Vistas of Israel: A Photo Essay

This Sunday is the 17th of Tammuz, the beginning of a three week period of national introspection for the Jewish people, as we mark the events leading to the great calamities of our history, including the fall of Jerusalem in both 586 BCE and 70 CE. These disasters shaped our history. But now, with Jerusalem again in our hands, some say we should downplay this eternal disaster mode that the Three Weeks seem to require that we inhabit.

For we in the diaspora, this is a time for additional reflection on the meaning of the restored Jewish state for us. Having just returned to Israel, I wanted to place before you a meditative device for us to do just that. Perhaps in this way I can best communicate how at every turn, this Place takes my breath away.

As we prepare for this Shabbat that will frame the Three Weeks, I offer a series of vistas, photos I took last week when I was there. Take the time to click on each to fill your page with these different manifestations of Israel's timeless beauty. Meditate on them, one by one.

Then, and only then, maybe we'll be ready to begin addressing the Three Weeks.

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CLICK ON PHOTOS TO ENLARGE

Vista #1: Galilee: The Sea at Sunset: Taken from En Gev, looking across to Tiberias, The Road to Mount Tavor, a view from Metulla, the Kineret taken from Rosh Pina















Vista #2: Jerusalem: Walls and Gateways (views from Mevasseret Zion, Mountains surrounding Old City and Jaffa Gate area):






















Vista #3: Temple Mount, Southern Approaches, Mount of Olives










Vista #4: People in Jerusalem












Vista #5: From Mount Bental, Golan Heights








Vista #6: The Judean Wilderness










Vista #7: The Mediterranean Coast (Tel Aviv, Jaffa, Caesarea)















Vista #8: Holy Places (loosely defined, including Big Apple Pizza)

Report from Spain and Israel: Flailing at Windmills

I returned from Spain and Israel this morning. It was a trip framed by windmills and the life of Maimonides. On the one hand there was a singular windmill we saw, high up on a hill in central Spain, on the outskirts of the province of La Mancha. On the other, there is a single windmill in Jerusalem, and a tomb in Tiberias, that tell us all about the long journey home.



A windmill in La Mancha



Montefiore's Windmill in Jerusalem

If you click on the photo below you'll be able to read the plaque posted near Montefiore's Windmill. It was constructed for no practical purpose other than to promote Jewish settlement and industry outside the Old City walls. At a time, in the 19th century when people succumbed to the fear of the unknown, Montefiore encouraged them to settle and cultivate their homeland. This windmill, unlike Cervantes', symbolized battles that were quite real and not imaginary, and an Impossible Dream that could come true.




As we sauntered through La Mancha (in a car, not on horseback), I tried to imagine what was going through the mind of Cervantes when he conjured up Don Quixote's signature moment of chivalry and valor. How pointless it seems to fight windmills. Yet how courageous it was for Cervantes to flail away at the windmills of oppression and the scourge of the Inquisition.

The Inquisition is a taboo topic in Spain to this day. On the eve of my trip I did some research and, make no mistake, this was a brutal country back then - and, if you are as appalled by bullfighting as I am, it remains brutal to this day. We arrived in Madrid just as Spain beat Germany for the European soccer championship and I found myself wondering whom to root for, simply on the basis of which nation has been worse to the Jews. Lots of countries could vie for that title, but these two have been the worst, hands down. Yet, in an amazing twist of history, both places nurtured the two great motherlodes of Jewish cultural diversity and creativity: Ashkenaz, which means Germany, and Sepharad, which is Spain.

And let’s not cloud matters because half a millennium has passed since the Expulsion. It was bad then, and Spain has not fully recovered. The Jewish community is minuscule. A thin veneer of cordiality, for the sake of tourism, covers a culture that is still thoroughly rooted in anti-Semitism, even without Jews.

