What Hannukah Means to Me

Hannukah literally means ‘dedication.’  The holiday of Hannukah is to commemorate the hannukat ha’beit, the dedication of the Temple.  About 2,200 years ago, the Maccabees fought a long and bloody war against Greek culture and influence, and they ended the conflict by rededicating themselves to the worship of YHVH (God, Yahweh, etc.) at the Temple in Jerusalem.  Dedicating, or rededicating, a space for a sacred purpose is a very powerful way to bring light into a darkening world.  I would like to share three personal stories of times when I have done this, and I encourage you to think about times when you have also done this.

Flurrie T. Dog came into the Pollack family when I was nine years old.  She was the best dog in the world until she died peacefully a few months ago.  Near the end of my senior year in college, Flurrie came to visit my disgusting and dilapidated apartment for a week when my parents went on vacation.  Everyone came to see Flurrie that week, as she was far cooler and more popular than I could ever be.  Near the end of her visit, Flurrie ate some rat poison that I did not know was in the apartment.  She was near death when my parents rushed her to the vet a few days later.  This accident shook me to my core, and it was the first time I seriously realized that Flurrie wouldn’t live forever.  That summer between college and Rabbinical school, I lived at home and worked part time.  I made an effort to take Flurrie on more walks, something I was not very good at doing while at college, or even before that, and to spend more time with her by the creek.  Before I left for college, the creek was me and Flurrie’s favorite place to be.  I would sit by the creek while she would graze peacefully and then eventually come and nap by my side.  That summer, the creek was dedicated as the place where Flurrie and I could just hang out and enjoy life.  The creek was the place where darkness yielded to light.

About halfway through my first year at Rabbinical school, I began the process of becoming more politically active and aware.  What I learned about the corruption of our democracy and its inability to act sickened me.  The more I learned, the angrier and more depressed I became.  Near the end of last winter, a teacher of mine invited me to a protest against the keystone pipeline and the corrupt process causing our climate to change.  I agreed to go.  He then told me that he was planning to get arrested.  He didn’t ask me to do that, but I jumped at the opportunity and said that I would like to be arrested as well.  The protest happened at the federal building in downtown Philadelphia, across the street from Independence Hall.  We marched, sang, chanted, and eventually planted ourselves in the entrance to the federal building.  With a bit of police brutality, we were cleared from the doorway.  We then hopped a police barrier to storm the building, and peacefully turned ourselves over for arrest.  I often call this day the happiest of my life.  We rededicated the public space, the federal building across from the liberty bell, to the value of citizens participating in our democracy and claiming our right to determine our own fates.  Through this act of dedication, I brought hope and light into my world.  After being released from jail later that day, I went to my favorite Philadelphia restaurant for my favorite meal.  The man behind the counter looked up at me and told me that I was, “Glowing like a pregnant woman.”

Midway through my Junior year at the University of Maryland, I went to Jerusalem for three weeks to study at a Haredi yeshiva on the green line.  I went because the trip was free, and I had nothing better to do that winter break.  I was not extremely keen on learning, and after two and a half years of 200 person lectures that taught to a thoughtless test, I was ready to leave school.  At the yeshiva, students of all ages from all around the world came to learn simply for the sake of learning.  They had an enthusiasm and joy at the opportunity to learn and to encounter and commune with the divine through exploring and studying creation.  The love and dedication to learning in that yeshiva sparked me to rededicate myself to Torah l’shma, learning for the sake of learning, and illuminated my way through college and into Rabbinical school.

Inspiration is fleeting and a static organism will always yield to entropy and chaos.  It is important to set aside a time and a place to rededicate ourselves to our core values.  Hannukah, the festival of light, happens in the middle of the winter, when our world is quite literally at its darkest.  I ask you what you are dedicating yourself to at this moment, what new life will spring forth from you this year?

