Hi, everyone and anyone who has been patiently checking this site.
August raced to a close, and sabbatical time has ended. I had looked forward to seeing beloved congregants, students, and spiritual companions -- all of whom I wished could have been with us for the best of our Israel time. The return has been extraordinarily beautiful, warm, and inspiring.
It's been a while since we posted. I could not have imagined how difficult it would be to manage both the deep sadness of leaving Israel and the exhaustion we felt upon our arrival back in the city.These have been days of soul-searching, intense learning, and a determined effort to apply complex lessons learned over the last three months.
I wanted to thank you for following our Israel journey and also ask whether you had any interest in continuing this exchange, which has been enormously rewarding. (I confess to being astonished by the number of hits on our site.) I'd like to keep the promise we made to continue sharing the reflections on our time in Israel which we simply had no time to post.
If you are interested, please use the "Comment" feature to let me know -- it would be a pleasure to continue.
I hope you have had a wonderful season -- it seems we missed most of the first Winnipeg summer in memory to have been virtually mosquito-free.
Yours,
Rabbi Larry
Monday, September 05, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Incident on a Haifa Beach
While spending a few hours Friday afternoon on one of Haifa's Mediterranean beaches, Laurelle spotted two children struggling in the waves. Even though the beach was monitored by lifeguards and there were others observing what was happening, it was Laurelle who went to their aid. She kept them from drowning long enough for two bystanders summoned by Keithen -- the lifeguards had remained oblivious to both Laurelle's and Keithen's calls -- to come to her aid.
In fact the struggle to survive the rough water was so intense that Laurelle was exhausted and unable to return to shore herself. Keithen brought her to shore.
When she returned to our apartment and filled me in on what had happened, she said that the two boys were approximately ages five and seven, and were evidently at the beach unsupervised. The clueless lifeguards never saw the drama unfold. The children, who had clung to Laurelle as she struggled to bring them to shallower water and safety-- and had imperiled her -- left without even thanking her. I doubt their parents will ever know what happened to their children. Did I mention that the two children turned out to be Israeli Arabs?
Gratitude to the One Who grants strength to those who have survived peril. I am grateful she is alive. She and Keithen are unsung heroes. I am grateful they are both alive.
A peaceful Shabbat to everyone.
Rabbi Larry
In fact the struggle to survive the rough water was so intense that Laurelle was exhausted and unable to return to shore herself. Keithen brought her to shore.
When she returned to our apartment and filled me in on what had happened, she said that the two boys were approximately ages five and seven, and were evidently at the beach unsupervised. The clueless lifeguards never saw the drama unfold. The children, who had clung to Laurelle as she struggled to bring them to shallower water and safety-- and had imperiled her -- left without even thanking her. I doubt their parents will ever know what happened to their children. Did I mention that the two children turned out to be Israeli Arabs?
Gratitude to the One Who grants strength to those who have survived peril. I am grateful she is alive. She and Keithen are unsung heroes. I am grateful they are both alive.
A peaceful Shabbat to everyone.
Rabbi Larry
Monday, July 25, 2011
One of the challenges of our stay thus far has been reading maps in the two cities in which we've been living. Maps of cities on hills like Jerusalem and Haifa display streets on a two-dimensional grid -- but unless the map has a topographical key, you may not realize that what appears to be a smooth line is really a street that ascends and descends in the midst of breathtaking forested vistas. Spiralling ascents appear as motifs in ancient wall paintings and as symbols in advertising for luxury apartment complexes.
It's been that way for a while now: moody whorls surrounding crystalline moments. Before we left Jerusalem we made another visit to the Kotel plaza and also to the "Burnt House" and its sister site, the Wohl Archaeological Museum, which contains more antiquities from the time of Herod the Great -- mikvaot [plural of mikvah, ritual baths], two smaller houses whose floors are decorated with still-vivid mosaic floors, and most spectacularly the ruins of the palatial house of an extended priestly family containing multiple mikvaot, rooms tiled and decorated with more mosaics, and remarkable cisterns for storing water for ritual bathing, hygiene, cooking, sleeping, and so on. With what once were clear views of the Second Temple, both the Burnt House and the residences in the Herodian museum would have been inhabited by families deeply invested in the daily conduct of Temple affairs. The Bar Kathros family whose home was destroyed by the Romans during the destruction of the Second Temple and whose lives were likely ended there (the bones of a young woman's severed arm were found, together with an iron spear point, as well as implements marked "Bar Kathros") are mentioned in Talmud, in Pesachim -- along with some unpleasant remarks about them and several other priestly families who allegedly abused their authority.
We expected to race through these exhibits, but instead found ourselves lingering and demanding more of these silent stones, tiles, and plaster. Laurelle pored over each sign and placard, softly reading sections of each. We were blessed to be the only tourists for much of our walk through the Wohl Museum; the quiet lent a note of reverence to every footstep. Keithen, ever the explorer and adventurer, for his part led us to overlooks and new perspectives not readily spotted from the prescribed path: a stairway descending into one of the cisterns with an unusually-small mikvah built at the head of the stairs.
When I first visited Jerusalem, these ruins were all part of excavations of the "Jewish Quarter"; everything was exposed to the elements. The sites are now three to seven meters below street level, and above them the Jewish Quarter has been rebuilt. The Wohl Museum is located under a yeshiva [think of it as a Jewish seminary and school for ongoing sacred studies], and the Burnt House in a separate venue. To emerge from reimagining ancient priestly life into the light of ongoing modern Israel is an extraordinary experience.
We also made our way to Hezekiah's Tunnel to make our way down the waterway; on our first visit someone in the group ahead of us had fainted within the narrow descending waterway and an emergency medical team had to extract him/her. The number of people already in the tunnel was so large that we who had been waiting to descend were diverted to a nearby exit or to a dry, parallel tunnel.
We'd promised ourselves a return to complete the water tunnel. The flow of people descending was steady, but luck plays a big factor in how we experienced this remarkable feat of engineering. The evidence is that King Hezekiah's tunnel engineers started from two different directions -- one team chiseling upward, and the other downward from the plateau of the City of David [not to be confused with the current "Old City of Jerusalem" -- this is where David and Solomon established the ANCIENT city of Jerusalem which later expanded and became the site now surrounded by walls built during the Ottoman Empire about 400-450 years ago]. Hezekiah commanded that the tunnel be built in preparation for a long siege that he anticipated the city would face when the Assyrians attacked.
Along the way you can see places where the workers veered off the mark, stopped, and reclaimed the correct upward path, and, of course, there is a place which is marked where the tunnelers met upon completing the aqueduct. [The plaque put in place over 2700 years ago was discovered and placed in the Israel Museum.] Archaeologists have pretty much figured out how the project was accomplished without modern technology: it is possible to stand on the surface of the hill and, putting an ear to the limestone karst, hear the sounds of chiselling far underground.
The water tunnel is so narrow that it barely permits adults enough space to turn around. People are advised to wear footwear suitable for walking in water, which ranges on an adult from just above ankle depth to mid-thigh. The water is a cold, steady, clear stream through which you can see remnants of ancient plaster that once lined parts of the waterway. In places the height of the channel shrank enough to require us to stoop for varying distances.
Unfortunately we made our descent in the company of several dozen teenagers from the U.S. who thought it was cool to fill most of the 533-metre tunnel with noise -- their repertoire consisting largely of camp songs ("999 Bottles of Beer..."; medleys of half-remembered pop lyrics, chauvinistic youth group slogans, and so on). Ahead of us was an Orthodox Israeli guiding his brother and nephew, proudly sharing his considerable knowledge of the tunnel and its history, legend, and lore. He had graciously invited us to join them -- but nothing much mattered when the wall of sound erupted from behind us. I periodically fell back and asked the teens' madrichim to quiet them, but nothing escapes teen spirit. About two-thirds of the way down the tunnel, I stepped back and told them that I would block the tunnel and prevent people from moving forward if they didn't shut up.
It worked for a while -- long enough to imagine what it would have been like working the darkness with hammer and chisel by the light of olive oil lamps. As we approached the exit, the height of the tunnel soared, and we realized that they must have had visions of the whole channel being something like that lower cavity. Their plans surely changed as they realized the work involved.
Emerging at the end from the damp and chill into the heat and light of the valley -- Siloam (an Arabic corruption of the Hebrew Shiloh) -- we were back in 21st century Jerusalem. On the short shuttle uphill to the entrance of the City of David archaeological site, I thought about the families settled in this area -- mainly Arabs with a smattering of determined Jewish refugees from Arab countries, eking out a living in occupations over centuries, and all the while sitting on the remarkable hidden archaeological treasures beneath the surface. Eilat Mazar, daughter of Binyamin Mazar, who is responsible for much of what has been discovered, deserves an extraordinary note of appreciation for her persistence, vision, and genius in bringing this ancient centre of civilization to light.
More to come....
Hope you are well, and, again, thanks for your patience.
Rabbi Larry
We'd promised ourselves a return to complete the water tunnel. The flow of people descending was steady, but luck plays a big factor in how we experienced this remarkable feat of engineering. The evidence is that King Hezekiah's tunnel engineers started from two different directions -- one team chiseling upward, and the other downward from the plateau of the City of David [not to be confused with the current "Old City of Jerusalem" -- this is where David and Solomon established the ANCIENT city of Jerusalem which later expanded and became the site now surrounded by walls built during the Ottoman Empire about 400-450 years ago]. Hezekiah commanded that the tunnel be built in preparation for a long siege that he anticipated the city would face when the Assyrians attacked.
Along the way you can see places where the workers veered off the mark, stopped, and reclaimed the correct upward path, and, of course, there is a place which is marked where the tunnelers met upon completing the aqueduct. [The plaque put in place over 2700 years ago was discovered and placed in the Israel Museum.] Archaeologists have pretty much figured out how the project was accomplished without modern technology: it is possible to stand on the surface of the hill and, putting an ear to the limestone karst, hear the sounds of chiselling far underground.
The water tunnel is so narrow that it barely permits adults enough space to turn around. People are advised to wear footwear suitable for walking in water, which ranges on an adult from just above ankle depth to mid-thigh. The water is a cold, steady, clear stream through which you can see remnants of ancient plaster that once lined parts of the waterway. In places the height of the channel shrank enough to require us to stoop for varying distances.
Unfortunately we made our descent in the company of several dozen teenagers from the U.S. who thought it was cool to fill most of the 533-metre tunnel with noise -- their repertoire consisting largely of camp songs ("999 Bottles of Beer..."; medleys of half-remembered pop lyrics, chauvinistic youth group slogans, and so on). Ahead of us was an Orthodox Israeli guiding his brother and nephew, proudly sharing his considerable knowledge of the tunnel and its history, legend, and lore. He had graciously invited us to join them -- but nothing much mattered when the wall of sound erupted from behind us. I periodically fell back and asked the teens' madrichim to quiet them, but nothing escapes teen spirit. About two-thirds of the way down the tunnel, I stepped back and told them that I would block the tunnel and prevent people from moving forward if they didn't shut up.
It worked for a while -- long enough to imagine what it would have been like working the darkness with hammer and chisel by the light of olive oil lamps. As we approached the exit, the height of the tunnel soared, and we realized that they must have had visions of the whole channel being something like that lower cavity. Their plans surely changed as they realized the work involved.
Emerging at the end from the damp and chill into the heat and light of the valley -- Siloam (an Arabic corruption of the Hebrew Shiloh) -- we were back in 21st century Jerusalem. On the short shuttle uphill to the entrance of the City of David archaeological site, I thought about the families settled in this area -- mainly Arabs with a smattering of determined Jewish refugees from Arab countries, eking out a living in occupations over centuries, and all the while sitting on the remarkable hidden archaeological treasures beneath the surface. Eilat Mazar, daughter of Binyamin Mazar, who is responsible for much of what has been discovered, deserves an extraordinary note of appreciation for her persistence, vision, and genius in bringing this ancient centre of civilization to light.
More to come....
Hope you are well, and, again, thanks for your patience.
Rabbi Larry
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Surprises and Delays
Sorry it's been almost a week since the last post. Everyone is, thank God, well, but, with the exception of Keithen, not well-rested for good reasons.
It's been late days, wonderful encounters with old and new friends, fondly-remembered places, more discoveries about the influence of time upon the landscape of Jerusalem, and simple exhaustion at day's end, followed by early starts the very next day. Hartman Institute classes ended, but the readings and conversations did not conclude with the last class; after services, in restaurants, walking on the streets, the lessons continue.
