Though the following was written way back in October for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Repentance, it still seems appropriate to think of the same themes as we begin a new year in the secular calendar.
In light of the war going on in Gaza, the sermon also reflects for a moment on Arab and Israeli coexistence in the most unlikely of places. May we see such a day in the near future. Happy New Year!
***
The Rabbi of Nemirov had a strange habit. Every Friday morning he vanished and was gone for hours. Then suddenly, just in time for Shabbat, he would reappear. No one knew where he went. A whisper went among his disciples that the rabbi actually ascended to heaven for a few hours, communed with God, and returned.
One new student, a bit of a skeptic, could not stand the mystery and desperately wanted to know where the rabbi really went each Friday. One Thursday night in winter, the young man sneaked into the rabbi's house. He climbed under the rabbi's bed and waited there all night until the rabbi awoke just before daybreak. The rabbi dressed himself in old, dirty clothes, the clothes of a woodsman. Taking an axe and a large bag from a hook on the wall, out he went.
The young man followed as the rabbi went deep into the woods. At one point the rabbi stopped, and chopped and split as much firewood as he could put into the bag. He then continued into the woods, the young man following quietly behind. Eventually the rabbi came upon a rundown shack, and knocked on the door. A strained woman's voice called from within, "who's there?" The rabbi replied, "The woodcutter. I see no smoke coming from your chimney. You need wood. You must be cold." "I am," the woman said. "But I am a poor, sick woman. I have no money to pay you." "Don't worry," the rabbi answered. "I'll lend you the money you need." "But I don't know when I can pay you back." Again, the rabbi said, "Don't worry yourself, you'll pay me when you can pay me."
The young man saw the rabbi enter the house, and heard the sound of wood being unloaded and stacked. A few minutes later a curl of smoke began to float upward from the chimney. The rabbi left the house, axe in hand, and headed for home.
The young man followed him back to town. He could, of course, tell no one of what he had seen. But from that Shabbat on, he prayed at the rabbi's synagogue and studied at the rabbi's table. And ever after, when some disciple would remark on the Rabbi of Nemirov's Friday habit of ascending to heaven, the young man would quietly respond, - if not higher.
**
I spent a considerable amount of time in Israel working with inmates – both Jewish and Arab – who committed a variety of crimes, the details of which I am generally unaware. They would show up at 8:30am at a Kibbutz educational garden. Thrilled to see us, they would approach us with handshakes and hugs, Shalom Yen v'Evan! They would chain smoke cigarettes and drink instant coffee until we called them over to the benches in front of the outdoor Ark. My classmate Evan and I would lead them in a few songs – a camp sing along really – and the men would clap and smile and continue smoking, thrilled to be outdoors, relatively free, and amused by two Americans with poor Hebrew. The Jews and Arabs sat side by side on the wooden benches, Isaac and Ishmael literally and figuratively, grinning and relaxed.
It was common for me to return from the day and tell stories about my experience. “So I was hanging out with the inmates” was commonplace. None of my friends flinched upon hearing it. I forgot this upon returning to America.
“So I was hanging out with these inmates…” You did what? “Yeah, you know, hanging out with these inmates who I volunteered with…” That conversation happened regularly until I realized something. It was frightening for many people to hear that I hung out with jailed convicts. Before I started the project, I remember wondering what it would be like, what kind of crimes they had committed, would it be safe for a young woman to spend time in this environment. The second I got there – all of my prior qualms were put to rest. These men were brothers, fathers, uncles, and friends – not convicts.
Except they were.
Occasionally, one would share a story with me about he found his way to jail. One took the fall for a ring of lawyers involved in a scandal; another killed his best friend in a drunk driving accident. Some made their crime in America and asked to be jailed in Israel because the Israeli jail system has a unique aspect to it. While we have option for parole here – in Israel, one of the equivalent words used for parole is “Teshuvah.” Translated literally this word means something about “Turning or returning,” but we also translate it as repentance, a theme most relevant to Yom Kippur. It is intrinsic in the Israeli criminal justice system that one is able to repent for wrongdoings and turn away from sin in order to return to society. Part of this is the beauty and the challenge of the Hebrew language – many words used for secular life also hold religious meaning. For example, the seventh day of the week is called Yom Shabbat. While in this word it does happen to contain the same root for the letter seven – intrinsically in the Jewish week, is Yom Shabbat – the day of rest. Not the seventh day, but the day of resting. Whether one chooses to observe this day or not, everyone still refers to it as such.
