As I complete my final week in Israel, I had the funny thought that I should write to you in Hebrew! Then I realized that if I followed through on that idea, my modest readership would become even more modest! Therefore I have decided to stick with English and show off of with a few key Hebrew words in transliteration here and there!
I came to Israel for a month to improve my Hebrew, but kamuvan (obviously) I have gained much more than an increase in my vocabulary and a refresher course in binyanei hapoalim (structure of verb forms). The best way to express what I have learned is to describe living in the city of Tel Aviv. I mastered the secrets of traveling by bus, train, and bicycle. I was at ease when stopping by at the makolet (market) to pick up chalav v’afarsimonim (milk and persimmons). By the way, these are my favorite fruit and one can only find them here in Israel during certain months. I absolutely eat one per day.
Every day I walked through the Yarkon Park to and from my shiurim (lessons) at Tel Aviv University. I enjoyed the beautiful campus and loved the people-watching there.
I found a nearby yoga studio where I practiced several times a week, figuring out the directions in a combination of Hebrew and yoga-speak: she’ifa v’neshifa (inhalation and exhalation).
I became accustomed to grabbing a late dinner with Sarah and Sagi at one of the neighborhood cafes and greeting my chayal (soldier), Josh, when he would come home from the tzava (army) on Thursday night or Friday morning. I cheered at Sarah’s rugby matches and biked along the many city bike lanes with Josh.
One Friday I traveled with Sagi’s mother Racheli to hike in Timna on our way to Eilat for Shabbat. Speaking b’Ivrit (in Hebrew) while hiking in the desert was a great way to practice words like madhim (amazing), chavaya m’yuchedet (unique experience) and tizahari (be careful)!
And all the while, I have been working hard to improve my Hebrew. Of course, learning for 4 1/2 hours every day in an intensive Ulpan (Hebrew class) with excellent teachers is the beginning. Those of you who know me well will not be surprised to learn that I took great care with all of my homework, completed all my assignments and studied very hard for the weekly test!
But class time has not been the only path to speaking Hebrew more easily. Perhaps, it’s only the foundation for the most important way which is living in Israel and speaking Hebrew every day.
When I needed directions to the botanical gardens, asked an Ethiopian artist at the craft fair on Nachalat Benyamin about her artwork, or ordered a cafe hafuch (cappuccino), I used my Hebrew.
It is true that many Israelis answered me in English despite my best efforts in Hebrew, but it became kind of a joke. Even I can hear my American accent!
One young woman on her bike at a major intersection stumbled through her Hebrew to ask me how to find the entrance to the park. After I explained it to her in Hebrew, she exclaimed, “Oh thank goodness, you speak English!” and asked me to explain again! Yes, it is good to remember always to be humble!
I have found that the best way of all to learn Hebrew has been walking the streets of Tel Aviv and listening to the conversations going by. In the morning hours, students and workers rush for the bus stop, talking into their headsets or phones to their mother or whoever they are meeting later that day.
In the early afternoon, the elders are out in the park, tucked in blankets, hats and warm coats into their wheelchairs. Their aides speak kindly to them about the weather, the children playing, or the people on scooters going by.
Later in the afternoon, packs of school kids take over the sidewalks on their way home. They travel in groups of seven or eight, talking loud, with confidence and slang. I listen in to their worlds and realize that some things are the same everywhere in the world: flirting, teasing and laughing.
In the early evening, mothers or fathers pick up the little ones from gan (nursery school). Some buckle their children into bike seats in the front and on the back. Others walk home slowly, hand-in-hand, an unmistakable bargaining for ice cream before dinner ensuing.
In the evening, people walk their dogs toward the park, greeting other dog walkers and giving the dogs a pat. Always they are happy to see Nandi, Sagi and Sarah’s Hungarian Hound. “Eyzeh chamud!” (What a sweetie!) they all say. In return, I offer a polite compliment to their dog, but it is really just to practice my Hebrew! There is no dog in Tel Aviv as special as Nandi!
As I am about to transition to my third and final sabbatical month, I acknowledge the many people who have made these adventures possible. I am thankful to the president and board of trustees at our synagogue who understand the gift of time to their clergy, to my fellow rabbis for continuing all of our ongoing commitments and initiatives, and to Jon for his ongoing support. For this month, I thank Sarah and Sagi for opening their home and daily lives to me… and a special thank you to Joshie who slept on the couch each Shabbat as I had taken over his room.
Happy Purim to everyone and I will write again next month to share the experience of yoga training.
With friendship and blessings,
Rabbi Paula Mack Drill
The custom of kriah, or tearing or rending our garments, is a critical element of mourning in Judaism. Judaism mandates that we ritually tear our clothes, in a physical manifestation and expression of the complicated and painful feelings of frustration, sadness, and anger at the death of a close relative. Nowadays, many Jews opt to wear a black ribbon which is torn in place of clothing. Traditionally this tearing, or kriah, happens right before the start of the funeral, in a private room where the family acknowledges that God is the True Judge. And apparently, as I found out on my recent trip to Israel in December, in many communities it is also traditional to tear your clothes upon seeing the Kotel, the Western Wall.