It's been emotionally and physically taxing. For example, after a long, deeply moving day at Yad Vashem, the memorial to the Holocaust, we left shortly before the entire facility was emptied because of a forest fire (apparently deliberately set) that sent dense smoke across much of Jerusalem and coated everything with ash.
Another day in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City was also emotionally challenging: I remembered that area -- including the Churva Synagogue -- as a place of ruins and archaeological digs, and to see what has been done to renew, restore, and inspire a sense of the "Long Now" that is Jewish time left me drained in yet another, different way.
All of this begs more time for writing and I hope you will bear with me -- our schedule is shifting and we will be able to share more in the next day or two.
Yours,
Rabbi Larry
It's been late days, wonderful encounters with old and new friends, fondly-remembered places, more discoveries about the influence of time upon the landscape of Jerusalem, and simple exhaustion at day's end, followed by early starts the very next day. Hartman Institute classes ended, but the readings and conversations did not conclude with the last class; after services, in restaurants, walking on the streets, the lessons continue.
It's been emotionally and physically taxing. For example, after a long, deeply moving day at Yad Vashem, the memorial to the Holocaust, we left shortly before the entire facility was emptied because of a forest fire (apparently deliberately set) that sent dense smoke across much of Jerusalem and coated everything with ash.
Another day in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City was also emotionally challenging: I remembered that area -- including the Churva Synagogue -- as a place of ruins and archaeological digs, and to see what has been done to renew, restore, and inspire a sense of the "Long Now" that is Jewish time left me drained in yet another, different way.
All of this begs more time for writing and I hope you will bear with me -- our schedule is shifting and we will be able to share more in the next day or two.
Yours,
Rabbi Larry
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Beauty in the Mundane
Hello friends!
So far this week has been...interesting.
After spending a wonderful Shabbat with friends after davening at Shira Hadasha once again, the week commenced with a walk and ice cream to start the week just after dark. I have to admit it was romantic, strolling hand in hand with Rabbi Larry, in the moonlight.
Yom Rishon, Sunday was met with another of Larry's marathon days at Hartman, so Keithen and I set out by bus for Tel Aviv. I had a lovely chat with a widow from New Jersey about the merits of teaching Shakespeare in Grade 9 (she was an English teacher), our only children, and the longing to live in Israel even though that seems impossible right now. She helped us find our way into the Central Bus Station, and with little difficulty, made our way through the various levels and were on our way!
We had a rather disappointing trip to the Eretz Israel Museum -- I think we are now spoiled after the magnificence of the Israel Museum, freshly reopened after a 100 million dollar renovation and expansion. We shopped a little, then spent a relaxing afternoon on the beach before heading home, a little crisp around the edges but tired and happy.
Where last week was a week of feeling, this has been a week of stimulation with the entry point being the mind.
Larry is immersed in his studies about Jewish Peoplehood with brilliant teachers and fellow students at the Shalom Hartman Institute, and had the opportunity on Monday to participate in a tiyul that went all over the West Bank, visiting settlements, a new, exciting planned Palestinian city which is in the early stages of construction and will creates tens of thousands of homes and permanent jobs upon completion, and meeting with a former military officer who was personally responsible for the design, placement, and maintenance of the security wall/fence. He had a wonderful time and learned much more from all perspectives about the facts on the ground and heard much speculation about how Palestine's entrance into the UN as a member state may affect everything about how folks live in this part of the world, for better or worse, short and long term.
Unfortunately, Larry pinched nerve in his lower back (12 hours on a bullet-proof bus will do that to you), and had to spend Tuesday in bed. Larry is now back to his studies, though moving gingerly and not walking distances for the next little while. Though he accepted that he had to stop for a while, I could tell that Rabbi Larry was itching to be studying, not wanting to miss a thought or nuance on a perspective already held.
Larry was certainly well enough to insist (Did I say insist? I think the actual words were "If you don't go I am going to be really angry and upset with you; you have to do this for me." How can I say no in the face of the type of Jewish guilt typically reserved for use by the mothers of teen-aged sons? -- loving manipulation at its most brilliant) that I attend a special evening at the Israel Museum with the Hartman group and many spouses even though he was not well enough himself Tuesday evening.
It was a lovely evening which commenced with a talk by the curator of the Shrine of the Book about the metaphoric placement of the Israel Museum in the centre of "life" in West Jerusalem together with the Knesset, Supreme Court and Hebrew University (as opposed to the metaphoric centre of "death" in the location of Yad Vashem and other sites. We then had the option of attending various curator-led tours -- I attended a tour of the archaeology wing which was fascinating, as the discussion not only focused on the artifacts but on the placement decisions within the sprawling exhibit and what items were removed and which remained (the overall collections were reduced by 30% with the renovation by design, and the collection is displayed with exquisite thought and care).
We then proceeded to an outdoor patio overlooking the hills and valley to the east, with the setting sun behind us making the Jerusalem limestone glow, and were treated to talk by the Director of the museum, James Snyder. Those of you who are museum fans may recall that he was responsible for the redesign of MOMA in the 1990s. Again, we were were exposed to a brilliant talk about the design and curatorial decisions which have rendered the Israel Museum one of the top museums in the world. Then we finally were able to eat an exquisite meal with steak, chicken, salmon, falafel, eggplant, and more, all under the stars of Jerusalem. I have to admit I was glad Larry made me go...
Last night, a final feast for the mind came in the form of a 2 hour lecture and question/answer session with Ambassador Daniel Kurtzer. My description of his credentials won't do him justice, so here is a part of his bio from the Princeton University website, where he is now a professor in Middle Eastern Policy Studies:
"Following a 29-year career in the U.S. Foreign Service, Daniel C. Kurtzer retired in 2005 with the rank of Career-Minister. From 2001-2005 he served as the United States Ambassador to Israel and from 1997-2001 as the United States Ambassador to Egypt. He served as a political officer at the American embassies in Cairo and Tel Aviv, Deputy Director of the Office of Egyptian Affairs, speechwriter on the Policy Planning Staff, Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs, and Principal Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Intelligence and Research. Throughout his career, Kurtzer was instrumental in formulating and executing U.S. policy toward the Middle East peace process. He crafted the 1988 peace initiative of Secretary of State George P. Shultz, and in 1991 served as a member of the U.S. peace team that brought about the Madrid Peace Conference. Subsequently, he served as coordinator of the multilateral peace negotiations and as the U.S. Representative in the Multilateral Refugee Working Group."
Needless to say, we had an amazing opportunity to hear Professor Kurtzer's thoughts on Palestine's entry to the UN, the possible implications for Israel, how we may get to a creative two state negotiated solution and how this may be delayed -- or even possibly hasten -- the advent of a negotiated resolution to this particular mid-east issue. He dispelled common misunderstandings and raised questions that were thought-provoking, intelligent, and timely. He also talked about how, depending on how Palestinian entry into the UN is handled by all parties involved, it has the potential to create positive international changes for Israel at the UN (but you know what they say about potential). Rabbi Larry and I have not finished digesting the material we were presented with last night, but we will definitely be talking about this more, here or in another forum, soon.
There is hopefulness in the air here -- and trepidation. What I find most fascinating, though, is that many people, Israeli, American, Canadian, all share the common desire for peace and prosperity for Israelis and for Palestinians as well as their states.
So far this week has been...interesting.
After spending a wonderful Shabbat with friends after davening at Shira Hadasha once again, the week commenced with a walk and ice cream to start the week just after dark. I have to admit it was romantic, strolling hand in hand with Rabbi Larry, in the moonlight.
Yom Rishon, Sunday was met with another of Larry's marathon days at Hartman, so Keithen and I set out by bus for Tel Aviv. I had a lovely chat with a widow from New Jersey about the merits of teaching Shakespeare in Grade 9 (she was an English teacher), our only children, and the longing to live in Israel even though that seems impossible right now. She helped us find our way into the Central Bus Station, and with little difficulty, made our way through the various levels and were on our way!
We had a rather disappointing trip to the Eretz Israel Museum -- I think we are now spoiled after the magnificence of the Israel Museum, freshly reopened after a 100 million dollar renovation and expansion. We shopped a little, then spent a relaxing afternoon on the beach before heading home, a little crisp around the edges but tired and happy.
Where last week was a week of feeling, this has been a week of stimulation with the entry point being the mind.
Larry is immersed in his studies about Jewish Peoplehood with brilliant teachers and fellow students at the Shalom Hartman Institute, and had the opportunity on Monday to participate in a tiyul that went all over the West Bank, visiting settlements, a new, exciting planned Palestinian city which is in the early stages of construction and will creates tens of thousands of homes and permanent jobs upon completion, and meeting with a former military officer who was personally responsible for the design, placement, and maintenance of the security wall/fence. He had a wonderful time and learned much more from all perspectives about the facts on the ground and heard much speculation about how Palestine's entrance into the UN as a member state may affect everything about how folks live in this part of the world, for better or worse, short and long term.
Unfortunately, Larry pinched nerve in his lower back (12 hours on a bullet-proof bus will do that to you), and had to spend Tuesday in bed. Larry is now back to his studies, though moving gingerly and not walking distances for the next little while. Though he accepted that he had to stop for a while, I could tell that Rabbi Larry was itching to be studying, not wanting to miss a thought or nuance on a perspective already held.
Larry was certainly well enough to insist (Did I say insist? I think the actual words were "If you don't go I am going to be really angry and upset with you; you have to do this for me." How can I say no in the face of the type of Jewish guilt typically reserved for use by the mothers of teen-aged sons? -- loving manipulation at its most brilliant) that I attend a special evening at the Israel Museum with the Hartman group and many spouses even though he was not well enough himself Tuesday evening.
It was a lovely evening which commenced with a talk by the curator of the Shrine of the Book about the metaphoric placement of the Israel Museum in the centre of "life" in West Jerusalem together with the Knesset, Supreme Court and Hebrew University (as opposed to the metaphoric centre of "death" in the location of Yad Vashem and other sites. We then had the option of attending various curator-led tours -- I attended a tour of the archaeology wing which was fascinating, as the discussion not only focused on the artifacts but on the placement decisions within the sprawling exhibit and what items were removed and which remained (the overall collections were reduced by 30% with the renovation by design, and the collection is displayed with exquisite thought and care).
We then proceeded to an outdoor patio overlooking the hills and valley to the east, with the setting sun behind us making the Jerusalem limestone glow, and were treated to talk by the Director of the museum, James Snyder. Those of you who are museum fans may recall that he was responsible for the redesign of MOMA in the 1990s. Again, we were were exposed to a brilliant talk about the design and curatorial decisions which have rendered the Israel Museum one of the top museums in the world. Then we finally were able to eat an exquisite meal with steak, chicken, salmon, falafel, eggplant, and more, all under the stars of Jerusalem. I have to admit I was glad Larry made me go...
Last night, a final feast for the mind came in the form of a 2 hour lecture and question/answer session with Ambassador Daniel Kurtzer. My description of his credentials won't do him justice, so here is a part of his bio from the Princeton University website, where he is now a professor in Middle Eastern Policy Studies:
"Following a 29-year career in the U.S. Foreign Service, Daniel C. Kurtzer retired in 2005 with the rank of Career-Minister. From 2001-2005 he served as the United States Ambassador to Israel and from 1997-2001 as the United States Ambassador to Egypt. He served as a political officer at the American embassies in Cairo and Tel Aviv, Deputy Director of the Office of Egyptian Affairs, speechwriter on the Policy Planning Staff, Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs, and Principal Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Intelligence and Research. Throughout his career, Kurtzer was instrumental in formulating and executing U.S. policy toward the Middle East peace process. He crafted the 1988 peace initiative of Secretary of State George P. Shultz, and in 1991 served as a member of the U.S. peace team that brought about the Madrid Peace Conference. Subsequently, he served as coordinator of the multilateral peace negotiations and as the U.S. Representative in the Multilateral Refugee Working Group."
Needless to say, we had an amazing opportunity to hear Professor Kurtzer's thoughts on Palestine's entry to the UN, the possible implications for Israel, how we may get to a creative two state negotiated solution and how this may be delayed -- or even possibly hasten -- the advent of a negotiated resolution to this particular mid-east issue. He dispelled common misunderstandings and raised questions that were thought-provoking, intelligent, and timely. He also talked about how, depending on how Palestinian entry into the UN is handled by all parties involved, it has the potential to create positive international changes for Israel at the UN (but you know what they say about potential). Rabbi Larry and I have not finished digesting the material we were presented with last night, but we will definitely be talking about this more, here or in another forum, soon.
There is hopefulness in the air here -- and trepidation. What I find most fascinating, though, is that many people, Israeli, American, Canadian, all share the common desire for peace and prosperity for Israelis and for Palestinians as well as their states.