Update from Israel (12/2014)

This past weekend, I went to Hebron, Be’er Sheva, and Yerukham with Nathan and my Israeli classmates from Bina, the secular yeshiva in Tel Aviv.  Below are some highlights:

We went to the cave of Makhpelah to see the graves of Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Leah, and Jacob.  On top of the ancient cave, Herod built a magnificent structure to win the favor of the Jews 2,000 years ago.  The Christian Byzantines added onto the building a few centuries later, and the Muslim Mamelukes added their share after the Crusades.  We stood on the seventh step up to the building, the closest Jews were allowed to come to the holy site from the time of the Mamelukes in the 13th century until the modern state of Israel.  The site is surrounded by Israeli soldiers and armored vehicles and is in the old section of the ancient city of Hebron, a mostly Palestinian city with a tense history.  In 1929, the Arabs massacred the centuries-old Jewish community in Hebron in a pogrom reminiscent of Russia.  In 1994, a Jew opened fire in Makhpelah during Muslim prayer murdering 29 Palestinians and wounding many more.  When we left Makhpelah, we walked right into the small Jewish quarter.  A little boy with pale blue eyes approached us and was trying to sell bracelets with the Palestinian flag.  I signaled to him that I had no money and he looked disappointed.  With Nathan’s urging, and with the little Arabic I know, I said, “My name is Michael,” and then signaled that I would like to know his name.  He seemed surprised that I knew a sentence fragment in Arabic, and he told me his name was Yusuf.  He smiled and stuck his hand out and we shook hands.

In America, if one wants to be in a Jewish community, one chooses to do so and belongs to a synagogue or a JCC or some other Jewish institution.  It is not difficult to be surrounded by Jews in Israel, so most secular Israelis do not form communities around their Judaism.  In Be’er Sheva, a large city built in the northern part of the desert, there is a movement to form Jewish communities.  We were lucky enough to visit one of these communities for Friday night services.  The services took place in a common room on the ground floor of an apartment building.  There were about 30 people there, mostly young parents and small children.  The service was entirely lay led in a Reform style.  I can’t write any more than that because I spent most of the service making faces at a laughing baby.

On Saturday morning, we traveled to Yerukham, a small desert city forty minutes from Be’er Sheva.  We passed some of the most miraculous farms in the world.  Peppers and bananas and grapes growing out of the golden desert soil!  We drove through Yerukham, passed the main factory and the stores and turned off on a dirt road to a Bedouin camp.  The Bedouin are Arabs who are historically nomadic but are losing the ability to live that lifestyle.  We sat in a spacious tent and met with a self-proclaimed enlightened feminist Bedouin woman.  She took off her shoes and we asked if we should do the same.  She said that traditionally we would, but now the tent mats were made in Gaza and cost nothing, so they just throw them out when they are dirty.  My Israeli classmates could not wait to ask questions.  How did you learn Hebrew?  Did you go to school?  Do your children go to school?  Do your neighbors work?  Where?  How?  Does the government help or hurt your situation?  Do Bedouins like Israel?  The Bedouin woman said that in her culture, the custom is to not ask questions until tea is served.  She laughed, and then started answering questions while pouring tea.  She learned Hebrew because she wanted to, and she taught herself from Hebrew textbooks.  Her children go to school and she hopes they will go to university but doesn’t think any will accept them.  Most Bedouin children stop after elementary school.  Some of her neighbors work low level jobs, many do not work.  The government doesn’t provide electricity or water or housing.  The government built a school, but then it didn’t rain one year and the group packed up and moved and the school became a ruin.  Some Bedouin like Israel, others see it as the oppressive ruler.  My classmates asked if the Bedouin would go back to a nomadic lifestyle.  She said many would but most realize that it is impossible.  Some still think it will happen.  This woman talked about how she wants her people to modernize, but at times she is nostalgic for her tradition and talked about how she did not want to become a Jewish Israeli.  After the meeting, my classmates spoke about how they had all met Bedouin before but had never had a substantive conversation like that.  One said that it is the Bedouin’s responsibility to modernize, another said that maybe they don’t want to modernize.  Another shook his head sadly and lamented about their shattered identity.