After gathering together for morning songs and prayers, we got to work. Some days we picked citrus from the trees, other days we shook down olives from branches. We created mosaic artwork to lay as stepping-stones, lots of landscaping, and lots of shlepping. I even learned how to brine olives.
After working for a bit, we would eat breakfast together that the inmates had brought with them from the prison. It was delicious and an honor to be able to share their breakfast with them. Following our meal, we would sit together for Torah study. Now remember – Arabs and Jews studying Torah, together.
One morning in November, we were looking at the Torah portion Vayishlach – the story of when Jacob wrestles with an איש - a man or angel possibly- after which he is given the new name – Yisrael, planting in him the yoke of fathering a nation. “What does it mean to make a name for yourself,” we asked them, “how can you grow and change and earn a good reputation?”
Every day these guys have Yom Kippur. Every day as they sit in jail they are reminded of what act they committed to find themselves there. Once a month when they come to the Kibbutz for the morning, they are reminded of the beauty of fresh air and freedom. They understand that Judaism and therefore, the Jewish State, give them an opportunity for renewal, repentance, and return. They can repent for their crime – and it might take a long, long time. They can renew their commitment to humanity through hard work and determination to changing their ways. They can return to society and hopefully will not return to jail.
As the year progressed, I started to forget why these men were here. My curiosity of their crimes became less nagging. They were someone’s brother, father, uncle, nephew, and friend. They did bad things. They were not at their core bad people.
A complete act of Teshuvah, as both repentance and turning, occurs when we are confronted with the situation once more – but this time we do not fall into the trap of our habits, of our prior crimes. Instead we make the choice that is healthy, not harmful, challenging but courageous. There is no “mapquest” route that ensures success or happiness and at times, we might find it easier to drive along the path recklessly. Or at least, it’s faster than stopping to ask for directions. It is a true struggle to make a change in our lives. But how many times have you told your children, “if you don’t stop fighting, I’m going to stop this car and turn around…” Yom Kippur is that warning sign – the pit stop in our year, reminding us to make a change, repent, and return – TURN around…retrace our path and begin again.
We are not Israeli convicts. Nor are we rabbis disguised as woodsmen. But we all have the chance this year to become better versions of our current self.
Oh Source of Forgiveness, Oh Source of New Beginnings, on this day of awe and splendor, may both our smallest acts and our grandest deeds shine brightly in your judgment. Strengthen us as we challenge ourselves to turn away from the things in our lives that hurt us more than they help us. Allow us to turn inward to judge ourselves all the while, holding our judgment of others. In the New Year, may we each ascend to holiness, if not higher.
Student Rabbi Jennifer Gubitz
Temple Beth El
Rocky Mount, North Carolina
Yom Kippur October 2008
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Thursday, September 11, 2008
I'd rather be unemployed...
I remember this day seven years ago. Less than two weeks into freshman year of college, I awoke to someone pounding on my door.
Turn on the TV. Turn on the TV.
Whether from the haze of being woken abruptly or in general disbelief that such an event could occur, Shira, Lindsay and I sat and watched the news accounts of a terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon in DC. It was frightening no doubt and Shira was frantic to get a hold of her family who lived in the Washington, DC, area.
My childhood friend Josh instant messaged from Israel – can you get a hold of Rabbi Stein? A close friend to Josh’s family, Rabbi Stein was not answering his cell phone. Ultimately, Rabbi Stein was safe but simply unable to use his cell phone due to overloaded cell towers in NYC.
I spent hours trying to reach my brother’s best friend who had recently moved to NYC. Luckily he was late to work that day.
Sadly, a friend’s father perished.
**
Seven years ago was in some way the beginning of the rest of my life. I was a freshman at Indiana University, living in a Mcnutt dorm room – Dejoya 318 - with the little sister of my brother’s best friend. Unlike the matching pink comforters in the dorm rooms to each side of us, Elyse and I covered our beds more practically in navy blue and forest green – hand-me-downs from our big brothers. We had already made friends with the girls down the hall, learned our way around campus and I regularly enjoyed the Starbucks in the center of the quad and feeding my brother with my endless supply of meal points.
September 11th was Elyse’s 19th birthday. Her parents would be driving down from Indianapolis to take us out for dinner in her honor. Or maybe we drove to Indy to meet them, I actually can’t remember anymore and yet I remember this day seven years ago.
**
Riding the subway to school this morning was a bit unnerving. I woke up to an email from my current roommate about the need for extermination in our apartment; I dropped my pastry on the floor of the subway car where any chance of the five second rule was suspended for fear of death; a man hopped on the train to preach the gospels of Jesus and was yelling so loudly that my IPOD volume could not overpower him.