Monday, July 11, 2011
What Makes Me Cry
Since I have been here, two things have made me cry. Okay,three things.
The Friday before last, we climbed Masada. Those of you who know me well are aware that I take great joy in planning, but, reasonably philosophical about these things, also know that plans are just that -- plans. A scheme. Blueprint. Recipe meant as a guide, not to be followed with precision. In this case, that mindset was a good thing, as the only thing that went according to plan was that all three of us were at the gate waiting for entrance to Masada at 4:27 a.m. -- three minutes early than scheduled, environmentally-responsible wind-up flashlights in hand.
The first of a few to gain entrance so early, we started the long climb up the snake path in the dark. The literature says this climb takes 45 minutes to an hour. We were doing well, sentinels for those behind us -- and then the tour buses arrived, filled with kids from all over America on a national Federation trip. Those walks up and down the hills of Jerusalem, our hike in Ein Gedi -- nothing prepared us for the difficulty of the trip that our ancestors made in defiance of the Romans 2000 years ago.
Light began to visit us, and the kids began to overtake us -- first a few, and then we were overtaken even by the stragglers -- you know, the ones with asthma or other ailments. Keithen, embarrassed by his out-of-shape parents, joined a group and left us behind, occasionally calling to us to encourage us to continue the climb. Larry and I were each other's cheerleaders, and, though the morning sun (glorious sun!) broke over the mountains of Moab, (the reddest and the most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen) before we reached the top of Masada, we made it -- eventually.
Larry and I paused three quarters of the way up, shared a hug and a kiss - shvitz and all - and a little teary, I said a Shehechiyanu blessing and the blessing for wonders of nature. Then, with Keithen far above us, had him say one, too -- for races to the top are well and good, but not at the expense of the wonder of the journey. I cried a little.
I have to admit that there were moments for both Larry and me where we thought we might not make it, but with the encouragement of the other, we made it just after 6:00 a.m! If I thought that I couldn't be more moved than witnessing the sunrise, imagine me, with Larry and Keithen at the top of Masada, looking out over the Dead Sea, crying out the depth of my feeling as a Jew in a way I truly did not anticipate. I have never felt so completely connected to Am Israel, those that came long before, those of us here, now, or those whose souls have not yet been realized in this world. I have not felt so close to the way we must have felt at Sinai as I did since the day I emerged from the mikveh for the first time -- and maybe not even then. On that occasion, I only tasted in the water and the air what Peoplehood could mean -- and then, atop Masada, my connection to my People was realized.
I have been transformed.
Then, one year and one day after Keithen's bar mitzvah, I was able to daven with a friend at the Kotel with Women of the Wall. I have to admit it was a little intimidating. As the women gathered at the back of the women's section, some wearing tallitot wrapped like scarves around necks, others worn with tzitzit in front in defiance of the rules laid down at the Kotel (the defiance of which can mean an arrest and criminal charges) I watched nervously as two police officers faced us. One police officer, a woman, had a video camera and taped us as we began to daven.
If that didn't make me nervous enough, I also I felt out of sorts -- I brought a siddur from the apartment, but it was all in Hebrew and, as I have learned since being in Israel, only in North America do we all use the same siddur or have someone call out pages number (smile). I muddled along, until my friend arrived and shared with me a siddur with an English translation which helped me stay on track with the Hebrew.
But then, we came to the Shema and then the Amidah. As the voices of the women blended and harmonized, so too did the volume of the prayer from the other side of the mechitza trying to drown us out. A man started to scream, and though we couldn't see him or what he was doing, we heard commotion. I suddenly felt more secure as the police officer stood on a chair to video tape the disruption and others opened the mechitza and went to the men's side. The objections didn't come only from the men, though -- even one woman confronted us verbally.
The prayers of longing, praise and thanks took on a whole new meaning as here, in Eretz Israel, it was clear I -- we -- were not wanted in the form we came in, giving praise and thanksgiving to God from heart to blood to lungs to windpipe to vocal cords. Surely they could see that we, too, were made in God's image?
The protest to my(our) voices did not distract me as I thought it would. To my surprise, it crystallized my prayers. I opened my mouth wider, and let prayer come forth with everything in me and around me as I prayed as a Jew, as a wife, as a mother, as a daughter, sister, friend. If only those who cannot find room at the Kotel for all of the Jewish people praying in peace knew that they were making our prayers stronger and sweeter and more harmonious for God than they could have been otherwise, perhaps they would have rethought their tactics.
And, for the second time in three days, I cried.
So, what could be the third thing that made my cry since coming to Israel?
Keithen, who initially did not want to come on this trip, who has been questioning everything about God (including God's existence, as is normal, I suppose) surprised us this last Shabbat. He's been singing prayers here and there for a few days, and then, suddenly, though he's known the liturgy forever, he finally said, "I want to lead Kiddush for Shabbat". One year and one week after his bar mitzvah, he did it all, and did it flawlessly: lit the candles, made Kiddush, led us in washing hands and Motzi, sitting at the head of the table. Larry and I looked at each other across candles set aglow by more than matches, the flames magnified and reflected by the tears in our eyes and rolling down our faces.
Keithen, after letting us place our hands on him and accepting our invocation of God's blessing (a parent's greatest privilege), kissed us and drew us into one of his fabulous group hugs. Now that's a Shabbos.
With love,
Laurelle (aka Rebbetzin 'Relle)
The Friday before last, we climbed Masada. Those of you who know me well are aware that I take great joy in planning, but, reasonably philosophical about these things, also know that plans are just that -- plans. A scheme. Blueprint. Recipe meant as a guide, not to be followed with precision. In this case, that mindset was a good thing, as the only thing that went according to plan was that all three of us were at the gate waiting for entrance to Masada at 4:27 a.m. -- three minutes early than scheduled, environmentally-responsible wind-up flashlights in hand.
The first of a few to gain entrance so early, we started the long climb up the snake path in the dark. The literature says this climb takes 45 minutes to an hour. We were doing well, sentinels for those behind us -- and then the tour buses arrived, filled with kids from all over America on a national Federation trip. Those walks up and down the hills of Jerusalem, our hike in Ein Gedi -- nothing prepared us for the difficulty of the trip that our ancestors made in defiance of the Romans 2000 years ago.
Light began to visit us, and the kids began to overtake us -- first a few, and then we were overtaken even by the stragglers -- you know, the ones with asthma or other ailments. Keithen, embarrassed by his out-of-shape parents, joined a group and left us behind, occasionally calling to us to encourage us to continue the climb. Larry and I were each other's cheerleaders, and, though the morning sun (glorious sun!) broke over the mountains of Moab, (the reddest and the most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen) before we reached the top of Masada, we made it -- eventually.
Larry and I paused three quarters of the way up, shared a hug and a kiss - shvitz and all - and a little teary, I said a Shehechiyanu blessing and the blessing for wonders of nature. Then, with Keithen far above us, had him say one, too -- for races to the top are well and good, but not at the expense of the wonder of the journey. I cried a little.
I have to admit that there were moments for both Larry and me where we thought we might not make it, but with the encouragement of the other, we made it just after 6:00 a.m! If I thought that I couldn't be more moved than witnessing the sunrise, imagine me, with Larry and Keithen at the top of Masada, looking out over the Dead Sea, crying out the depth of my feeling as a Jew in a way I truly did not anticipate. I have never felt so completely connected to Am Israel, those that came long before, those of us here, now, or those whose souls have not yet been realized in this world. I have not felt so close to the way we must have felt at Sinai as I did since the day I emerged from the mikveh for the first time -- and maybe not even then. On that occasion, I only tasted in the water and the air what Peoplehood could mean -- and then, atop Masada, my connection to my People was realized.
I have been transformed.
Then, one year and one day after Keithen's bar mitzvah, I was able to daven with a friend at the Kotel with Women of the Wall. I have to admit it was a little intimidating. As the women gathered at the back of the women's section, some wearing tallitot wrapped like scarves around necks, others worn with tzitzit in front in defiance of the rules laid down at the Kotel (the defiance of which can mean an arrest and criminal charges) I watched nervously as two police officers faced us. One police officer, a woman, had a video camera and taped us as we began to daven.
If that didn't make me nervous enough, I also I felt out of sorts -- I brought a siddur from the apartment, but it was all in Hebrew and, as I have learned since being in Israel, only in North America do we all use the same siddur or have someone call out pages number (smile). I muddled along, until my friend arrived and shared with me a siddur with an English translation which helped me stay on track with the Hebrew.
But then, we came to the Shema and then the Amidah. As the voices of the women blended and harmonized, so too did the volume of the prayer from the other side of the mechitza trying to drown us out. A man started to scream, and though we couldn't see him or what he was doing, we heard commotion. I suddenly felt more secure as the police officer stood on a chair to video tape the disruption and others opened the mechitza and went to the men's side. The objections didn't come only from the men, though -- even one woman confronted us verbally.
The prayers of longing, praise and thanks took on a whole new meaning as here, in Eretz Israel, it was clear I -- we -- were not wanted in the form we came in, giving praise and thanksgiving to God from heart to blood to lungs to windpipe to vocal cords. Surely they could see that we, too, were made in God's image?
The protest to my(our) voices did not distract me as I thought it would. To my surprise, it crystallized my prayers. I opened my mouth wider, and let prayer come forth with everything in me and around me as I prayed as a Jew, as a wife, as a mother, as a daughter, sister, friend. If only those who cannot find room at the Kotel for all of the Jewish people praying in peace knew that they were making our prayers stronger and sweeter and more harmonious for God than they could have been otherwise, perhaps they would have rethought their tactics.
And, for the second time in three days, I cried.
So, what could be the third thing that made my cry since coming to Israel?
Keithen, who initially did not want to come on this trip, who has been questioning everything about God (including God's existence, as is normal, I suppose) surprised us this last Shabbat. He's been singing prayers here and there for a few days, and then, suddenly, though he's known the liturgy forever, he finally said, "I want to lead Kiddush for Shabbat". One year and one week after his bar mitzvah, he did it all, and did it flawlessly: lit the candles, made Kiddush, led us in washing hands and Motzi, sitting at the head of the table. Larry and I looked at each other across candles set aglow by more than matches, the flames magnified and reflected by the tears in our eyes and rolling down our faces.
Keithen, after letting us place our hands on him and accepting our invocation of God's blessing (a parent's greatest privilege), kissed us and drew us into one of his fabulous group hugs. Now that's a Shabbos.
With love,
Laurelle (aka Rebbetzin 'Relle)
Saturday, July 09, 2011
Summer School
[This is a modified and reposted item from much earlier today.]
Hi, everyone, and Shavua Tov [ a good week] to you all!
Of course you know why there hasn't been a post since July 4th: classes began, and school days have run from 8:30 a.m. to 10 p.m., with a mid-afternoon break for a walk to the apartment and dinner, after which it's another hike back to the Shalom Hartman Institute and return for the evening lecture.
It's difficult to imagine how the text scholars, historians, military advisors, political commentators, poets, and others from whom I have been learning manage to make the days pass so swiftly. Each effortlessly demonstrated the same high level of scholarship, humour, and utter devotion to the human dimension of their fields. At no moment did I ever feel that anything they were teaching, however abstract it may have seemed initially -- was even a single degree separated from the concerns of my professional and personal lives. Frankly, that's been a major source of the exhaustion at day's end: what they are teaching spans concerns of pulpit, community, family, and citizenship.
Afternoons last week were intense. Our teacher was Aviva Zornberg, one of the most extraordinary teachers I have ever been privileged to hear. Her topic: "Women Lost and Found" -- a study of how three biblical texts about women and their roles revealed unexpected insights into the nature of their longing to live in the presence of God. The classes took us from century to century, across Jewish sects and denominations -- reflections from rationalists and mystics, modern and ancient commentaries, and even from modern literary critics and essayists, philosophers, and seekers -- not all of them Jewish.
It was not the texts that were difficult, it was the vulnerability we all seemed to experience as we pored over the pages while Aviva linked each brilliant illumination of the text to the next. We read classical commentaries, hasidic texts, materials from Kabbalah, philological insights, ancient law, psychology, and matters of Jewish social and ethical history. Just when you thought she couldn't top what she had said a moment earlier, Aviva pulled still more rabbis [I said rabbis] out of her literary magician's hat.
Everything fit together so elegantly. I suppose the price of such a steady stream of deeply moving insights is that you are left emptied and in need of more time to think about what she has taught. Like the writer of that song about Don McLean's "Vincent" -- remember it?: "Killing Me Softly"? -- Aviva's guided tour of the texts were utterly compelling reflections on the experience of life and the convoluted, entangled ways in which we respond to each other under the weight of love and conflicting certainties about our "place" in each other's life. While the focus was utterly inescapably about the experience of women, I believe we all felt elevated to have such a nuanced glimpse into the struggle to attain love,dignity, and community.