On Saturday afternoon, over a large lunch, the head of our school asked us what we thought about the weekend.  In the tradition of Israeli culture, I volunteered to answer first, and then ignored the question and changed the subject.  I asked my Israeli classmates what they want from American Jews?  American Jews give money, weapons, political support, and so much more to Israel.  And when Americans try to voice an opinion about Israel to Israelis, we so often hear, “You don’t live here, who are you to offer advice?”  If Israel was only for Israelis, this would not be an issue, but Israel is for all Jews.  Most of my classmates had never thought about this question and did not have any answers.  One of them talked about how American Jews seem to be able to live Jewish lives that are not orthodox.  She wants Americans to teach them how to make Judaism relevant in the modern age and how to form a Jewish identity that isn’t associated with a black hat.  I smiled and said that this could be done.

Update From Israel, December 2014

One weekend a month, I go to Jerusalem for the Reconstructionist Shabbat morning service.  One Friday afternoon a month, I race to leave Tel Aviv in time to catch a bus to Jerusalem before Shabbat.  Looking for a quick lunch a few Fridays ago, I went to a small hole in the wall sandwich place.  The owner was putting on tefillin (Jewish ritual item) and signaled to me that he would be with me in a minute.  The traveling Orthodox man who provided the opportunity to don tefillin stood in the doorway with a popsicle in one hand and his cell phone in the other.  At the sandwich bar was a tall man with a large scar on the back of his shaved head and a motorcycle helmet in hand.

The secular tall man asked the black hatted man, “Why can’t I turn on a light during Shabbat?”  The Orthodox man replied, “Because that’s the law!”  “Why is that the law?”  “Because it says in Torah that you can’t do work on Shabbat.”  “But turning on a light isn’t work.”  “It is according to the Rabbis.”  “But it isn’t according to me!”  Then the Orthodox man said, “Who knows better, you or the Rabbis?”  The tall man with the leather jacket and the giant scar on his head said, “I know what’s better for me, and they know what’s better for them.  Why do you all tell me what I should do?”  The Orthodox man asked him if he believed in God.  The biker replied that it didn’t matter.  The Orthodox man asked him again, and again, and again.  The biker kept saying, maybe yes, maybe no, it didn’t matter.  The Orthodox man asked him if God wrote the Torah.  The biker said it didn’t matter.  The Orthodox man threw up his hands in disgust and left.

Many Israelis in Tel Aviv that I have met are very interested in ‘non-Orthodox’ Judaism, so I alerted the paradoxical man to the existence of Bina, the secular yeshiva that I attend, and Alma, another secular yeshiva in Tel Aviv.  He smiled and told me about the Kaballah center a few blocks away.  I told him I would stop by soon.

Israel is a land of paradoxes, truths that directly contradict each other.  The dati, the orthodox, claim God gave the Torah at Mount Sinai and all of life’s instructions are there to be interpreted.  The hiloni, the secular, claim a different truth about how to live one’s life derived more from modern reason.  Jerusalem is a strict conservative city and Tel Aviv is an open liberal polis.  The Israeli truth is that Israel is the Jewish homeland for all Jews for all time.  The Palestinian truth is that Palestine is the homeland for all Palestinians.  Maimonides claims that we have free will, or else it would be cruel to punish someone for their crimes.  Spinoza claims that we have no free will, all behavior is caused by past experiences.  Rabbi Akiva claims that we have free will and everything is determined.  Israel, and Judaism, is about living within the debates, swinging between truths within the grand paradox.

When I ordered at the sandwich shop, I had no idea what I ordered.  This is a regular personal practice when there is no fear of pork or shellfish.  What I got was a mallawakh wrap.  Mallawakh is a light buttery pastry that is flaky and golden on the outside and doughy in the middle.  On the inside was a hardboiled egg, salsa, kharif (spicy paste), and thin sliced pickles.  It was a paradox of a sandwich and it was delicious.