Seven years ago, the train I take from Brooklyn to Manhattan regularly stopped at the World Trade Center. As we passed through the stop today, I felt for a moment the subway car slow down as though to pay its respects.
I arrived at school in time to join morning services at the height of worship, where we have the opportunity to petition God. Outside of the fixed liturgy, I made one or two lofty requests and a few more practical appeals – please eliminate possible bed bugs, please increase water pressure in the shower.
**
The past few weeks are in some way the beginning of the rest of my life. Fresh off the boat from Israel, an émigré, if you will, to Brooklyn, I spend my days rushing between home, school, and working at a local synagogue. When not doing homework, I try to spend time making my apartment into a comfortable living space. I have two weeks to write four sermons for the High Holy Days where I will serve a small congregation in North Carolina as their only Rabbi.
Seven years have passed and Josh now lives in the financial district, down the street from the World Trade Center site. Rabbi Stein is one my teachers. Elyse is a news anchor. Her brother lives near me in Brooklyn. My brother lives in St. Louis and my sister lived in the same McNutt dorm and now in my sorority house at IU.
**
I remember this day seven years ago, thinking about all those who died and how in the days that followed, our country fell into shambles of economic crises, continued social inequalities, foreign relations disasters and war. In some ways, this day seven years ago is what keeps rabbis and future rabbis in business.
I think I’d rather be unemployed.
**
I invite you to click on this link for a touching audio clip.
May the memories of all who are no longer with us be for a blessing.
Turn on the TV. Turn on the TV.
Whether from the haze of being woken abruptly or in general disbelief that such an event could occur, Shira, Lindsay and I sat and watched the news accounts of a terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon in DC. It was frightening no doubt and Shira was frantic to get a hold of her family who lived in the Washington, DC, area.
My childhood friend Josh instant messaged from Israel – can you get a hold of Rabbi Stein? A close friend to Josh’s family, Rabbi Stein was not answering his cell phone. Ultimately, Rabbi Stein was safe but simply unable to use his cell phone due to overloaded cell towers in NYC.
I spent hours trying to reach my brother’s best friend who had recently moved to NYC. Luckily he was late to work that day.
Sadly, a friend’s father perished.
**
Seven years ago was in some way the beginning of the rest of my life. I was a freshman at Indiana University, living in a Mcnutt dorm room – Dejoya 318 - with the little sister of my brother’s best friend. Unlike the matching pink comforters in the dorm rooms to each side of us, Elyse and I covered our beds more practically in navy blue and forest green – hand-me-downs from our big brothers. We had already made friends with the girls down the hall, learned our way around campus and I regularly enjoyed the Starbucks in the center of the quad and feeding my brother with my endless supply of meal points.
September 11th was Elyse’s 19th birthday. Her parents would be driving down from Indianapolis to take us out for dinner in her honor. Or maybe we drove to Indy to meet them, I actually can’t remember anymore and yet I remember this day seven years ago.
**
Riding the subway to school this morning was a bit unnerving. I woke up to an email from my current roommate about the need for extermination in our apartment; I dropped my pastry on the floor of the subway car where any chance of the five second rule was suspended for fear of death; a man hopped on the train to preach the gospels of Jesus and was yelling so loudly that my IPOD volume could not overpower him.
Seven years ago, the train I take from Brooklyn to Manhattan regularly stopped at the World Trade Center. As we passed through the stop today, I felt for a moment the subway car slow down as though to pay its respects.
I arrived at school in time to join morning services at the height of worship, where we have the opportunity to petition God. Outside of the fixed liturgy, I made one or two lofty requests and a few more practical appeals – please eliminate possible bed bugs, please increase water pressure in the shower.
**
The past few weeks are in some way the beginning of the rest of my life. Fresh off the boat from Israel, an émigré, if you will, to Brooklyn, I spend my days rushing between home, school, and working at a local synagogue. When not doing homework, I try to spend time making my apartment into a comfortable living space. I have two weeks to write four sermons for the High Holy Days where I will serve a small congregation in North Carolina as their only Rabbi.
Seven years have passed and Josh now lives in the financial district, down the street from the World Trade Center site. Rabbi Stein is one my teachers. Elyse is a news anchor. Her brother lives near me in Brooklyn. My brother lives in St. Louis and my sister lived in the same McNutt dorm and now in my sorority house at IU.
**
I remember this day seven years ago, thinking about all those who died and how in the days that followed, our country fell into shambles of economic crises, continued social inequalities, foreign relations disasters and war. In some ways, this day seven years ago is what keeps rabbis and future rabbis in business.