After each class, I found myself unable to leave the building without a break to refocus on the sky, the hills, the trees filled with lemons, oranges, olives and pomegranates and shrubbery bursting with more varieties of flowers that I could catalog.. In fact, on the second afternoon of Aviva's class, I was so lost in thought that I could not find my way back to the apartment and had to call Laurelle to be my GPS for the day.
I couldn't believe it when the first week ended and I found myself wishing for one more day with each of these memorable teachers.
Meanwhile, Laurelle and Keithen have found their own way to attain the bliss of contented exhaustion while I am in classes. One day they volunteered to search the massive illegal dump of "rubble" created by the Moslem authorities when they bulldozed emergency exits for their underground place of worship at the Temple Mount. The bulldozers literally destroyed two thousand-year-old, irreplaceable archaeological treasures. But through a bit of good fortune, the destroyed materials were traced and an archaeological project funded to save whatever could be extracted from the vast mounds. Yes, Laurelle and Keithen found some archaeologically-significant items -- Herodian marble and other goodies -- that delighted the project supervisors -- but no samples to bring home!
Other days they visited the Jewish Quarter in the Old City and went back for another immersion in the Machane Yehuda market. One afternoon we arranged for a young yeshiva student from Canada to serve as a companion for Keithen, taking him to an Israeli movie theatre where he watched the latest Transformers movie in 3D with Hebrew subtitles while Laurelle explored still more of the Old City and revisited some interesting shops. Yet another day was devoted to a visit to the largest shopping mall in Israel.
It's late -- Shabbat ended hours ago. We had a lovely afternoon with a rabbinical colleague and Patti Cohen and Arthur Blank following services at Shira Hadasha, a modern Orthodox congregation that has created a remarkable new spiritual community in Jerusalem -- home to Orthodox, Conservative, Hasidic and Reform Jews singing so powerfully that it seemed to create a unique space within the crowded congregation. I recognized perhaps fifty Conservative and Reform rabbis in attendance, including Ismar Schorsch, retired head of the Jewish Theological Seminary in NYC, one of my own rabbinical school teachers whom I hadn't seen in 35 years, and a large number of scholars and rabbis whom I recognized because of their startling resemblance to their book jacket photographs.
I owe you a more detailed look at several other places: the City of David excavation now open to the public, Masada, the Dead Sea, the Shabbat Chattan [Sabbath honouring the groom from the Haifa wedding we attended and at which I was privileged to have an unexpected role in the ceremony] -- how are we going to have enough time to share all this before we return?
Let me share just a couple of moments to which I want to return: moments of spontaneous laughter and tears. They've occurred more than once. Laurelle and I cried when we reached the plateau at Masada at sunrise. Laurelle wept -- not only that we made it up the Snake Path, but that we were really there. At the wall, in the City of David excavation as our guide pointed to hillside cave-tombs and said: "This is likely where the Davidic line were buried." In the hurly-burly of the Machane Yehuda market, walking through the Shrine of the Book, examining wedding garments and ritual objects from a dozen Jewish cultures across time at the Israel Museum. It has been very very moving to be here, my friends.
Laughter as we talked with new immigrants from the U.S. who had come for a summer and ended up saying they couldn't go back -- and didn't. Laughing as we rocked our way uphill wearing our Sketcher Shape-ups and realized how much more difficult it was than wearing simple sandals (no wonder the ancient Israelites left the invention of MBT-styled footgear for a later millenium.
I'm at the limit of what I can do tonight. Don't forget that we really are thinking of you, hoping your summer is rewarding, and feeling grateful that you are with us at least in words and occasional photos when we figure out how to upload some more.
Again, have a good week, and check back soon -- the gap between postings won't be as long!
Yours,
Rabbi Larry
Hi, everyone, and Shavua Tov [ a good week] to you all!
Of course you know why there hasn't been a post since July 4th: classes began, and school days have run from 8:30 a.m. to 10 p.m., with a mid-afternoon break for a walk to the apartment and dinner, after which it's another hike back to the Shalom Hartman Institute and return for the evening lecture.
It's difficult to imagine how the text scholars, historians, military advisors, political commentators, poets, and others from whom I have been learning manage to make the days pass so swiftly. Each effortlessly demonstrated the same high level of scholarship, humour, and utter devotion to the human dimension of their fields. At no moment did I ever feel that anything they were teaching, however abstract it may have seemed initially -- was even a single degree separated from the concerns of my professional and personal lives. Frankly, that's been a major source of the exhaustion at day's end: what they are teaching spans concerns of pulpit, community, family, and citizenship.
Afternoons last week were intense. Our teacher was Aviva Zornberg, one of the most extraordinary teachers I have ever been privileged to hear. Her topic: "Women Lost and Found" -- a study of how three biblical texts about women and their roles revealed unexpected insights into the nature of their longing to live in the presence of God. The classes took us from century to century, across Jewish sects and denominations -- reflections from rationalists and mystics, modern and ancient commentaries, and even from modern literary critics and essayists, philosophers, and seekers -- not all of them Jewish.
It was not the texts that were difficult, it was the vulnerability we all seemed to experience as we pored over the pages while Aviva linked each brilliant illumination of the text to the next. We read classical commentaries, hasidic texts, materials from Kabbalah, philological insights, ancient law, psychology, and matters of Jewish social and ethical history. Just when you thought she couldn't top what she had said a moment earlier, Aviva pulled still more rabbis [I said rabbis] out of her literary magician's hat.
Everything fit together so elegantly. I suppose the price of such a steady stream of deeply moving insights is that you are left emptied and in need of more time to think about what she has taught. Like the writer of that song about Don McLean's "Vincent" -- remember it?: "Killing Me Softly"? -- Aviva's guided tour of the texts were utterly compelling reflections on the experience of life and the convoluted, entangled ways in which we respond to each other under the weight of love and conflicting certainties about our "place" in each other's life. While the focus was utterly inescapably about the experience of women, I believe we all felt elevated to have such a nuanced glimpse into the struggle to attain love,dignity, and community.
After each class, I found myself unable to leave the building without a break to refocus on the sky, the hills, the trees filled with lemons, oranges, olives and pomegranates and shrubbery bursting with more varieties of flowers that I could catalog.. In fact, on the second afternoon of Aviva's class, I was so lost in thought that I could not find my way back to the apartment and had to call Laurelle to be my GPS for the day.
I couldn't believe it when the first week ended and I found myself wishing for one more day with each of these memorable teachers.
Meanwhile, Laurelle and Keithen have found their own way to attain the bliss of contented exhaustion while I am in classes. One day they volunteered to search the massive illegal dump of "rubble" created by the Moslem authorities when they bulldozed emergency exits for their underground place of worship at the Temple Mount. The bulldozers literally destroyed two thousand-year-old, irreplaceable archaeological treasures. But through a bit of good fortune, the destroyed materials were traced and an archaeological project funded to save whatever could be extracted from the vast mounds. Yes, Laurelle and Keithen found some archaeologically-significant items -- Herodian marble and other goodies -- that delighted the project supervisors -- but no samples to bring home!
Other days they visited the Jewish Quarter in the Old City and went back for another immersion in the Machane Yehuda market. One afternoon we arranged for a young yeshiva student from Canada to serve as a companion for Keithen, taking him to an Israeli movie theatre where he watched the latest Transformers movie in 3D with Hebrew subtitles while Laurelle explored still more of the Old City and revisited some interesting shops. Yet another day was devoted to a visit to the largest shopping mall in Israel.
It's late -- Shabbat ended hours ago. We had a lovely afternoon with a rabbinical colleague and Patti Cohen and Arthur Blank following services at Shira Hadasha, a modern Orthodox congregation that has created a remarkable new spiritual community in Jerusalem -- home to Orthodox, Conservative, Hasidic and Reform Jews singing so powerfully that it seemed to create a unique space within the crowded congregation. I recognized perhaps fifty Conservative and Reform rabbis in attendance, including Ismar Schorsch, retired head of the Jewish Theological Seminary in NYC, one of my own rabbinical school teachers whom I hadn't seen in 35 years, and a large number of scholars and rabbis whom I recognized because of their startling resemblance to their book jacket photographs.
I owe you a more detailed look at several other places: the City of David excavation now open to the public, Masada, the Dead Sea, the Shabbat Chattan [Sabbath honouring the groom from the Haifa wedding we attended and at which I was privileged to have an unexpected role in the ceremony] -- how are we going to have enough time to share all this before we return?
Let me share just a couple of moments to which I want to return: moments of spontaneous laughter and tears. They've occurred more than once. Laurelle and I cried when we reached the plateau at Masada at sunrise. Laurelle wept -- not only that we made it up the Snake Path, but that we were really there. At the wall, in the City of David excavation as our guide pointed to hillside cave-tombs and said: "This is likely where the Davidic line were buried." In the hurly-burly of the Machane Yehuda market, walking through the Shrine of the Book, examining wedding garments and ritual objects from a dozen Jewish cultures across time at the Israel Museum. It has been very very moving to be here, my friends.
Laughter as we talked with new immigrants from the U.S. who had come for a summer and ended up saying they couldn't go back -- and didn't. Laughing as we rocked our way uphill wearing our Sketcher Shape-ups and realized how much more difficult it was than wearing simple sandals (no wonder the ancient Israelites left the invention of MBT-styled footgear for a later millenium.
I'm at the limit of what I can do tonight. Don't forget that we really are thinking of you, hoping your summer is rewarding, and feeling grateful that you are with us at least in words and occasional photos when we figure out how to upload some more.
Again, have a good week, and check back soon -- the gap between postings won't be as long!
Yours,
Rabbi Larry
Monday, July 04, 2011
Ido, the park bench and his parents
Hello everyone!
As Rabbi Larry has posted, we've had some incredible experiences over the last few days. We'll tell you more soon and upload some photos of us in the Dead Sea, views atop Masada (and a few on the way up!), and of Nachal David, in Ein Gedi National Park, where we were fortunate enough to hike where David hid from King Saul 3000 years ago.
Back in Jerusalem, though, I had a quiet moment that encapsulates Shabbat for me.
Exhausted, I was taking a rare afternoon nap when Keithen woke me without thinking. He felt bad, but I was miffed, so I took a walk in San Simon park. It was late Shabbat afternoon, right across the street from our apartment. Every metre of the park was filled with folks congregating with each other, young families with children running and playing with siblings and friends. I found an empty bench on the peripheries of the park -- right next to a bench with two elderly couples on my right, and a bush on my left. I quickly realized that this particular bush was the place for toddlers just out of diapers to deal with emergencies, which may have explained why the bench I had chosen was the only empty one in the park, but I digress.
I sat on the bench and felt quite the outsider as I observed the scene before me, and couldn't help but admire the ease with which Shabbat is practiced in this neighbourhood, where families all live close by, people walk more than they drive, and, on Shabbat, it is so easy to teach your kids what Shabbat's all about -- no need to wrestle away the Nintendo or fight about why the TV needs to be off -- there is a much more engaging alternative.
The bench was the kind you see in Israel with a metal latticework atop it to provide some protection from the sun. All of a sudden, a little boy ran up with two of his friends, tzitzit flying, kippah miraculously in place without the aid of clips. He couldn't have been more than four.
To my astonishment, the little boy wrapped his legs around the pole supporting the latticework on top of my bench, shimmied up, found a few handholds and within seconds was sitting above my head! I looked up -- then to my right, where my elder neighbours were also sitting, worried and astonished. Worried that he'd fall off, I got off the bench and stood next to it in case the child lost his balance on the latticework, which had a sloped portion. I played peek-a-boo with him for a moment (while keeping a watchful eye), and this little bocher was young enough to find this fascinating.
Unsure of whether to intervene -- surely his parents were nearby(?!) -- I waited, "spotting" him in case he fell. After a few minutes, up walked his dad and, in perfect English (he was speaking Hebrew moments before), Ido told his aba that his friends didn't believe he could do it. Aba told Ido to please remember to climb down the way he came up. He then reassured me that Ido takes climbing lessons and knows exactly how to get up and down. "Oh, Ido's a monkey, that's for sure." Ido, for his part, started to show off a little and stood up; Aba made Ido promise not to do that or he couldn't go up anymore, and so Ido promised.