Some Things I Learned (Update from Israel, 12/14/14)

On the last night of Sukkot, I went to an Orthodox synagogue in Jerusalem.  There was the standard collection of black hats atop white faces, black kippahs darting around the room two feet off the ground, and wigged women looking down on us from above.  And there were also three Chinese men in khakis with kippahs.  Only one of them spoke English, and he translated for the others.  I asked them where they were from and what they were doing here.  None of them were born Jewish, and the one with the well-book marked Chinese Bible was converting to Judaism.  For him, Israel was sacred space.  I asked him what Judaism meant to him, and he answered with a smile, “Responsibility and happiness.”

A few weeks ago, I was waiting for a bus in Jerusalem with Nathan.  An Orthodox woman in her 60’s struck up a conversation with us.  She asked where we were from, what we were doing, etc.  We asked her the same questions.  She is an American from Philadelphia, made Aliyah a few decades ago, and is now an ER doctor at Hadassah.  She asked us if we knew Rabbi Jill Jacobs.  Neither Nathan nor I know her personally, and I am only slightly aware of her work.  She is a member of Rabbis for Human Rights, and her goal seems to be working toward peace.  The woman at the bus stop was furious with Rabbi Jacobs: “Doesn’t she understand that they are all murderers?  Doesn’t she understand that on the other side of that valley they would all kill us if they could?  Doesn’t she understand that they all hate us?”  As we got onto the bus together, I said, “There sure is a lot of hate in the world.”  She replied, “There sure is.  They really hate us.”  I sighed, and the conversation eventually turned to her excitement about the upcoming English language performances of some of Shakespeare’s tragedies in Jerusalem.

All my Israeli classmates laughed at me the day after the second terrorist attack involving cars and light rail stations.  That Thursday morning, the Rosh Yeshiva asked us how we liked the classes, the schedule, etc.  I misunderstood the question, and thought he was asking how we felt about the recent terrorist attacks.  I answered that question, and the Israelis laughed.  I told the class how people in the United States were worried about me, and I asked them what they thought about what was happening.  They claimed that they had not thought about it.  That they could not think about it and do what they needed to do to live.  They expected these attacks and, as they say, ze’hu, that’s that.

At a Shabbat dinner in the Arab port city of Jaffa last Friday night, I met a man my age who made Aliyah, served along the Syrian border, and now studies in the secular yeshiva in Jerusalem.  He was active in J Street before making Aliyah and now thinks peace will not happen.  On the Syrian border, his unit’s job was to take in wounded Syrians who crossed the border and provide them with medical care.  Every day, he watched the Syrian war and helped its casualties.  I asked him why his opinion around peace has changed.  He said that survival is the first priority.  We are in a dangerous neighborhood and need to save ourselves even if that means hurting others.  I asked him if it is possible to survive in a dangerous neighborhood while hurting others.  He said it’s the only way.  I asked him what happens to a country that is divided within and assaulted from the outside because of its own moral actions.  His friend said, “Perpetual siege.”  We then talked about whether or not the Palestinian’s problems are our problems.  We concluded that they are.  We sighed and then played a game of chess with shot glasses of Arak as pieces.

I spent Simchat Torah in the Old City in Jerusalem.  Around midday, I went to the Western Wall to dance with the Torah scroll.  I saw a tall, thin man in his 50’s sitting on a plastic chair in the middle of the men’s prayer section by the wall.  He was wearing hiking clothes and had a big backpack.  He was not wearing a kippah or a talis.  I asked him where he was from, he said Germany.  I asked him what he did, he said he is a Catholic Priest.  I asked him what he was doing in Israel.  He said that he was making a walking pilgrimage from Lod to Jerusalem, and then from Jerusalem to Nazareth.  I asked why.  He said that it was penance for the holocaust, he needed to take responsibility for his people’s actions.  I asked him the question I ask all my clergy colleagues, what have you done recently that has gotten you in trouble?  He told me how he is teaching his congregants how to pray.  Some parents are angry with him because between soccer practice and school and the yearbook, there is no time.  I asked him if he stopped trying because of the pressure.  He smiled and said of course not, that is his responsibility to his people.

Yom Kippur, 2014

This is the sermon I gave at Congregation Beth El in Bethesda, Maryland on Yom Kippur before the Avodah Service.