I enjoyed the country, and its Jewish sites are a must see, but every time I picked up a menu and saw just how omnipresent pork is in the Spanish diet (the Spanish words I used most there were “sin jamon,” (“No ham.”), I understood that this was no cultural coincidence. Pork was the means of sniffing out those Jews who hid their Jewishness from the Inquisitors, those crypto-Jews who indeed were called “Pigs,” “Marranos.”

Maimonides was born in Spain and lived in Cordoba until he was 13. Cordoba was a capital of Moorish Spain, and the place where the Jewish Golden Age really began in the 10th century. But by the time Maimonides came along, things were already turning sour. In fact, it is almost impossible to name a great Jew from that period of several centuries – a Golden Age of Jewish achievement and acceptance – who died in the same community in which he was born. They were constantly being booted out and moving on to greener pastures.

But now they love Maimonides in Cordoba. There is a statue of him (see below)



There is even a hotel named for him. There is also a fantastic new museum of Sephardic culture there, in the very spot where Sephardic Judaism was born. Here are some samples of the art work found there. The museum is completly accurate in how it spins the story of this great Jewish center. It contains Ketubot and Menorahs interspersed with expulsion edicts. The full picture. We got an excellent tour from a lovely young woman.





Of course the guide was not Jewish. Neither is the family behind this important educational venture. There is, in fact, not a minyan of Jews to be found living in this great Jewish center, she told us. It is like a ghost town of Jewish memories. Although with much nicer intentions, this museum is basically what Hitler wanted to create in Prague - an exhibition of what it was like when Jews lived here, the museum of a dead people

Only we are not dead.

Right next to the old synagogue, which has been partially restored (much like the two medieval synagogues in Toledo) after having been coverted to a church following the Expulsion. You can see evidence of that below:




Still, the walls are covered with Hebrew inscriptions, like the one below:



Read now what some of those quotes mean (including the one shown here):





As their fate became increasingly perilous, and even when things were good, all eyes were on Zion. The Sephardim were the original Zionists. The great poet Judah Halevi wrote, "My heart is in the east." Those words have echoed across the ages.

From Moses to Moses, there was no one like Moses. Maimonides was compared to his biblical namesake, but Moses Montefiore took a similar journey, one that began in Europe and ended with burial in the Holy Land. On the final day of our trip in Israel, we closed the circle. We had seen where Moses ben Maimon had begun his life, and now, in Tiberias, we went to his grave.

Like so many graves of ancient sages in Israel, this one has become sensationalized to the point of absurdity. Note the crown over it and the hawking of Rambam booze:










The grave is divided evenly between the men's and women's sides:



There was something very moving about being there, at the end of this journey. When I thought back to the inscriptions on that synagogue wall in Cordoba, the place where Jews dreamed and died, and shifted sights to this spot where the Jewish dream lives, whee the Jewish people lives, where we have flailed against the windmills and triumphed; now, in the Golan, they are using those very instruments to harness the wind for power. In this place, those verses from the walls of Rambam's hometown shul have themselves come back to life.

"One thing have I desired most of all, to dwell in the House of the Lord all the days of my life."

I also think of Psalm 126, which appears not on the walls of Codoba, but in the windmills of La Mancha and Jerusalem, and wherever else people dream:

"A song of Ascents. In our return to Zion, we were as dreamers..."

It is for such dreams that so many have died, including the two captive, murdered soldiers that Israel mourns today. Their remains have returned home but their dreams have not died.

Jewish Geography in Israel

(you can click on the photos to enlarge them)

As our time in Israel begins to come to a close, we’ve shifted up north to the Ramot Golan Resort, with a gorgeous view from our balcony overlooking the Kineret, with the lights of Tiberias twinkling on the other side of the lake. Tiberias is hardly Israel’s most beautiful city when viewed up close, but from this distance it looks positively angelic, its lights scaling the hill on the other side as if reaching for the heavens. It is hard to tell, in fact, where Tiberias ends and the stars begin.

That’s the thing about Israel: it feels closer to heaven. Its blue skies are bluer, its noises louder, its beauty more spectacular (and its faults more pronounced).