Exit Aba, who returned to socializing with friends and playing with children. I marveled at the way Israelis seem to raise their children to be independent in a way we don't -- or can't -- in Canada. "This is how the independent spirit is fostered in Israel," I thought. "Maybe we hang on to our kids too tightly at home," I mused.
Not more than one minute passed when Ido's mother ran up (from the opposite direction as his Aba) having discovered Ido's activities for the first time. She shook her finger, and ordering Ido down from atop the park bench. "Ido! You are going to fall and break your neck! Do you want to be the only one in the Gan in a wheelchair! Your friends are going to be running and playing and you will be the only one who can't! Do you want to fall of the bench and hit the concrete and end up in the hospital? You could die! Get down RIGHT NOW!!!!"
Ido, for his part, wisely did not argue with his mother -- and was smart enough not to point out that Aba said he could, lest he not be permitted to climb the park bench another day.
And then, I thought, we are not so different, after all. I laughed all the way home, renewed in spirit by Ido, the park bench, and his parents.
Laurelle
As Rabbi Larry has posted, we've had some incredible experiences over the last few days. We'll tell you more soon and upload some photos of us in the Dead Sea, views atop Masada (and a few on the way up!), and of Nachal David, in Ein Gedi National Park, where we were fortunate enough to hike where David hid from King Saul 3000 years ago.
Back in Jerusalem, though, I had a quiet moment that encapsulates Shabbat for me.
Exhausted, I was taking a rare afternoon nap when Keithen woke me without thinking. He felt bad, but I was miffed, so I took a walk in San Simon park. It was late Shabbat afternoon, right across the street from our apartment. Every metre of the park was filled with folks congregating with each other, young families with children running and playing with siblings and friends. I found an empty bench on the peripheries of the park -- right next to a bench with two elderly couples on my right, and a bush on my left. I quickly realized that this particular bush was the place for toddlers just out of diapers to deal with emergencies, which may have explained why the bench I had chosen was the only empty one in the park, but I digress.
I sat on the bench and felt quite the outsider as I observed the scene before me, and couldn't help but admire the ease with which Shabbat is practiced in this neighbourhood, where families all live close by, people walk more than they drive, and, on Shabbat, it is so easy to teach your kids what Shabbat's all about -- no need to wrestle away the Nintendo or fight about why the TV needs to be off -- there is a much more engaging alternative.
The bench was the kind you see in Israel with a metal latticework atop it to provide some protection from the sun. All of a sudden, a little boy ran up with two of his friends, tzitzit flying, kippah miraculously in place without the aid of clips. He couldn't have been more than four.
To my astonishment, the little boy wrapped his legs around the pole supporting the latticework on top of my bench, shimmied up, found a few handholds and within seconds was sitting above my head! I looked up -- then to my right, where my elder neighbours were also sitting, worried and astonished. Worried that he'd fall off, I got off the bench and stood next to it in case the child lost his balance on the latticework, which had a sloped portion. I played peek-a-boo with him for a moment (while keeping a watchful eye), and this little bocher was young enough to find this fascinating.
Unsure of whether to intervene -- surely his parents were nearby(?!) -- I waited, "spotting" him in case he fell. After a few minutes, up walked his dad and, in perfect English (he was speaking Hebrew moments before), Ido told his aba that his friends didn't believe he could do it. Aba told Ido to please remember to climb down the way he came up. He then reassured me that Ido takes climbing lessons and knows exactly how to get up and down. "Oh, Ido's a monkey, that's for sure." Ido, for his part, started to show off a little and stood up; Aba made Ido promise not to do that or he couldn't go up anymore, and so Ido promised.
Exit Aba, who returned to socializing with friends and playing with children. I marveled at the way Israelis seem to raise their children to be independent in a way we don't -- or can't -- in Canada. "This is how the independent spirit is fostered in Israel," I thought. "Maybe we hang on to our kids too tightly at home," I mused.
Not more than one minute passed when Ido's mother ran up (from the opposite direction as his Aba) having discovered Ido's activities for the first time. She shook her finger, and ordering Ido down from atop the park bench. "Ido! You are going to fall and break your neck! Do you want to be the only one in the Gan in a wheelchair! Your friends are going to be running and playing and you will be the only one who can't! Do you want to fall of the bench and hit the concrete and end up in the hospital? You could die! Get down RIGHT NOW!!!!"
Ido, for his part, wisely did not argue with his mother -- and was smart enough not to point out that Aba said he could, lest he not be permitted to climb the park bench another day.
And then, I thought, we are not so different, after all. I laughed all the way home, renewed in spirit by Ido, the park bench, and his parents.
Laurelle
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Prayer is a Mallet and a Wedge
Danny Siegel, an American Jewish poet and champion of tzedakah, once wrote a poem that captures the state of mind I felt on my first visit to Jerusalem almost 42 years ago (gasp) and that came roaring back from memory as we toured the tunnel beneath the Western Wall:
Walking in that tunnel was one of the most moving experiences of my life. It's not only because the excavation reveals the Herodian Second Temple as an engineering miracle and wonder of the world -- a miracle that dwarfs the Western Wall to which we flock in prayer. We owe a lot to the courage and brilliance of the engineers and archaeologists who, building upon 19th and 20th century British explorations, have revealed what has been hidden for thousands of years beneath layer upon layer of conquest, rubble, and ruin in the great valleys around the "Old City".
Visiting those enormous excavations beneath the Old City is a lot like walking into one of M.C. Escher's recursive drawings -- do you remember seeing them for the first time, those intersecting flocks of birds and schools of fish, the stairways that change direction and imply conflicting gravitational systems as people ascend and descend?
The fantastic tour Laurelle described was like a dream. We walked across plexiglass sheets that permitted us to look down onto new excavations -- to see layer upon layer of cityscapes going back over 2,000 years to the time of the Second Temple era. I am sure you already know that archaeologists have uncovered the wall beneath the wall. What we flock to see and before which we utter our prayers at the Western Wall Plaza is a tiny fragment of a wall composed of much larger stones -- and along these massive foundation stones runs an ancient road which the guides have jokingly termed the real Wall Street -- where the ancient routines of everyday survival -- earn a living, buy food and clothing, sustain and protect the life that is precious to you -- were tested by Greek and Roman invaders, by human frailty, by natural calamities and scarcity of resources.
I am almost hesitant to include what must by now be a familiar inspirational story told about Christopher Wren, one of the greatest of architects in England, who was charged with the building of St. Paul's cathedral in London. He once walked among the men who were at work constructing St. Paul’s, which he had designed. "What are you doing?" he asked one of the workmen. The man replied, "I am cutting a piece of stone." As he went on, he asked the same question to another man, who answered, "I am earning five shillings twopence a day." And to a third man he addressed the same inquiry. This time, the man answered, "I am helping Sir Christopher Wren build a cathedral to the glory of God."
I don't know whether it's fair to expect constancy or idealism of this sort when so much of living is routine and when inspiration is tolerable only in small doses taken irregularly, when spirituality has been reduced to tics, trembling, and theatrics. But I've already heard three taxi drivers and a falafel delivery man speak of the process of how their lives changed when they moved to Israel and Jerusalem. I rather doubt they are paid aliyah [immigration to Israel] publicists. It moves me to hear their spontaneous, unscripted, non-professional testimonials.
When someone sees beyond work and daily wage to one's place in the transformation of everyday life into a domain of holiness or a work of art, then we take place as agents of a sacred order. It's not only rabbis, priests, and teachers who dignify life in this manner. It's anyone who takes the trouble to invest meaning in the tasks he or she performs.
PERSONAL PREFERENCE
I think(now that I look back)
I’d rather drive a taxi
in Jerusalem
than be the King
of all of South Dakota
or the Cantor
in the Great and Ancient Synagogue
of West Rangoon.
I’d rather drive a taxi
in Jerusalem
than be the King
of all of South Dakota
or the Cantor
in the Great and Ancient Synagogue
of West Rangoon.
I don’t know why.
Here the sun sets red,
and there the suns set red.
and there the suns set red.
Here the trees sway with infinite grace,
and there the breeze moves the leaves
with equally gentle fingers.
and there the breeze moves the leaves
with equally gentle fingers.
I don’t know why
I’d rather drive a taxi in Jerusalem,
I’d rather drive a taxi in Jerusalem,
but neither have I come to know
just why the see becomes a daffodil
and not a rose.
just why the see becomes a daffodil
and not a rose.
Writing decades ago, Danny Siegel speaks of Jerusalem sunsets, but there are other wonders revealed around and beneath this city through the slow, delicate work of archaeologists. For those of you who know about this, please bear with me -- I'm simply dazzled by what we are learning. Searching for God in time and memory is a deeply moving process -- and, more often than not, as Martin Buber was wont to say in countless ways, when we seek God, we discover ourselves in the process.
Watching Jews praying at the place in the tunnel which is opposite the "Foundation Stone" of creation, the place where Abraham demonstrated his devotion to God, I could not help but think about all the other stones. The 500-year-old wall that for most people marks the "Old City" is a legacy of the Ottoman Empire. The true wonder lies below: the city built by Herod.
The fantastic tour Laurelle described was like a dream. We walked across plexiglass sheets that permitted us to look down onto new excavations -- to see layer upon layer of cityscapes going back over 2,000 years to the time of the Second Temple era. I am sure you already know that archaeologists have uncovered the wall beneath the wall. What we flock to see and before which we utter our prayers at the Western Wall Plaza is a tiny fragment of a wall composed of much larger stones -- and along these massive foundation stones runs an ancient road which the guides have jokingly termed the real Wall Street -- where the ancient routines of everyday survival -- earn a living, buy food and clothing, sustain and protect the life that is precious to you -- were tested by Greek and Roman invaders, by human frailty, by natural calamities and scarcity of resources.
I simply can't get the image of that ghostly street beneath the plexiglass, metres below us, out of my mind.
One of the others on the tour was an Orthodox man who was guiding a group of women to a place designated for prayer that is as close to the location of the Foundation Stone under the Dome of the Rock as Jews are permitted to approach. The Orthodox guide was saying (in English) to the women who had descended to the tunnel in order to say those prayers at the Stone -- that the purpose of their prayers was not only to petition God for blessings of prosperity, large families, peace, health, and so on, but also for the blessings of -- and here he stopped, puzzled, searching for a word, asking "Aych omrim dimyon b'Anglit?" -- "How do you say dimyon in English?"
Without skipping a beat, I said, "Imagination. Birchot dimyon is 'the blessings of imagination.'" He thanked me, but I should have thanked him for a phrase so important to everything I value and believe about all of us and about the best we achieve as persons. We imagine how to succeed at the business of life. It is a work of imagination to make the materials of everyday existence sing songs of praise to God -- to believe that we can build places where God's presence will be felt. Everything that is grand about Jewish life is an act of imagining that life need not be defined by the routines of survival alone.
Which brings me to where I learned that prayer is a mallet and a wedge. It's at the end of the tunnel tour, but I realized this "truth" had been comprehensible through the tour and in every millimetre and metre and kilometre of this great architectual feat. In an animated film illustrating how the gigantic stones for the foundation of the buried wall were quarried, stonemasons took iron wedges and chisels and hammered them with mallets into the native rock until they faceted it into enormous blocks, which they then moved with elementary "machines" like log rollers, pulleys and ropes, inclined planes, and platforms pulled by men and oxen.
You can see the animated video at
http://english.thekotel.org/content.asp?back=1&id=97and also go on a virtual tour of the tunnels and explore the discoveries at the site by browsing at
I of course was lost in the mallets, chisels, and wedges -- patient and repetitive human actions that created the real wall. The stonecutters and masons earned a living through their work, but in every blow that shaped and dressed the stones, these ancients gave themselves over a sacred dimension in life. Their work contributed to achieving something greater than their own lives. I think of prayer as a mallet, a chisel, and a wedge giving definition to our lives. The taxi drivers who tell me they are here to rebuild Jerusalem, the merchants whose civility and honesty seem to transform the most mundane commercial acts into holy moments as they measure out grains, spices, cheeses, hummus and techina, fruits and vegetables, and breads, reminds us that something really does happen when we see ourselves as agents of our own destiny.
I don't know whether it's fair to expect constancy or idealism of this sort when so much of living is routine and when inspiration is tolerable only in small doses taken irregularly, when spirituality has been reduced to tics, trembling, and theatrics. But I've already heard three taxi drivers and a falafel delivery man speak of the process of how their lives changed when they moved to Israel and Jerusalem. I rather doubt they are paid aliyah [immigration to Israel] publicists. It moves me to hear their spontaneous, unscripted, non-professional testimonials.