Shimon Peres once said, “The Jews’ greatest contribution to history is dissatisfaction!  We’re a nation born to be discontented.  Whatever exists we believe can be changed for the better.”  Our long tradition of being deeply dissatisfied with the status quo and eternally optimistic about the future first appears in the words and actions of the prophets of the Bible.  In this morning’s Haftorah, Isaiah stated that there is no rest for the wicked.  The prophets are the fulfillment of that prophesy, and are always trying to move us forward.  They bombard our indifference and despair with an overwhelming assault of grief and dreams, of sharp rebuke and unwavering hope.  The prophets teach us that a better world, and ultimately a world at peace, is always within our grasp, and it is our infinite task to move toward that world.  This prophetic outlook was described by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel as “Some are guilty, all are responsible.”  It is in this space of responsibility that the prophets hold all of us to account for the world we choose to live in.  Avodah, service, is acting from that place of responsibility.  In our Torah and Haftorah readings this morning, Moses and Isaiah show us two concepts that are key to understanding how to better perform avodah: Ritual and intention.

In the Torah service, we read about the rituals that make Yom Kippur into Yom Kippur: Fasting, no working, sacred clothing, animal sacrifice, and a lottery to decide which of two goats is sacrificed to a demon god named Azazel.

In the Haftorah, Isaiah tells us that these rituals are intended as acts of avodah, and that without intention, these rituals are hollow.  Isaiah puts forward the intended goals of the rituals of Yom Kippur, and he scolds Israel for not striving toward those goals.  He condemns Israel for fasting with bitterness and resentment with no intention of moving into a world of being humble.  Of gathering for the holiday and claiming to not work, but still tending to their business.  For Isaiah, if performing the rituals of Yom Kippur does not lead to freeing the oppressed, sheltering the homeless, banishing hate speech, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and taking care of one’s family, then one has celebrated Yom Kippur without proper intention.  This message is tough to hear, but Isaiah, like all good prophets, ends with an energizing and unwavering hope.  He tells us that if we perform rituals with proper intention, then we can restore the foundations of life and seek the favor of the world.

The power of ritual lies in its ability to symbolically create an idealized world, toward which we can move a little bit closer by performing that ritual.  Ritual serves as a vehicle to transport us from the world that is into the world that can be.  Ritual serves as the structure for good intentions.

For us today, fasting, blowing the shofar, and coming to synagogue are rituals that symbolically demonstrate our intention to move into a better world.  Fasting breaks through the numbness and satiation of everyday life, and moves us into a world where we can feel and experience grief and pain, the all-important prerequisite feelings for unwavering hope.  Blowing the shofar brings us to attention in a world where we can so often drift through mindlessly.

On Yom Kippur, our Torah reading implicitly teaches us about the importance of rituals, and our Haftorah reading tells us that without intentions based in our values, rituals are hollow.  With intention and ritual hand in hand, avodah is more approachable.

On a Monday afternoon this past March, I came as close as I’ve come to performing avodah.  I participated in the grand ritual of non-violent civil disobedience and was intentionally arrested along with 30 other people outside of the federal building in downtown Philadelphia.  The 30 of us, joined by hundreds of supporters, protested against the keystone pipeline, climate change, and government corruption.  The entire day was a beautiful experience buttressed by the coupling of the rituals of protest and the intention of repairing the world.  Several Rabbis wore their tallises.  This ritualistic action helped move them into a world of holiness in which they felt comforted within our tradition and inspired by its calls for justice.  Many protestors brought brooms with them and we walked around a large fountain sweeping away corruption and symbolically creating a world of fairness.  Several times throughout the day, all the protestors joined together in singing the words ‘We’ve got the whole world in our hands.’  By performing this ritual, I felt myself acknowledging the realness of those words.  And when we sang with ruakh, ‘We have the police and their children in our hands,’ I felt a strong responsibility and compassion for those labeled as the other side that day.  After I was arrested, a homeland security officer was eager to tell me that he appreciated our actions on his children and future grandchildren’s behalf.

The many rituals of the protest provided the structure for our intentions and led us closer to performing avodah.