There is no middle ground here – only glaring lights.

As we left Jerusalem this morning, some reflections…

Despite some terror incidents that have occurred of late, the sense of personal insecurity has diminished considerably since I was last here. Mara and I were even able to return to Abu Shukri in the Moslem Quarter of the Old City for the best Hummus in the world a treat we hadn't enjoyed in many years.

Saturday night in Jerusalem was really like old times on the Midrachov. Ben Yehuda Street was packed with American and Israeli youth and the shops were bustling. Those “welcome courageous tourist” signs seem curiously anachronistic now, and only a few stores still show them . The existential threats are as great as ever, but the personal security threats facing Israelis and tourists are no longer an impediment.

This is true in most of the country, but not in Sderot. Ethan went there today on his trip and the experience moved him profoundly.

We’ve seen lots of friends here, as always. We met Alix Brown near the Kotel earlier this week, and on Shabbat, bumped into the Friedlieb family from a prior Beth El Israel tour. I saw a number of rabbinic colleagues at services on Shabbat morning, at a homey, ruach-filled egalitarian minyan in the German Colony called Kehillat Kedem.


On Saturday night, we ran into Rabbis Liz Rolle and Phil Schechter
about a block from Zion Square and later on at Big Apple Pizza (still the best pizza I’ve ever had anywhere!), we saw Marty and Sheila Israel.

On Friday night we had a lovely Shabbat dinner at our hotel with Ruth Ginsburg

(daughter of Gerry and Fran - here shown with Mara just before Shabbat dinner)and on Sunday, as we drove up the coast, we stopped off to pay a visit to Aliya Boyer (daughter of Beth and Brad) at Camp Kimama just north of Netanya. Aliya was thrilled to see us and we were thrilled to have the chance to take her out to lunch at a nearby mall. (Here she is with our Dan, standing on the camp's beautiful waterfront)


The attached photos are proof that Israel is treating everyone just fine.
It is always special to play Jewish Geography in Israel, and I’ve done that a lot. Here there are far fewer than six degrees of separation. There are no degrees, really. On Ben Yehuda, each segment of the street featured dramatically different styles of music: a harpist on the top of the street, a Japanese choral group in the middle, and at the bottom, a group of frenzied Bratzlaver messianists chasing down tourists to join them in the dance. Couldn’t be more different, yet I feel a
strange connection to them all.

If you are interested in taking part in a TBE Israel Adventure over the coming year, let me know!

And for now, Shalom from the Golan!

A Wilderness Wedding

Greetings from the Judean Hills and Jerusalem!

My family and I have had a sensational visit to Israel here this week, now staying at the Inbal hotel in Jerusalem, which has become a favorite of Beth El visitors over the past several years. This is a personal visit, timed to coincide with two major happenings for my family, Ethan’s ten day excursion with “Write on for Israel,” a select group of high school journalists training to become leaders in Israel advocacy, and my niece Luz’s wedding on Thursday night.

I’ve had the pleasure of bumping into some familiar faces, as always happens when in Israel. One congregant, Ruth Ginsburg, daughter of Gerry and Fran, who will be joining us at our hotel tonight for Shabbat dinner. I had the pleasure of bringing her here on her first trip 14 years ago, so in a sense we'll be coming full circle. I also had breakfast on Wednesday with Jim and Mary Himes; Jim, as many of you know, is running for our district’s Congressional seat currently held by Chris Shays. The race stands to be one of the most watched in the country this November.

We had a wide ranging discussion about Israel and his trip here seemed to have a great impact on him. In just a few days, he had several meetings with various officials and also visited the front lines of the current tensions, Sderot. I was impressed that he saw the importance of making this long trip to Israel during the course of a very busy campaign. There is no question that Chris Shays has become such a strong supporter of Israel in large part because of visits such as this. Himes spoke of how impressed he was at the restraint and heroic resolve of the people of Sderot, despite the endless rocket attacks. I remarked, “Imagine what our government would do if Buffalo came under similar attack from Canada,” to which Mary replied that she grew up in Montreal.