When someone sees beyond work and daily wage to one's place in the transformation of everyday life into a domain of holiness or a work of art, then we take place as agents of a sacred order. It's not only rabbis, priests, and teachers who dignify life in this manner. It's anyone who takes the trouble to invest meaning in the tasks he or she performs.
I hope you are all well. Thanks for checking in!
Rabbi Larry
An Unexpected Break
Shavua tov, everyone.
Sorry for the long break. We were travelling a lot and without computer for several days. We've been to the Dead Sea, a huge Sephardi wedding in Haifa, a Masada snake path climb, and a Shabbat Chattan yesterday at a hotel in Ein Bokek, all of which we hope to write about once we are back in our apartment and on the Internet. Suffice it to say that the arrival of Shabbat while we were staying in a hostel at the foot of Masada was yet another extraordinary experience. We wish you all, belatedly, a great Canada Day weekend and, for our U.S. family and friends, a beautiful Fourth of July!
Rabbi Larry (and Rebbetzin 'Relle and Keithen)
P.S. I haven't forgotten I was going to tell you about praying with mallet and wedge (neither of which refers to a type of golf club).
Sorry for the long break. We were travelling a lot and without computer for several days. We've been to the Dead Sea, a huge Sephardi wedding in Haifa, a Masada snake path climb, and a Shabbat Chattan yesterday at a hotel in Ein Bokek, all of which we hope to write about once we are back in our apartment and on the Internet. Suffice it to say that the arrival of Shabbat while we were staying in a hostel at the foot of Masada was yet another extraordinary experience. We wish you all, belatedly, a great Canada Day weekend and, for our U.S. family and friends, a beautiful Fourth of July!
Rabbi Larry (and Rebbetzin 'Relle and Keithen)
P.S. I haven't forgotten I was going to tell you about praying with mallet and wedge (neither of which refers to a type of golf club).
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Western Wall Tunnel Tour
Hi everyone!
We hope that this message finds everyone well and happy. As Rabbi Larry posted, we visited the Western Wall and the Old City on Sunday. We were fortunate to take part in the Western Wall Tunnel Tour...it was fantastic and very informative.
At the appointed time, our tour guide, Batya (an American ex-pat with four kids, 12 grandchildren, and, God willing, one more soon) took us to the mouth of the tunnels where she first explained the history and topography of the construction of the Temple Mount by Herod, the Temple having fallen into disrepair during the turmoil at the time of the Roman conquest.
She then led us down into the tunnels, where we had the opportunity to see, touch, speak to and pray in the presence of the stones from the original construction. Unlike those stones of the Wall on the "surface", these stones, are truly massive, perfectly measured, and intricately carved; each is offset 2 cm from the next to add to their extraordinary stability as a platform for Herod's Temple mount expansion.
It took 10,000 stonemasons ten years to construct the Wall -- of which only a tiny portion is visible today above-ground. In the photo to the right, you can see the original stone masonry in detail. In the photo below, the original stones set during the Herodian era looked chipped at the top...that's because they are. When the Roman Legionnaires attacked Jerusalem in 67 CE, they were ordered to destroy the walls of Jerusalem -- only they were not able to move the blocks (the foundation walls being 15 feet thick and each stone being dozens of feet long, wide, and high). In desperation to follow orders, the soldiers resorted to chipping away at the stone blocks. Needless to say, they were not entirely successful! The smaller stones laid on top represent later stone masonry of inferior quality building up the wall.
Most of the larger Wall is not visible, Jerusalem having been built over it in successive layers over the centuries. It took Israeli teams twenty years to extend the tunnel all the way to its northern end, where they found a quarry from which the stones are cut, as well as the two thousand year-old street paralleling the wall (which our guide kept calling "the original Wall Street").
Our tour emerged in the Muslim quarter, . Once on the street, we were escorted back to the plaza by guards. Here is a photo of Larry, Keithen our tour guide, Batya. You can see how narrow the tunnel is. While we walked it, we were able to gaze down shafts plunging 45 feet lower, revealing an ancient mikvah, a quarry, and portions of the wall remaining from the First Temple built 3000 years ago! We also were able to view how stone arches were plastered over and used as water cisterns by later inhabitants of Jerusalem.
The tunnels are open for people to walk through at their leisure several days a week without having to take a tour. We also encountered groups of women praying underground at the spot directly opposite the traditional site where Abraham brought Isaac as his offering to God, which also is, according to our tradition, the place from which the entire world was brought into existence by God. We also passed workers continuing the business of uncovering even more of the secrets of the Temple mount.
More to come.
Love,
Laurelle
We hope that this message finds everyone well and happy. As Rabbi Larry posted, we visited the Western Wall and the Old City on Sunday. We were fortunate to take part in the Western Wall Tunnel Tour...it was fantastic and very informative.
She then led us down into the tunnels, where we had the opportunity to see, touch, speak to and pray in the presence of the stones from the original construction. Unlike those stones of the Wall on the "surface", these stones, are truly massive, perfectly measured, and intricately carved; each is offset 2 cm from the next to add to their extraordinary stability as a platform for Herod's Temple mount expansion.
It took 10,000 stonemasons ten years to construct the Wall -- of which only a tiny portion is visible today above-ground. In the photo to the right, you can see the original stone masonry in detail. In the photo below, the original stones set during the Herodian era looked chipped at the top...that's because they are. When the Roman Legionnaires attacked Jerusalem in 67 CE, they were ordered to destroy the walls of Jerusalem -- only they were not able to move the blocks (the foundation walls being 15 feet thick and each stone being dozens of feet long, wide, and high). In desperation to follow orders, the soldiers resorted to chipping away at the stone blocks. Needless to say, they were not entirely successful! The smaller stones laid on top represent later stone masonry of inferior quality building up the wall.
Most of the larger Wall is not visible, Jerusalem having been built over it in successive layers over the centuries. It took Israeli teams twenty years to extend the tunnel all the way to its northern end, where they found a quarry from which the stones are cut, as well as the two thousand year-old street paralleling the wall (which our guide kept calling "the original Wall Street").
The tunnels are open for people to walk through at their leisure several days a week without having to take a tour. We also encountered groups of women praying underground at the spot directly opposite the traditional site where Abraham brought Isaac as his offering to God, which also is, according to our tradition, the place from which the entire world was brought into existence by God. We also passed workers continuing the business of uncovering even more of the secrets of the Temple mount.
More to come.
Love,
Laurelle
Monday, June 27, 2011
Surfaces
Sunday, first day of the week, we travelled by bus to the Old City. It didn't work out quite as we had planned, so we walked from our stop down the Ben Yehuda pedestrian mall to Rehov Yaffo (Jaffa Street) and then east to the walled city.
Besieged by professionals offering us guided walking tours, we instead followed the thin early-morning crowd and made our way through the maze of shops to the Western Wall. Ever organized, we first picked up two sets of tickets for the two wall-related tours, then stepped back onto the vast plaza and parted, Laurelle bound for the women's section and Keithen and I into the more extensive men's section. In three languages we were asked whether we had laid tefillin that morning, whether we wanted guidance in saying the appropriate prayers upon visiting the Wall, whether we understood the meaning of this sacred place.
The wall is of course overwhelming and yet comforting in the way that it connects people. (How deeply these are linked I would learn later in the morning.) The people standing at the wall or seated near it, bodies swaying, included representatives of a dozen religious movements, secular Israelis, a group of university instructors chattering away in mixed Hebrew and English about the archaeological and historical, and geopolitical ramifications of the Wall, soldiers in uniform wearing paper kippot plucked from baskets, at least a half-dozen Ethiopian Jews, and a cluster of boys in shirts embroidered with the name of an unfamiliar youth movementm -- they have all converged on the wall, and in the meeting of hot sun, stone, and air, we were becoming entangled even though we approached the wall each in our separate ways.
Keithen found an area empty of people. Here and there, a few yeshiva students lingered like lovers whispering to their Beloved across a garden fence, their right arms resting against the massive cool stones, their foreheads pressed against their exposed forearms. The staff were removing chairs, benches, reading tables, and rolling library carts full of siddurim. Three men from the Former Soviet Union took turns taking pictures as they leaned their backs against the Kotel, struggling to keep their flimsy pick-up kippot (yarmulkes) on their heads as they joked with each other in Russian about whose turn it was to snap the photo. ("Please, Alphonse, it's your turn!" ... "No, after you, Gaston!") I watched as Keithen focused with his camera at the wall and then, to my astonishment, he zipped it up in its protective pouch, returned it to his pocket, and stretched his arms wide, wider, widest -- in a vain to span the ancient rock face. Arms still outstretched, he leaned his head onto the rock.
I'd forgotten I was carrying a camera. If I hadn't, I likely wouldn't have experienced the moment as powerfully and instead concentrated on taking pictures. But instead I turned to the Kotel and recited snippets of prayers I remembered having learned for this occasion. Not wanting the formal structure I let my words drift into more private territory as my heart was overwhelmed by the presence of the Wall. I was also concerned about attending to Keithen, but the old conversation with God started inside me, and it was good not to treat it as a long distance call subject to roaming charges (old joke, but one that is really about the blessings of intimacy, whether with God, one's beloved family, or the world).
It was then that I pulled out a slip of paper and wrote down several names and a brief prayer for the healing of the people I listed. For the nth time I failed to include myself in the prayer I wrote, feeling, as I always do when I am praying, that I am God's fortunate child blessed with the companionship and love of others.
Something happened to me yesterday, the Rolling Stones sang, but the greatest revelation is not private -- it's the recognition of how everything is -- as the quantum physicists say -- deeply entangled. (See the most recent issue of Scientific American about this!) Every moment overflows with new connections. Every prayer is about feeling connected and wanting to do something with this. Even the pain we momentarily inflict or receive requires us not to disentangle or to disengage out of fear, misunderstanding, or confusion.
There's that familiar Spanish proverb "We make the road by walking", rendered immediate and urgent when Avram and Sarai move forward onto the road suddenly before them and when Moses urges the Israelites to move forward and not look back. Perhaps there is a "quantum proverb" as well: Don't lose your connections: look carefully at what they reveal to you about yourself before you break them. We are always learning; we are all "in-formation". In formation -- out of knowing another, I become more myself and I disclose to the other something about him- or herself.
Keithen turned, he said, "There's Mom," and we walked to rejoin Laurelle.
In the blazing sunlight beneath the great blue sky I did not feel I was walking only toward Laurelle but also toward all the lives that have touched mine with joy and heartbreak, hopes fulfilled and dreams deferred.
Ah, there I go again -- back into the metaphysics and mystery when I am, like Chaim Potok z'l [of blessed memory], a believer in provisional absolutes and encounters with God that teach me to be reborn again and again.
Tomorrow -- some words about the tunnel under the world, and praying with mallet and wedge, some words about Greenbay Packer kippot, halvah, and fresh pita.
Rabbi Larry Pinsker (& Rebbetzin 'Relle)
(And when will you write, friends? We miss you!)
Besieged by professionals offering us guided walking tours, we instead followed the thin early-morning crowd and made our way through the maze of shops to the Western Wall. Ever organized, we first picked up two sets of tickets for the two wall-related tours, then stepped back onto the vast plaza and parted, Laurelle bound for the women's section and Keithen and I into the more extensive men's section. In three languages we were asked whether we had laid tefillin that morning, whether we wanted guidance in saying the appropriate prayers upon visiting the Wall, whether we understood the meaning of this sacred place.
The wall is of course overwhelming and yet comforting in the way that it connects people. (How deeply these are linked I would learn later in the morning.) The people standing at the wall or seated near it, bodies swaying, included representatives of a dozen religious movements, secular Israelis, a group of university instructors chattering away in mixed Hebrew and English about the archaeological and historical, and geopolitical ramifications of the Wall, soldiers in uniform wearing paper kippot plucked from baskets, at least a half-dozen Ethiopian Jews, and a cluster of boys in shirts embroidered with the name of an unfamiliar youth movementm -- they have all converged on the wall, and in the meeting of hot sun, stone, and air, we were becoming entangled even though we approached the wall each in our separate ways.
Keithen found an area empty of people. Here and there, a few yeshiva students lingered like lovers whispering to their Beloved across a garden fence, their right arms resting against the massive cool stones, their foreheads pressed against their exposed forearms. The staff were removing chairs, benches, reading tables, and rolling library carts full of siddurim. Three men from the Former Soviet Union took turns taking pictures as they leaned their backs against the Kotel, struggling to keep their flimsy pick-up kippot (yarmulkes) on their heads as they joked with each other in Russian about whose turn it was to snap the photo. ("Please, Alphonse, it's your turn!" ... "No, after you, Gaston!") I watched as Keithen focused with his camera at the wall and then, to my astonishment, he zipped it up in its protective pouch, returned it to his pocket, and stretched his arms wide, wider, widest -- in a vain to span the ancient rock face. Arms still outstretched, he leaned his head onto the rock.