But rituals and intentions do not exclusively mix in such dramatic ways, and it is helpful to ritualize our mundane actions.  This past semester in school, I intended myself to be more patient with those who do not share my strengths.  Now, when I wash my hands, my right hand washes my left hand first, to create the world where the strong help the weak.  By doing this, I have noticed not only a change in situations where I used to be frustrated with others, but I have also become more able to ask for help when I need it.

I would like to offer a kavannah, an intention, for this year.  May we be intentional about our rituals, and use ritual to further our intentions.  May we, this year, all move closer to performing avodah.

Lekh Lekha 11/1/2014

This is the D’var Torah for Lekh Lekha I gave the Reconstuctionist minyan in Jerusalem on 11/1/2014:

Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav told the story of a prince who lived far away from his father, the king.  The prince was very homesick and missed the king very much.  One day, he received a letter from the king, and he was overjoyed and he treasured the letter.  But, the letter made him sad and increased his longing to know the king once more.  He cried out, “If only I could even touch his hand, if only I could even touch his pinky!  Oh how I long to know him!”  But then he realized that he had the letter written by the king, and the letter is a way to connect with the king!  And then the prince felt a great joy.

In the Rabbi Nahman parable, the king represents God, we are the prince, and Rabbi Nahman’s intention may be for the letter to represent the Torah, but I would like to interpret the letter today as the whole world.  Everything we experience in the world is an experience of God.

And so I ask the question, how may we, today, approach the world?

One lens we may use is that of awe.  To be in awe is to see the mystery that is the world and to recognize that there is an indescribable meaning beyond the mystery.  To be in awe is, as Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said, to apprehend with no expectation to comprehend.  To be in awe is, as the prince realized, to see the letter and to realize the king, or, in other words, to see the king’s handwriting within the letter.  This attitude is summed up in Isaiah with the statement, “Holy, holy, holy is God, the whole earth is full of God’s glory.”  The approach of awe is, as Heschel said, the beginning of wisdom.  This is one approach to the world.  Another is curiosity.

Curiosity is to observe the world, question it, and measure it through experimentation to more fully know it.  This is the scientific method, and we use it every day to penetrate the mystery that is the world.  The British physicist Brian Cox describes this approach as, “Interrogating nature to try and understand it.”

In the Rabbi Nahman parable, if awe is looking at the letter while holding a recognition of the king, then curiosity is studying the letter, the world, to better know the king.  If awe is the beginning of wisdom, curiosity is the beginning of knowledge.  The paradox is to both stand in awe of the world and to be actively curious about the world.  The more curious we are, the more we can stand in awe and feel the great joy of the prince.  One of the most curious humans to have ever lived, Albert Einstein, professed a belief in a God who, in his words, “Reveals himself in the harmony of all that exists.”  A God who, “Reveals itself in the world of experience.”

The lenses of awe and curiosity are useful in viewing the world, but the question remains, how do we use them?  This is a question for which I do not have a full answer.  But, within the parshat ha’shavuah, there is a lesson in how to live life in a way that we can apply the lenses of awe and curiosity.  Like Abraham and Sarah, we can put ourselves into a position to curiously explore and experience awesomely the mystery, by going!  Lekh Lekha!  Anybody who has been in Israel for more than a day appreciates how ingrained lekh lekha is in the Jewish consciousness.  We are a people on the move and it all began with Abram and Sarai.  Abram and his family start the parsha in modern day Iraq, travel through Syria, arrive in Israel at Shechem, head toward Bethel, and then down into the Negev.  They then went down into Egypt, back up into the Negev, and then back toward Bethel.  Abram’s nephew Lot and his family head east toward the Jordan River, Abram stays put for a brief moment, and then travels to Hebron.  Abram then raises an army to rescue Lot from a few raiding kings, chasing them north of Damascus before returning again to Israel.  This exhausting itinerary is the first three chapters of the Parsha, and it will take another three chapters of action before Abram and Sarai become Abraham and Sarah.  By going, by doing, by experiencing, the first Jews are able to live a life so fully that here we are talking about it 3,700 years later, and we should only be so lucky to follow their example.