I think I’d rather be unemployed.
**
I invite you to click on this link for a touching audio clip.
May the memories of all who are no longer with us be for a blessing.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Birdwatching...
I was never into bird watching.
Bluejays, Ravens, Cardinals - they look one and the same to me and generally draw beer drinking, hot dog eating millions to stadiums around the country. Yes, it's true that I generally associate birds with baseball, Edgar Allen Poe (the Raven) and also bird poop splashed on my windshield.
We also have our political affiliates - hawks and doves - that divide up our country in times of war. With my Picasso inspired vision of a hawk with red wings and a dove with blue wings, I think about the bar in Washington, DC, Hawk & Dove, where young politically minded capital hill staffers gather around pints, no - kegs, of beer, forgetting that their debauchery may someday ruin their presidential aspirations. Hawk and Dove is also a pair of DC comic superheros. They are dressed similarly to my previously mentioned image and I wonder- what was the color of the dove which brought an olive branch to Noah, waiting in his ark?
Although I've worked in the policy world - I'm not one to regularly express political commentary. And so I'll talk about birds instead.
This week, I've felt like a hawk and at times a squashed dove. Road kill almost.
Three weeks ago, there was great news of a swap between Israel and Lebanon that would hopefully bring home two of our missing soldiers. And it was this past Wednesday that we finally brought our boys home - in caskets. We traded live terrorists who entered back into Lebanon Hollywood style on a red carpet, as heroes. The families of Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev laid to rest their two year search for their loved ones - burying their hope of finding Ehud and Eldad alive, and beginning the mourning of their boys, proof of which alluded them for two years and four days.
And still, the Jewish State will continue to negotiate for the return of Gilad Shalit who will hopefully return from captivity in Gaza back to us - alive. We will trade thousands of criminals for our boy. We will probably offer land for peace. We've given innocent blood - for peace.
And in return, all we've received is bird shit.
***
The following song, most relevant to this piece, really opened up my tear ducts today. Check out David Wilcox's "Three Brothers."
Bluejays, Ravens, Cardinals - they look one and the same to me and generally draw beer drinking, hot dog eating millions to stadiums around the country. Yes, it's true that I generally associate birds with baseball, Edgar Allen Poe (the Raven) and also bird poop splashed on my windshield.
We also have our political affiliates - hawks and doves - that divide up our country in times of war. With my Picasso inspired vision of a hawk with red wings and a dove with blue wings, I think about the bar in Washington, DC, Hawk & Dove, where young politically minded capital hill staffers gather around pints, no - kegs, of beer, forgetting that their debauchery may someday ruin their presidential aspirations. Hawk and Dove is also a pair of DC comic superheros. They are dressed similarly to my previously mentioned image and I wonder- what was the color of the dove which brought an olive branch to Noah, waiting in his ark?
Although I've worked in the policy world - I'm not one to regularly express political commentary. And so I'll talk about birds instead.
This week, I've felt like a hawk and at times a squashed dove. Road kill almost.
Three weeks ago, there was great news of a swap between Israel and Lebanon that would hopefully bring home two of our missing soldiers. And it was this past Wednesday that we finally brought our boys home - in caskets. We traded live terrorists who entered back into Lebanon Hollywood style on a red carpet, as heroes. The families of Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev laid to rest their two year search for their loved ones - burying their hope of finding Ehud and Eldad alive, and beginning the mourning of their boys, proof of which alluded them for two years and four days.
And still, the Jewish State will continue to negotiate for the return of Gilad Shalit who will hopefully return from captivity in Gaza back to us - alive. We will trade thousands of criminals for our boy. We will probably offer land for peace. We've given innocent blood - for peace.
And in return, all we've received is bird shit.
***
The following song, most relevant to this piece, really opened up my tear ducts today. Check out David Wilcox's "Three Brothers."
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Guess whose back, back again...
I'm back in America - and already working at the summer camp where I grew up...Click the hyperlink to check out a post I wrote for the camp blog.
Although I'm back in the states and this blog was initially dedicated to my year in Israel - I do plan to keep updating it. If you would like to unsubscribe from it - you can do so by unsubscribing from feedburner.com via the email that sends out the blog syndication. If you have trouble, let me know and I'll help (I am not offended if you want to unsubscribe.)
Have a wonderful week!