I'd forgotten I was carrying a camera. If I hadn't, I likely wouldn't have experienced the moment as powerfully and instead concentrated on taking pictures. But instead I turned to the Kotel and recited snippets of prayers I remembered having learned for this occasion. Not wanting the formal structure I let my words drift into more private territory as my heart was overwhelmed by the presence of the Wall. I was also concerned about attending to Keithen, but the old conversation with God started inside me, and it was good not to treat it as a long distance call subject to roaming charges (old joke, but one that is really about the blessings of intimacy, whether with God, one's beloved family, or the world).
It was then that I pulled out a slip of paper and wrote down several names and a brief prayer for the healing of the people I listed. For the nth time I failed to include myself in the prayer I wrote, feeling, as I always do when I am praying, that I am God's fortunate child blessed with the companionship and love of others.
Something happened to me yesterday, the Rolling Stones sang, but the greatest revelation is not private -- it's the recognition of how everything is -- as the quantum physicists say -- deeply entangled. (See the most recent issue of Scientific American about this!) Every moment overflows with new connections. Every prayer is about feeling connected and wanting to do something with this. Even the pain we momentarily inflict or receive requires us not to disentangle or to disengage out of fear, misunderstanding, or confusion.
There's that familiar Spanish proverb "We make the road by walking", rendered immediate and urgent when Avram and Sarai move forward onto the road suddenly before them and when Moses urges the Israelites to move forward and not look back. Perhaps there is a "quantum proverb" as well: Don't lose your connections: look carefully at what they reveal to you about yourself before you break them. We are always learning; we are all "in-formation". In formation -- out of knowing another, I become more myself and I disclose to the other something about him- or herself.
Keithen turned, he said, "There's Mom," and we walked to rejoin Laurelle.
In the blazing sunlight beneath the great blue sky I did not feel I was walking only toward Laurelle but also toward all the lives that have touched mine with joy and heartbreak, hopes fulfilled and dreams deferred.
Ah, there I go again -- back into the metaphysics and mystery when I am, like Chaim Potok z'l [of blessed memory], a believer in provisional absolutes and encounters with God that teach me to be reborn again and again.
Tomorrow -- some words about the tunnel under the world, and praying with mallet and wedge, some words about Greenbay Packer kippot, halvah, and fresh pita.
Rabbi Larry Pinsker (& Rebbetzin 'Relle)
(And when will you write, friends? We miss you!)
Sunday, June 26, 2011
From the other side of the mechitzah
Hello, friends!
It has been busy the past few days, wonderfully so. As you've read from Rabbi Larry's post, davenning at Shira Hadasha was an amazing new experience and I share his perspectives. As I davenned on the other side of the mechitzah, I too was struck at how quickly I was able to fall into the rhythm around me and be carried on the tide of collective kavannah.
My first Amidah recited in Israel brought tears to my eyes, and as I looked around the women's section from what began as the back row (by the end it wasn't as many more women arrived and chairs added), I saw other women, (a few, like me, wearing tallitot), who also were moved to tears at various points in the service. The expressions of faith were not self conscious, and though myself immersed in prayer, aware of the safety of the collective there.
The mechitzah fulfilled the need to daven without the distractions of others, and although children were welcome (and had another space to play and cavort), the women in the sanctuary were not consumed with caring for others in those moments, just with being present. This past Shabbat was a rare gift, to be sure.
It has been busy the past few days, wonderfully so. As you've read from Rabbi Larry's post, davenning at Shira Hadasha was an amazing new experience and I share his perspectives. As I davenned on the other side of the mechitzah, I too was struck at how quickly I was able to fall into the rhythm around me and be carried on the tide of collective kavannah.
My first Amidah recited in Israel brought tears to my eyes, and as I looked around the women's section from what began as the back row (by the end it wasn't as many more women arrived and chairs added), I saw other women, (a few, like me, wearing tallitot), who also were moved to tears at various points in the service. The expressions of faith were not self conscious, and though myself immersed in prayer, aware of the safety of the collective there.
The mechitzah fulfilled the need to daven without the distractions of others, and although children were welcome (and had another space to play and cavort), the women in the sanctuary were not consumed with caring for others in those moments, just with being present. This past Shabbat was a rare gift, to be sure.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Slow Sculpture
Shavua tov -- a good week to everyone!
The sun has set and our first Shabbat in Jerusalem is over, but it has left some beautiful memories.
Where to start? Each element reshapes the way we view the course of our own way of "doing Judaism." With what can we compare a morning walk to synagogue down streets emptied of vehicular traffic? How shall we speak about the ebb and flow of crowds strolling through the park across the street on a hot afternoon, or the families fortunate who have settled into the shade with their picnic baskets and are at play, spinning stories, and teaching elegant simple lessons? Where are the cellphones and the portable electronic gaming devices that isolate and distract so effectively? What's so right about these people that they can enjoy each other's company in this way?
How shall we describe what it feels like when a service consists of hundred of people singing the prayers, filling the sanctuary with their voices? Instead, the shaliach tzibbur -- whose task it is to set the pace and tone of the service and "dispatches" the community's prayers -- invites everyone to the task, and they respond with waves of prayer pour out into the surrounding courtyard. This is Congregation Shira Hadasha ("A New Song") on Emek Refaim, where we davvened in the midst of four hundred observant men and women who have pioneered a fresh approach to Orthodoxy. No one is an audience, no one is performing. Instead, everyone is praying to God, and the warmth directed to each Torah honouree -- especially to the young couple who are to be married the next day -- is itself a song. This is what prayer is like when each person "serves God" -- works at being his or her own voice, complementing and entwining with the voices of Torah and haftarah readers, those who serve as shaliach tzibbur -- and the person designated to teach something -- intimately, confessionally, personally -- about the meaning of the Torah text.
Forgive me, but I'm trying to write about something not particularly in my head. Trust me to try to make words define something that exists in the spaces between human souls when they are gathered to share in a common purpose.
But I don't really experience this as something intellectual. Fumbling with an unfamiliar siddur [prayerbook] -- as it turns out, the binding has deteriorating and it's missing lots of pages, making my search for the right page futile -- I realize that I am singing the prayers without skipping a beat. The words and music rise from my throat -- and everyone else's prayers are an invitation not to miss out on this serene and yet undeniably majestic sea of prayers. You can't drown, you can't disappear beneath or into these waves that are forming from you and others like you as you pray.
It's something happening between us -- between the tourists visiting God's neighbourhood and discovering it just may be possible to catch a glimpse of the Shocheyn Ad -- "the One Who Dwells in Eternity" -- or, more intimately, our divine Neighbour in eternity -- and the people who are the core of the community that is Shira Hadasha and who each week share what they have discovered with visitors.
This is surely why the term for worship (or service to God) is avodah -- the same word that means "work" and can slide into "involuntary servitude" or "slavery". The kind of prayer we Jews idealize requires preparation -- hone your tools and learn to use them properly, gather your materials, gather yourself to pick up your part of the task.
Prayer isn't entertainment, nor a consumable marketed by our culture of instantaneous enlightenment. Prayer is a kind of work where the product is at once yourself becoming more the kind of being God imagined you might be and also an environment -- a place in this world where compassion, forgiveness, and inspiration move everyone forward toward that goal.
It's almost midnight in Jerusalem -- but we are still lingering over the other sights and sounds now faded into the darkness and noise of restored traffic. Some of the people in the park hasten to daven at the yeshivot and synagogues that dot these streets. We can hear some of them praying the mincha/ma'riv [afternoon and evening prayers] services are being prayed. We can hear the sounds of lessons being taught but the teachers aren't lecturing: they are singing their insights to mark the end of Shabbat afternoon prayer and prepare the way for the ma'riv [evening] service and havdalah that separates Shabbat from the ordinary days of the week.
I am mindful of the last 48 hours being a little like the Japanese art form known as bonsai. Seedling trees are trained to develop not in their full-sized form, but rather in miniature. Every space occupied by a person or people is like the ancient Temple. Raised lovingly, tenderly, and with the proper direction, each person becomes the centre of a holy space in which he or she contributes to others' well-being, so that others are a little less alone, a little less frightened, a little less deprived of the holiness flowing from God into the world.
Our time here is reshaping who we are, and we are feeling some old patterns falling away and new growth finding its proper form.
My God, it's good to be here, and wonderful to be sharing this with you!
Shavua tov! A good week to you all.
Rabbi Larry Pinsker (and Rebbetzin 'Relle)
The sun has set and our first Shabbat in Jerusalem is over, but it has left some beautiful memories.
Where to start? Each element reshapes the way we view the course of our own way of "doing Judaism." With what can we compare a morning walk to synagogue down streets emptied of vehicular traffic? How shall we speak about the ebb and flow of crowds strolling through the park across the street on a hot afternoon, or the families fortunate who have settled into the shade with their picnic baskets and are at play, spinning stories, and teaching elegant simple lessons? Where are the cellphones and the portable electronic gaming devices that isolate and distract so effectively? What's so right about these people that they can enjoy each other's company in this way?
How shall we describe what it feels like when a service consists of hundred of people singing the prayers, filling the sanctuary with their voices? Instead, the shaliach tzibbur -- whose task it is to set the pace and tone of the service and "dispatches" the community's prayers -- invites everyone to the task, and they respond with waves of prayer pour out into the surrounding courtyard. This is Congregation Shira Hadasha ("A New Song") on Emek Refaim, where we davvened in the midst of four hundred observant men and women who have pioneered a fresh approach to Orthodoxy. No one is an audience, no one is performing. Instead, everyone is praying to God, and the warmth directed to each Torah honouree -- especially to the young couple who are to be married the next day -- is itself a song. This is what prayer is like when each person "serves God" -- works at being his or her own voice, complementing and entwining with the voices of Torah and haftarah readers, those who serve as shaliach tzibbur -- and the person designated to teach something -- intimately, confessionally, personally -- about the meaning of the Torah text.
Forgive me, but I'm trying to write about something not particularly in my head. Trust me to try to make words define something that exists in the spaces between human souls when they are gathered to share in a common purpose.
But I don't really experience this as something intellectual. Fumbling with an unfamiliar siddur [prayerbook] -- as it turns out, the binding has deteriorating and it's missing lots of pages, making my search for the right page futile -- I realize that I am singing the prayers without skipping a beat. The words and music rise from my throat -- and everyone else's prayers are an invitation not to miss out on this serene and yet undeniably majestic sea of prayers. You can't drown, you can't disappear beneath or into these waves that are forming from you and others like you as you pray.
It's something happening between us -- between the tourists visiting God's neighbourhood and discovering it just may be possible to catch a glimpse of the Shocheyn Ad -- "the One Who Dwells in Eternity" -- or, more intimately, our divine Neighbour in eternity -- and the people who are the core of the community that is Shira Hadasha and who each week share what they have discovered with visitors.
This is surely why the term for worship (or service to God) is avodah -- the same word that means "work" and can slide into "involuntary servitude" or "slavery". The kind of prayer we Jews idealize requires preparation -- hone your tools and learn to use them properly, gather your materials, gather yourself to pick up your part of the task.
Prayer isn't entertainment, nor a consumable marketed by our culture of instantaneous enlightenment. Prayer is a kind of work where the product is at once yourself becoming more the kind of being God imagined you might be and also an environment -- a place in this world where compassion, forgiveness, and inspiration move everyone forward toward that goal.
It's almost midnight in Jerusalem -- but we are still lingering over the other sights and sounds now faded into the darkness and noise of restored traffic. Some of the people in the park hasten to daven at the yeshivot and synagogues that dot these streets. We can hear some of them praying the mincha/ma'riv [afternoon and evening prayers] services are being prayed. We can hear the sounds of lessons being taught but the teachers aren't lecturing: they are singing their insights to mark the end of Shabbat afternoon prayer and prepare the way for the ma'riv [evening] service and havdalah that separates Shabbat from the ordinary days of the week.
I am mindful of the last 48 hours being a little like the Japanese art form known as bonsai. Seedling trees are trained to develop not in their full-sized form, but rather in miniature. Every space occupied by a person or people is like the ancient Temple. Raised lovingly, tenderly, and with the proper direction, each person becomes the centre of a holy space in which he or she contributes to others' well-being, so that others are a little less alone, a little less frightened, a little less deprived of the holiness flowing from God into the world.
Our time here is reshaping who we are, and we are feeling some old patterns falling away and new growth finding its proper form.