The dominant approach of Abraham and the Bible is awe: A grand awe before the world, a recognition of the ineffable holiness that lies both within and beyond our experienced world.  Curiosity is not the dominant biblical approach, and in the ancient world curiosity was more closely identified with the Greeks.  But, since we are Reconstructionists and of two civilizations, I think it is important to include the Greek method, curiosity, alongside the biblical method, awe.  I believe they are complementary, one leads directly to another and then back to the other.

A quick story of a time where I pursued a curiosity to a point of awe by going and doing: I spent two weeks this past summer leading a group of twelve Jewish teenagers on an adventure through southern Utah.  We went to Zion national park, Bryce canyon, and then finally to Arches national park.  One night in Arches, we were finishing up dinner as the sun finished setting, and a park ranger pulled me aside to let me know that there was a ranger activity starting in 30 minutes, and the kids might like to go.  She said that the program would explain how the sandstone arches, some almost 300 feet in width and 150 feet tall, formed over time.  After a 110 degree day of hiking through these arches, I excitedly told the ranger that we would all gladly hike to the presentation.  There, we learned how, over 300 million years ago, an ancient ocean evaporated, leaving an unstable salt bed that was eventually covered by a mile of rock.  The salt bed dramatically pushed some of the rock upwards, and wind and water erosion chiseled the looser rock away, leaving the magnificent and unstable arches that we experienced.  My curiosity in the formation of the arches brought me to a place of awe, in a similar way to the prince studying the letter from the king.  And, like the prince, I felt a great joy.

So, I ask you, during what activities, in what places, in what times, do you experience an awe that brings you great joy?  What curiosities lead you to that point of awe?  Please turn to the people around you and think together about, as we begin our journey through the yearly cycle of Torah, what adventures would you like to pursue this year to bring you to a place of awe and joy?

Some Thoughts from Israel (11/1/2014)