Following the surgical removal of my foot from my mouth, the conversation turned to other political and economic concerns. After our breakfast, the two of them headed for a visit to Yad Vashem. I look forward to a vigorous debate this fall (and suggested that maybe Beth El host!) – but it seems clear to me that Israel’s security will not be a matter for disagreement among the candidates.

Now… the wedding.




Imagine how the Moabite prophet Bilaam must have felt when he looked down at the peaceful tents of the Israelites wandering in the Wilderness. He said in this week's portion, “How lovely are your tents Oh Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel.” Well, as you can see from this photo, this is somewhat the feeling created while looking down at the huppah this evening in the stark desert hills just a half hours drive from downtown Jerusalem, a few hairpin turns down the road from Ma’aleh Adumim. In this biblical setting called Eretz Beresheet (http://www.genesisland.co.il/), complete with biblically attired staff and camels, my niece Luz married Shlomi in a wedding that was as current in its political overtones as it was biblical in its geography.

You see, up until a few days ago, there was no assurance that this wedding could come off. That’s because Shlomi is a Cohen and a strict reading of Jewish Law prohibits a Cohen from marrying someone who has converted to Judaism. Luz, who was adopted at birth, was converted at the age of three months in an Orthodox conversion. I had the honor of being the dunker, but I was not an official witness.

In normal situations, lenient rulings of rabbis have been followed when a minor converts at so young an age, but these are not normal times for religion in Israel. The rabbinical authorities have of late been on a rampage of restrictiveness, in some cases even rescinding conversions years after they took place. This kind of thing is unheard of, but it is happening. Just this week, a new party was announced here by former MK Ephraim Sneh, designed to address some of the deep social divisions that were once addressed by the now defunct party Shinui, including the widening religious - secular divide. So in this atmosphere, it was not surprising that the authorities denied Luz and Shlomi’s appeals. This blow hurt them deeply – they had been perfect models of how engaged couples should behave and both come from very religious families. Ironically, had they not been such models – e.g. had Luz been pregnant – the authorities would likely have been much more lenient in allowing the wedding to happen.

Rather than cancel, Luz and Shlomi decided to do what a growing number of Israelis are doing. They found a rabbi from the Masorti movement, someone originally from Connecticut (who a few years ago spoke to us at Beth El about his embattled experiences in Gilo) Rabbi Shlomo Zacharow, who now works at the Fuchsberg Center in Jerusalem. The ceremony he planned with the couple was most meaningful and beautiful. While there was some question as to whether anyone would boycott this ceremony, in the end, all sides were present and nothing took away from the joy.




So tonight, the mountains danced. And as you can see from these photos (the one above with her cousin Dan), the bride positively glowed.





Luz and Shlomi will still need to go to another country to become civilly married, but in the eyes of the laws of Moses and the people Israel, the same ones who dwell in those goodly tents blessed by Balaam in this week’s portion, they are already married. In the eyes of God, too, I think. I can guarantee that no thunder and lightning struck us in the wilderness tonight. Just a warm Hamsin breeze.

Shabbat Shalom from Jerusalem, from Mara, Dan, Ethan, myself, and from some new friends I made today at Genesis Land...

Numb and Number (The Jewish Week, July 3 2008)

This past Shavuot, my congregation joined with Temple Sinai, a neighboring synagogue, for a late-night study session. When I left at the end, I was shocked to see that while we were immersed in study, a violent storm had submerged the parking lot in rippling puddles.

Here I was — at Sinai, on Shavuot, no less — and I hadn’t even heard the thunder.
It’s one thing to miss the Still Small Voice, the subtle miracles. But when I doze through the entire Sinaitic storm, the snapping branches and swirling leaves, I have to begin wondering whether I’ve been in this profession too long.

