An ode to Zion
On Rosh Hashanah, the new year of 5778 I finally found what I was looking for.
My journey began three decades earlier in Kaminitz, Neve Ya’akov. A small settlement which in time would become a satellite neighborhood of Jerusalem. One glance at any map though would be enough for anyone to realize that it was in truth far closer to the Palestinian town of Ramallah than it was to Jerusalem. While today it is home to almost 25k people, back then it was no more than a few buildings scattered along the barren Judean hillside. The adjacent Pisgat Ze’ev Neighborhood was virtually nonexistent, with only a home or two decorating what looked like a large sandpit, only it was of the kind that we as children, were not allowed to play in.
Friday nights I would follow my father to Shul which took place in a small building that acted as a Kindergarten during the week. I don’t have many memories of that time, as I was very young, but in regards to this journey, there are two. The first is singing Lecha Dodi at the top of my lungs during services, with my Grandfather sitting nearby, giving me occasional grins of approval. I couldn’t have been older than 4 or 5, and my little heart could hardly contain the overwhelming joy of singing as part of a community. It would be a feeling that would follow me throughout my life, from one synagogue to another. The feeling of being touched by the divine, by the Shabbat queen as she graced us with her presence. I was unaware of how unique these feelings were, in retrospect I can say that I was a very spiritual child. Over the years though, these feelings became less frequent, and since my 13th year, have graced me only occasionally, if at all. Yet, that night is a night I will always remember. It was the first time I had a conversation with God.
My second memory was not a happy one, but it defined much of my later years of youth. I remember playing with a group of children in the playground outside our humble synagogue. It was a Motzei Shabbat, the sun had already set and it was time for all of us to go home. Just before some of the kids left, we got into a bit of a fight. I can not recall what it was about, but its conclusion was that I was an “Apikoros” and that they would not play with me anymore. I had no idea what that was, they just said it and then they left. I sat there alone in the darkness of the playground, I knew my parents were waiting for me, but I didn’t budge, I just sat there, staring at the stars in the sky. The memory of this moment was a strong one, it too would follow me for many years, the feeling of being alone, misunderstood, sidelined — an outsider.
I feared to ask my parents for the meaning of this word, I thought it might be one of the bad ones, the kind that following it would have my mouth washed out with soap. So after a while, when the word repeated itself on the playground and was thrown in my direction more than once, I went to my grandfather. He would have more patience for my naivety. Grandpa smiled and went on to explain in great detail that it was a word with Greek origins that was adopted into the Aramaic language during the 1 century BCE and was used in the Talmud to mean a heretic, one who pokes holes in our religion. Then he inquired where I had heard the word. I told him — he shook his head in dismissal — “Pay no attention to them,” he said “There will always be Jews who fear a good question” then he leaned in, as if to share a secret — “If your questions come from the love of Torah, you will never be an Apikoros, no matter what others say” It was exactly what I needed to hear. While it didn’t make much of an impression on my peers — I would still be the outsider — my Grandpa instilled in me the courage to keep asking questions, even and especially when they challenged doctrine. Yet, every now and then, that memory of the playground would come back, and I would wish that I wasn’t such a ‘smarty pants’, that I could just for once be a follower and belong.
These two stories have followed me and echoed time and again throughout my life. My spiritual yearnings would lead me to communities that would pray with a fervor, while my critical thinking and unconformity always left me outside the circles of acceptance of such communities. During my Bar Mitzvah year I discovered the Masorti (Conservative) movement, yet while I found a community of far more like-minded people, they did not pray with the same intensity that I always yearned for. In later years I would find Heschel’s words that resonated with me deeply — “I can pray with the Orthodox but can not converse with them, I can talk to the Conservatives but can not pray with them”.
So by default, I was forced into that space, between communities, forever walking alone along their borders — and while I met many interesting people in that space, I never belonged to a community.
Three years ago, I returned to Jerusalem from a Jewish Agency Shlichut to find myself at Zion; an egalitarian, Eretz Yisraeli community in Baka. I was familiar with Rabbi Tamar from my days in NOAM and had heard good things about the community and what they were attempting to build. I did not come with many expectations, I knew that many of the congregants walked in similar circles to my own, but by my own account this usually meant that the community, while intellectually stimulating was usually left wanting in regards to prayer. As Kabbalat Shabbat got on its way I was pleasantly surprised by the deep spiritual leadership of Yair Harel, the poet and cantor, who led a service that danced between traditions and while deeply familiar, seemed to have a tempo of its own. He did so delicately and with incredible nuance to melody and words, as if he was a seasoned surgeon putting every note and every syllable just so, a reflection of his excellent musicianship and yet, it flowed effortlessly upon the voices of the community.
Then Rabbi Tamar got up to speak, I had never heard her speak publicly before, and was immediately enamored by her words. Her Dvar Torah had the critical thinking of a Litvak weaved into the spiritual depth of a Hasid. It would seem that she has the rare talent of being both sharp as a knife, challenging the norms around us while spreading the warmth and spiritual love so needed in this world.
I came back. Again and again — each time falling deeper in love with this wonderful community, it’s warm people, it’s spiritual prayer, it’s constant yearning to be a community of God’s partners in our world.
It was at Zion that my egalitarianism turned spiritual. That might sound odd, but let me explain — You see, egalitarianism was always a challenge for me. While intellectually, I grew to believe it a Jewish necessity, my heart always craved the fraternity in prayer — It was one of my many contradictions. I believed full heartedly in the equality of men and women in prayer and in religion, but it was an intellectual belief. Spiritually I always yearned for the traditional, to be surrounded only by men while praying. It was at Zion that one Shabbat, I suddenly discovered the power of female spirituality in prayer, it was a side of god that I had never met before, or perhaps I had — but was not listening. It was beautiful and it filled me with awe.
Beyond the prayer, the members of Zion engaged in various aspects of building Jerusalem, from adopting young asylum seekers to building interfaith relations with the Muslim and Christian communities around us. It was not out of the norm to see individuals and clergy from other religions join our service. This complemented a dire need of mine to see and build a diverse Jerusalem. While this expressed itself much in my professional life, it was heartwarming to see it also in the place I had chosen for prayer.
On Rosh Hashanah a Franciscan monk walked in during prayer, he walked up and embraced Yair who was leading the community in song. Many smiled as they watched this beautiful moment, but for me, it was more — it was a moment of deep realization.
Prayer continued to fill the room, and for a moment it felt much greater than that as if this singing congregation was filling the entire holy city with its prayer, no — the entire world! I could almost hear the heavens exclaim in surprise how regardless of the thousands of miles between us — at that moment, it would seem — there was hardly enough room!
My eyes filled with tears, my heart with song. I was finally in a community that prayed with the intensity I had always yearned for, finally among people who asked challenging questions and challenged norms, finally a community that searched for god in other communities and not only in themselves — it was finally a place that I could truly belong, a place to be a part of — I was no longer alone, I was finally home.