1) On Monday afternoon, my RRC class took a field trip to Mount Herzl. Our teacher guided us through how Israel established a civic religion in its early days to promote a national identity, and we experienced how that identity changed over time.  Overlooking Yad va’shem, we analyzed the national calendar to see that after the Exodus during Passover, a short time passes before Holocaust memorial day.  After that day, a week, or a shiva, passes before memorial day and then independence day, as if to state that the Jews wandered in exile, faced some tough times, and then gained freedom on the backs of those who fought.  We learned about the right wing’s successful fight to re-inter Jabotinsky on the mountain (over Ben Gurion’s dead body) once the labor movement lost power,  We saw the new memorials to the Moroccan Jews and the Ethiopian Jews and the long-overdue recognition of the non-white Israeli experience.  We saw how the graves of fallen soldiers evolved over time from faceless and conforming military style graves to graves overflowing with pictures, quotes, anecdotes, and mementos.  And I stood frozen ten feet away from a young man, younger than me, as he smoked a big joint and sat stunned, stoned, and teary-eyed by one of the fresh graves from this summer’s battle in Gaza.  This was a new grave, so it was not faceless, and there was a
purple beret resting on the face: The same color beret that my friend wears.
2) On Sunday, I went to the beach with Nathan (my roommate and
classmate).  I sat and watched two beautiful young women show up to my left and two not so beautiful young men show up to my right.  As the women were settling in, one of the guys picked up a frisbee and threw it right at the girls.  The other guy ran out in front of it, turned around halfway through his run to flash a double thumbs up to his friend, ducked so the frisbee went over his head, let it hit one of the girls in the back, and then struck up a conversation with them.
The conversation lasted about 10 seconds, and he sauntered back to his friend.  On his way, he saw me laughing, and yelled at me in Hebrew. I told him that it was a good effort, although a bit obvious.  He didn’t find it funny. The week before on the beach, Nathan and I watched as a Russian tourist approached a beautiful young woman by herself.  He asked her if she had a boyfriend.  She said yes in American English.  He asked if she “wants to change him.”  She said no.  He griped about how US sanctions aren’t hurting the Russian government and are just hurting the common people, and then he walked away.  I said to her, “That was pretty funny and painful to experience from over here, how was that for you?”  And I made a new friend.
3) On Monday evening, Nathan and I took the bus from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv after a long day of classes and the field trip to the cemetery on Mount Herzl.  We were almost the last ones on the bus and we ended up in the fourth to last row.  Everyone else knew better.  Occupying the back of the bus were a group of 10-15 kippah clad, Beitar scarf wearing, teenage boy soccer fans.  In Israel, Beitar sports teams are identified with right wing politics, and have been since the days of Jabotinsky and Menachem Begin.  That night, Beitar Jerusalem was playing Ha’Poel Tel Aviv, the club identified with left wing politics.  As soon as the bus left the station, they started obnoxiously singing and banging on the windows.  I couldn’t quite follow their Hebrew, but the chants sounded like standard ‘go team go’ chants.  I put in my headphones and tried to fall asleep.  About ten minutes into the ride, one of the two young women sitting behind me all of a sudden became very angry and told them to shut up.  They didn’t listen and they made fun of her.  The other young woman went to the front and talked with the bus driver.  The boys kept singing, and I caught the words ‘communists’ and ‘gays.’  The two adult Beitar fans in front of me were smiling.  The young women threatened to call the police, the boys did not stop, and the police were called.  At the only bus-stop between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, the bus driver calmly told the boys to shut up.  They did not listen.  A middle-aged man from the middle of the bus came back and screamed at the boys, they did not listen.  In the next round of singing, I caught the word for ‘Arabs.’  One young woman called the police again, and the other stood up, started to walk away, and started crying.  The teenagers saw her crying and finally started to quiet.  I asked her why she was crying.  She said that she was upset because the boys were singing, “Death to communists, gays, and Arabs.”  She was a kibbutznik fresh out of the army working as a rappelling guide at Mitzpeh Ramon, the big crater outside of Be’er Sheva in the Negev.  The adult Beitar fans in front of me smugly asked her why this made her upset.  After all, the Arabs wanted them dead, so… fuck them.  She asked if they had any Arab friends, and they didn’t.  They were wearing kippahs, so she asked them what the core of Judaism is and quickly told them that it is to love your neighbor as yourself.  They said that the Palestinians are living on their land and keep trying to kill them.  Another middle aged man from the middle of the bus came back and tried to explain why blanket statements about all Arabs are wrong.  The Beitar fans challenged him to bring them one Palestinian who recognized their right to exist.  He listed several, but they did not care.  People in Israel pretend like facts matter here, they really don’t.  Those guys weren’t angry, ignorant, or misinformed, they were hurt.  The kibbutznik cried and the Beitar fans screamed as we pulled into Tel Aviv.

4) I try to go to the gym once a day.  There are a few free outdoor gyms on the beach to choose from.  My favorite one is in front of the Renaissance hotel, and I like to go there when the sun is setting over the sea.  This is when the athletes show up.   One day, there was a small group of mean looking Hispanic boxers.  They shadow boxed, did one-handed pull-ups, and hand-stand pull-ups.  There is almost always a tall athlete who looks like he played ACC basketball.  I can’t help but stare at the stab wounds in his lower back.  On the volleyball courts next to the gym, there is usually a game of two on two hands-free volleyball happening.  These guys are able to play volleyball with their feet, chests, and heads better than I can with my hands.  It is one of the more impressive things I’ve ever seen. Tuesday evening, there was a lean Arab man at the gym, about my height, without an ounce of body fat, exercising on the pull-up bar. He patiently waited in line until it was his turn, and then when it was his turn, everyone at the gym stopped to watch him.  He pushed himself over the bar and did vertical push-ups.  He then put his body in front of the bar, perpendicular to the ground, with the bar in front of his elbows and behind his back, and spun back-wards around the bar until he cared to stop, at which point his body was parallel to the ground until he was ready to let go and allow the next fat tourist a chance to attempt a pull-up.

5) Last Thursday, a teacher of mine laughed at me when I told him that I wear a suit on Shabbat at Shul.  Another student called me James Bond.