Twenty five years ago, I stepped out into the world from Park Avenue Synagogue with the rest of my rabbinic class. From that day until this moment, I’ve struggled with the issue of numbness. Rabbinic lives involve a constant lurching from crisis to crisis, making it nearly impossible to hear every cry — whether human or divine — or to be completely present for any of them.

During one recent evening, I confronted the sudden deaths of a revered congregational elder and a young father in peak health. Complicating matters even more, I got the call about the young father at the precise moment when my wife and I were half way out the door to bring our son to the very same E.R. Thankfully, my son would be fine, but for four nightmarish hours I found myself shuttling from cubicle to cubicle, switching roles from rabbi to dad and back again. I couldn’t be there for just one — I had to be there for all. I had every excuse to ignore the congregant, who lay in a coma and whose family was in a state of utter shock. But I simply couldn’t do that. Nor could I give my own child short shrift.

The only way to survive such raw terror is to avert its direct gaze. I had to help everyone else get through while maintaining my own sanity.

Rabbis don’t need pills or alcohol to become numb. Religion is the Opiate of the Masses, according to Marx, the great numbing agent of civilization. But Marx got it wrong. While life can be unbearable, Judaism lives in the ability of rabbis to heighten awareness, not deaden it behind comforting cure-alls and pastoral balm. My role is indeed to be present and comfort people, but not to deaden their pain.

I went to the dentist a few weeks ago for a relatively simple procedure; but as soon as he entered the room, I could tell that this session would not be so routine. His troubled face startled me — I’m one of those squeamish types who see every visit to the dentist as a potential remake of “Marathon Man.” But my teeth were not the source of his concern.

As he shot me up with Novocain, he told me about a recent trip to Lithuania and his sadness to see how the great Jewish community of Vilnius, once teeming with 105 synagogues and six daily newspapers, had in an instant been reduced to almost nothing.

What saddened him most was how non-Jews spoke with such apathy about their neighbors’ fate, how they had simply taken what the Jews left behind: their silver, their homes, everything.

“Are you numb yet?” he asked me, seeking my reaction to his story.

“Mphhh mphhh...” I replied, which translated from numb-speak means, “Never Again,” or “That’s why we have Israel now.”

I expected him to echo those sentiments, to affirm how important it is to remain proudly Jewish in light of these tragic events, to support Israel and stand up to hatred everywhere. That’s the answer I was taught in rabbinical school, the one I’ve been spouting for decades.

But that’s not what he said.

Instead, he wondered openly, why, given these seemingly inevitable results, one should remain Jewish. Why do we need to condemn ourselves to this treatment, to always be laughed at and despised? And with Israel’s survival hardly a sure bet at this point, why bother? Why should he continue to subject his family to such risk, when it is so easy to opt out? If the Jewish presence could so easily be wiped away from the city that once was called “the Jerusalem of Lithuania,” couldn’t it happen here? What would the people in White Plains or Westport do if all the Jews were evicted?

Wouldn’t they just take our things and move into our homes?

Why do we always have to be on the losing team?

I replied as best I could with half a mouth:
“Mphhh mphhh...”

Next week, I’m taking my family to another country where Jews once flourished, another place once compared to Jerusalem, from which Jews were eventually forcibly evicted: Spain. I’m sure that as I walk the labyrinthine cobblestones of Cordoba and witness the medieval grandeur of Granada, I’ll lecture my kids about the miraculous, stubborn survival of the Jewish people. But will any of us truly feel the pain of those Marranos and the injustice of their loss?

I’ll also think about those Jews who have given up hope and remind myself that it is not my job to come up with glib answers to band-aid this wound. After 25 years in the rabbinate, I can’t allow myself to become oblivious either to the thunder of Sinai or the still, small cry of suffering. A rabbi’s job, I’ve learned, is not to numb the pain, but to heighten awareness of life’s tragic nature and the inherent beauty of survival.

“Life isn’t meant to be easy, it’s meant to be life,” wrote James Michener at the end of “The Source.”

“But take courage,” said George Bernard Shaw, describing life. “It can be delightful.”