Arava Institute and Yosef Abramowitz, the father in the family I’m staying with this year (the Silverman-Abramowitzes lived at Ketura for several years before moving to Jerusalem).

It was such a wonderful experience being here. My heart feels so full.