My God, it's good to be here, and wonderful to be sharing this with you!
Shavua tov! A good week to you all.
Rabbi Larry Pinsker (and Rebbetzin 'Relle)
Friday, June 24, 2011
Awake and ready
Hi everyone,
I am awake now, back to the business of caring for my family on our first full day here. Rabbi Larry has succumbed to the call of the oh-so-very comfortable bed I was napping in earlier. :)
For the more mundane: it's really hard finding food with English labels -- not a total surprise, but it makes me glad that I packed a "starter kit" of foods safe for Keithen to eat. We have what we need, and for me, this is a lesson in "enough" -- and Rabbi Larry and I are delighting in the prospect of a simple Shabbes with much joy if a smaller spread than is often prepared at home.
This morning, on our way to Machane Yehuda, Keithen and I were chatting in the backseat of a cab about how different everything is here. The solar panels and hot water tanks on the rooftops of buildings draw the eye as much as did the Knesset and the Great Synagogue viewed from a distance. These edifices are testaments to the perseverance of the Jewish people in the form of apartments built from Jerusalem stone.
Keithen was full of comparisons to the way things are in Canada -- comparisons any stranger in a new land would make. After we spoke for a while about these comparisons, from the number of cats roaming free to a discussion of whether it was wasteful for Canadians to use energy to keep their water hot at all times, I finally said, for his benefit as well as mine, that it is best to leave behind the comparisons and simply discover -- then accept -- things are you find them, as they are.
Late afternoon light filters in as I type, and I can't help but reflect that one of the first blessings of this place is the utter silence in our building. The hush is a reverent juxtaposition to the wonderful sights and sounds just outside the door.
Shabbat shalom, everyone.
Laurelle aka "Rebbetzin 'Relle
I am awake now, back to the business of caring for my family on our first full day here. Rabbi Larry has succumbed to the call of the oh-so-very comfortable bed I was napping in earlier. :)
For the more mundane: it's really hard finding food with English labels -- not a total surprise, but it makes me glad that I packed a "starter kit" of foods safe for Keithen to eat. We have what we need, and for me, this is a lesson in "enough" -- and Rabbi Larry and I are delighting in the prospect of a simple Shabbes with much joy if a smaller spread than is often prepared at home.
This morning, on our way to Machane Yehuda, Keithen and I were chatting in the backseat of a cab about how different everything is here. The solar panels and hot water tanks on the rooftops of buildings draw the eye as much as did the Knesset and the Great Synagogue viewed from a distance. These edifices are testaments to the perseverance of the Jewish people in the form of apartments built from Jerusalem stone.
Keithen was full of comparisons to the way things are in Canada -- comparisons any stranger in a new land would make. After we spoke for a while about these comparisons, from the number of cats roaming free to a discussion of whether it was wasteful for Canadians to use energy to keep their water hot at all times, I finally said, for his benefit as well as mine, that it is best to leave behind the comparisons and simply discover -- then accept -- things are you find them, as they are.
Late afternoon light filters in as I type, and I can't help but reflect that one of the first blessings of this place is the utter silence in our building. The hush is a reverent juxtaposition to the wonderful sights and sounds just outside the door.
Shabbat shalom, everyone.
Laurelle aka "Rebbetzin 'Relle
Shopping for Shabbat in Machaneh Yehudah
A second helping of the feast that is Jerusalem:
Yes, we went, accompanied by jet lag (apparently suffering jet lag is, ahem, inversely proportional to one's age), and survived the Shabbes-shopping crowd for almost forty minutes, after which we retreated back to the apartment and I went to the local supermarket to shop for the many things we didn't get in Machaneh Yehudah. The overwhelming sensory experience is almost too much for anyone accustomed to the formalism of North American supermarkets, restaurants, fast-food establishments and vending machines. In Machaneh Yehudah everything is so personal and so entwined with the lives, sounds, and presence of the people who sell, stock the shelves, and pull customers from the "street". It personalizes the exchange between the hungry and those who sell the food, makes the experience an intimate exchange. But it is really overwhelming with its noise, its crowds, and its scents.
Needless to say, the area surrounding the market is now remarkably more urban than it was on my first visit forty years ago. The signage for the return of the Messiah (courtesy of our friends in Lubavitch) is everywhere, and there are tzedakah collections taking place everywhere (how can you start Shabbat without performing the mitzvah of tzedakah?), including at least three clusters of high school students whose accompanied singing is a sweet invitation to help them collect for their high school's class visit to the US next fall.
I asked one when they would be in New York City -- and the dates overlapped the Post-Bar Mitzvah class trip that is tentatively scheduled for late October or early November. I doubt we actually will meet in the balcony of B'nai Jeshurun for Kabbalat Shabbat services, but wouldn't that be an amazing shidduch (match) made for the class.
My solo venture to the supermarket in the height of the afternoon heat --- before everything shuts down for Shabbat -- is quick, and the purchases modest. I haul three shopping bags uphill on the return trip, kicking myself for not bringing that bottle of water that Laurelle urged me to carry. At the peak of the hill in the park, I sit down and watch the urban cats and birds play at surviving each other. The scent of the city is here, and its silence (though there is a man yelling at his child for an unmentioned act of shtuyot -- and the child's escalating response, "Ani mitzta'er m'od. M'od. Mitzta'er m'od m'od." "I'm very sorry. Very. Very very sorry."
I say a little prayer for the relief of both parent and child to permit them both to enter Shabbat. Then I resume the return to the apartment, having secretly facilitated a moment of reconciliation. Maybe it will be a more peaceful Sabbath for them both.
So now we're readying for Shabbat -- sunshine pouring through the windows, the air conditioning making like Winnipeg, and Laurelle and Keithen sleeping away the afternoon.
I wish you all a beautiful Shabbat!
Rabbi Larry Pinsker
Yes, we went, accompanied by jet lag (apparently suffering jet lag is, ahem, inversely proportional to one's age), and survived the Shabbes-shopping crowd for almost forty minutes, after which we retreated back to the apartment and I went to the local supermarket to shop for the many things we didn't get in Machaneh Yehudah. The overwhelming sensory experience is almost too much for anyone accustomed to the formalism of North American supermarkets, restaurants, fast-food establishments and vending machines. In Machaneh Yehudah everything is so personal and so entwined with the lives, sounds, and presence of the people who sell, stock the shelves, and pull customers from the "street". It personalizes the exchange between the hungry and those who sell the food, makes the experience an intimate exchange. But it is really overwhelming with its noise, its crowds, and its scents.
Needless to say, the area surrounding the market is now remarkably more urban than it was on my first visit forty years ago. The signage for the return of the Messiah (courtesy of our friends in Lubavitch) is everywhere, and there are tzedakah collections taking place everywhere (how can you start Shabbat without performing the mitzvah of tzedakah?), including at least three clusters of high school students whose accompanied singing is a sweet invitation to help them collect for their high school's class visit to the US next fall.
I asked one when they would be in New York City -- and the dates overlapped the Post-Bar Mitzvah class trip that is tentatively scheduled for late October or early November. I doubt we actually will meet in the balcony of B'nai Jeshurun for Kabbalat Shabbat services, but wouldn't that be an amazing shidduch (match) made for the class.
My solo venture to the supermarket in the height of the afternoon heat --- before everything shuts down for Shabbat -- is quick, and the purchases modest. I haul three shopping bags uphill on the return trip, kicking myself for not bringing that bottle of water that Laurelle urged me to carry. At the peak of the hill in the park, I sit down and watch the urban cats and birds play at surviving each other. The scent of the city is here, and its silence (though there is a man yelling at his child for an unmentioned act of shtuyot -- and the child's escalating response, "Ani mitzta'er m'od. M'od. Mitzta'er m'od m'od." "I'm very sorry. Very. Very very sorry."
I say a little prayer for the relief of both parent and child to permit them both to enter Shabbat. Then I resume the return to the apartment, having secretly facilitated a moment of reconciliation. Maybe it will be a more peaceful Sabbath for them both.
So now we're readying for Shabbat -- sunshine pouring through the windows, the air conditioning making like Winnipeg, and Laurelle and Keithen sleeping away the afternoon.
I wish you all a beautiful Shabbat!
Rabbi Larry Pinsker
All Life in Israel is a Way of Worshipping God
Being in Israel is like seeing a garden through a series of gates you have passed on a long walk. Each time you pass them, you wonder, “What lies beyond?” but if you do not make the effort to open them, the interior mystery remains hidden.
The gates are opening:
We’re in Jerusalem and the sunlight is pouring through the windows of our apartment in Katamon. Our flight – as blissfully comfortable as Air Canada can make a ten-hour cross-Atlantic seating in front of a TV set (remember, no one forces you to watch all those movies and TV shows they’ve stocked) – was pleasant and as busy as such confinement can be.
Travelers in neighbouring seats included families returning to Israel after visits to family in Toronto, a cluster of relatives bound for a beach wedding in the shade of Roman ruins in Caesarea (talk about a romantic setting!), and yeshiva students returning to limmudei kodesh ("sacred studies") in the Holy City of Jerusalem.
Travelers in neighbouring seats included families returning to Israel after visits to family in Toronto, a cluster of relatives bound for a beach wedding in the shade of Roman ruins in Caesarea (talk about a romantic setting!), and yeshiva students returning to limmudei kodesh ("sacred studies") in the Holy City of Jerusalem.
Looking at our passports, the Immigration officer at Ben Gurion Airport beams and says, “Ah, you are from Winnipeg! Your mayor, he is an Israeli! And your city makes such a tempting invitation for people to come and live there! But the winter is hard but beautiful?”
The taxi driver is a new oleh from Moscow, his Hebrew passable, but whenever his cellular phone rings, he speaks Russian to the callers. Laurelle and Keithen, exhausted, sleep in the back seat while I stare out the windows on the ride to Jerusalem.
Unexpectedly a passage from Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev comes to mind and later in the day, after we have taken the long route to nearby shopping and restaurants, the words fairly blaze in the sky and across facades of buildings. The streets are filled with people strolling, shopping, or simply watching the passing parade. This is the place they have made out of two-thousand-year-old dream stuff.
The Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev passage:
The Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev passage:
“By the acts that people had to do – to plant and to sow, to raise cattle and to sacrifice -- the Creator, Who is Blessed, caused the flow of blessing to descend upon them. For Israel, because of their good deeds is made worthy of the blessings that the Creator sends down upon them. When Israel was in the desert, however, they were in the state that the Holy One showered blessing upon them because of God's great grace, as shown in the case of the manna and the well of water, for in these there was no human action at all. In the land of Israel, by contrast, the flow of blessings that they received was a function of their deeds. This flow, which comes to a person as a function of his or her own acts, is the source of true happiness and joy for that person.”
The teacher who introduced us to this unexpectedly pragmatic expression of Hasidic wisdom explained that in life all true blessing is a function of our labor: we must work for it. In this way of thinking and experiencing religious life, this way of understanding the meaning of “blessing” is preferable to the idea of “blessing” being something given as a gift. It transforms the idea of sacrifice – which ceases to be “giving up something” and instead becomes all the work and labor of which we are capable for the sake of something greater than ourselves.
I can live with and practice a spiritual life that asks something of me and that proposes that "there ain't no such thing as a free lunch". Want to serve God and know God? First roll up your sleeves and start working. God will be there alongside you. The work will seem to take half as long, and you'll have such a feeling of satisfaction because of all you've done with and for others. Here, as the pioneers said, you stand for something in your labours, and you stand with God as you work.
That is why life in Israel is itself a form of worship. That is what I remember about life here from long ago.
Our driver’s GPS unerringly brings us to our Katamon residence. The neighbourhood is not the Katamon I remember from my days at Machon Greenberg/Hebrew University. The streets are filled with yeshiva students, every other building seems to be a kollel or high school or drisha for teenage girls in school uniforms whose common features are white blouses and black skirts. Is the school year ending for them shortly?
It’s now Friday morning and I have so much more to share with you, but for the moment we must head into Mircaz ha’Ir and shop for Shabbat.
On behalf of Laurelle and Keithen, I wish you all a beautiful Shabbat.
More to come… and please write to us so that we can post you and respond!
With love,
Rabbi Larry Pinsker
As promised, more for (Shabbat) reflection:
(1) There are two types of people: those who come into a room and say, "Well, here I am!" — and those who come in and say, "Ah, there you are." -- Frederick L. Collins
(2) It is not enough to simply love another; I must learn to love as that other needs to be loved. If I do not, my love is merely an emotional generalization, suitable for all and mattering to none. – Julius Lester, Lovesong: Becoming a Jew, p. 213
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