Jen
Although I'm back in the states and this blog was initially dedicated to my year in Israel - I do plan to keep updating it. If you would like to unsubscribe from it - you can do so by unsubscribing from feedburner.com via the email that sends out the blog syndication. If you have trouble, let me know and I'll help (I am not offended if you want to unsubscribe.)
Have a wonderful week!
Jen
Monday, June 2, 2008
On Wrestling
On wrestling
As a child, I was never much of a hugger. I preferred to neither give nor receive much affection from my immediate family, except for from my mom’s mother – Bubbe Schwartz. I’d like to say that I remember vividly that we were inseparable, although nearly 20 years later I cannot be sure if my memories are accurately my own or if they are simply reconstructions of snippets of information I was told. My Bubbe died when I was in second grade and in her absence, I eventually learned to hug other people. Ironically, a strong and warm hug is something I have begun to crave throughout my adulthood. When parting ways with my parents before a long flight or leaving my siblings after a short visit – I sometimes return three even four times for one last hug. It has to be just right and until it is, I feel unable to walk away without looking back.
A lecturer at school suggested, “To be engaged with Israel is to be both a hugger and a wrestler.”
As I have spent the past few weeks supporting various Jerusalem shopkeepers when I should be studying; trying to honor my commitment to eating one falafel a day before I depart; considering which pairs of underwear I’m willing to leave out in order to make room for as many Wissotzky tea bags as I can stuff in my suitcase; wondering which speed dial numbers on my American cell phone I will assign to my new and dear friends; pondering if the waitresses will miss my daily visit and poor Hebrew at my local coffee shop – I’m not sure how I can run back to each of these things and people for one last hug. The doors to the plane will close even if I haven’t finished saying my goodbyes. The man who sells lotto tickets on my corner, and sits with his granddaughter or daughter I’m not quite sure, only starts work at 7:30am. My flight leaves at 8am. The parking attendant and security guard who greet me daily at the HUC garage will probably want at least one hug before I go. If I don’t show up for my flight, the airline will call my name over the loud speaker until someone tells them I’m busy hugging the guy who cleans my laundry on Azza Street with sensitive detergent because I have bad allergies.
I understand that Jews are wrestlers. I understand that it was a wrestling match won by our forefather Jacob that gave him his new name with the heavy yoke of parenting the children of Israel. I wonder though what would have happened if he had just hugged his wrestling opponent? What would have happened if he had just hugged Esau? What if Cain had embraced Abel and Isaac hugged Ishmael?
Wrestling is exhausting.
Hugging is invigorating.
As a child, I was never much of a hugger. I preferred to neither give nor receive much affection from my immediate family, except for from my mom’s mother – Bubbe Schwartz. I’d like to say that I remember vividly that we were inseparable, although nearly 20 years later I cannot be sure if my memories are accurately my own or if they are simply reconstructions of snippets of information I was told. My Bubbe died when I was in second grade and in her absence, I eventually learned to hug other people. Ironically, a strong and warm hug is something I have begun to crave throughout my adulthood. When parting ways with my parents before a long flight or leaving my siblings after a short visit – I sometimes return three even four times for one last hug. It has to be just right and until it is, I feel unable to walk away without looking back.
A lecturer at school suggested, “To be engaged with Israel is to be both a hugger and a wrestler.”
As I have spent the past few weeks supporting various Jerusalem shopkeepers when I should be studying; trying to honor my commitment to eating one falafel a day before I depart; considering which pairs of underwear I’m willing to leave out in order to make room for as many Wissotzky tea bags as I can stuff in my suitcase; wondering which speed dial numbers on my American cell phone I will assign to my new and dear friends; pondering if the waitresses will miss my daily visit and poor Hebrew at my local coffee shop – I’m not sure how I can run back to each of these things and people for one last hug. The doors to the plane will close even if I haven’t finished saying my goodbyes. The man who sells lotto tickets on my corner, and sits with his granddaughter or daughter I’m not quite sure, only starts work at 7:30am. My flight leaves at 8am. The parking attendant and security guard who greet me daily at the HUC garage will probably want at least one hug before I go. If I don’t show up for my flight, the airline will call my name over the loud speaker until someone tells them I’m busy hugging the guy who cleans my laundry on Azza Street with sensitive detergent because I have bad allergies.
I understand that Jews are wrestlers. I understand that it was a wrestling match won by our forefather Jacob that gave him his new name with the heavy yoke of parenting the children of Israel. I wonder though what would have happened if he had just hugged his wrestling opponent? What would have happened if he had just hugged Esau? What if Cain had embraced Abel and Isaac hugged Ishmael?
Wrestling is exhausting.
Hugging is invigorating.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