I was in Israel on the AIPAC Leffell Fellows Seminar, a trip for rabbinical students from the major Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox rabbinical schools. The trip, which featured incredible speakers like David Horowitz of the Times of Israel, Yossi Klein Halevi of “Like Dreamers,” Dr. Einat Wilf, and Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum, was both about providing the fellows with access to a spectacular range of speakers and experiences, and the opportunity to experience Israel with and through rabbinical students of significantly different political views and religious lifestyles. Some of my peers on the trip shared my exact political and religious predilections, but more often than not, we differed significantly. Some speakers who blew me away with their perspectives and erudition bored my peers, while a few speakers who deeply frustrated me deeply inspired the rabbi-to-be sitting next to me at dinner. The experience of learning about Israel from and, more importantly, with those who do not see Israel the way I do made for a moving seminar.
One of the most powerful moments was when, in anticipation of our trip to the Kotel tunnels, a few of the Orthodox fellows asked if they could have a moment to tear kriah at the Kotel. I was dumbfounded. I understood the words, I could figure out what they meant, but I had never even heard of the custom. Though I am still just a rabbinical student, I was almost completely floored by the idea that there was a custom that I had never heard of, especially given that I’ve spent almost 3 full years of my adult life living in Israel. As we stood outside the main entrance to the Kotel, before entering either the men’s or women’s sections, so as to allow all who wanted to participate, regardless of gender, our Orthodox peers explained the custom, citing from a classical code of Jewish Law, the Mishneh Torah: “One who sees the Temple in its destruction recites the verse ‘Our holy Temple, our pride, where our fathers praised You, has been consumed by fire; And all that was dear to us is ruined’ (Isaiah 64:10) and tears their garment.” (MT, Fasts, 5:16). As they recited the verse, they tore the left side of their white shirts just below the neck, as if mourning the loss of a beloved family member, and then we went on to the next stop on our whirlwind tour.
For those Orthodox fellows, this experience was nothing new; it was routine, mundane, mandated. They simply wanted to share their observance of this obligation with us. For me, however, this was an important moment to dwell upon. How had I spent so much time living so close to the Kotel and never heard of this practice? Had my education been lacking? Did my teachers fail me? Did I fail my students by not teaching them this practice? Moreover, especially given the difficulty many Conservative Jews have in regards to the Kotel, had no one considered that this custom might be relevant and necessary for contemporary Conservative Judaism? Our tradition teaches that the Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam, senseless hatred; and for increasingly large numbers, the Kotel Foundation’s policies against pluralism represent a modern type of sinat chinam. But instead of avoiding the Kotel altogether, as some might choose to do, we must actually look at it, recognizing that the state it is in right now is imperfect and represents the ruination of that which we hold dear. This ritual is a beautiful if painful way of engaging with our traditional values and our modern sensibilities and hoping towards something better.
While I cannot say for certain whether or not this custom will become a part of my regular practice when I go to the Kotel in the future, I know for certain that the next time I lead a trip to Israel, I will bring this custom, and the perspectives of my peers who taught it to me, with me. Even more so, I know for certain that I never would have gained this insight had it not been for the experience of attending the Leffell Fellows Seminar through AIPAC. By gathering Jews of completely different religious and political outlooks, AIPAC allowed and encouraged all of us to broaden our religious horizons, and pushed us to see Israel through the eyes of our peers. By building a wide open tent and inviting each of us in, our AIPAC experience gave each of us permission to share our perspectives, forge new connections, and hold new hopes for Israel. And that is certainly worth tearing a shirt for.
Perhaps you’ll consider an AIPAC experience. Policy Conference is March 4 through 6 in Washington, D.C. It is not too late to register. Join Rabbi Scheff and me, and experience the many diverse ways in which AIPAC is strengthening the American Jewish connection to Israel.
Jeremy Fineberg, Rabbinic Intern
I playfully named my three-month sabbatical “Root, Speak, Stretch” to define the way I had planned my time: visits back to my roots, speaking Hebrew in Israel, and stretching my comfort zone (and body) in yoga teacher training.
Now at the end of my first month, I have learned more about roots than I ever expected.
I begin by an admission that when I practice mindful awareness, coincidences start feeling like intentional signs. As soon as I embarked on a discovery of my roots, I took note of trees everywhere. Trees in Portland, Maine were dressed up for the holidays by artist Pandora LaCasse; trees throughout Massachusetts were dressed up after an ice storm by God .
Trees in botanic gardens in Huntsville, Alabama, West Palm Beach and Sarasota, Florida all seemed to lead me on my path. Banyan trees, the pride of Florida, signified the metaphor I had been seeking:
Roots typically remain unseen, growing solidly just under the surface. They provide nourishment, strength, and the source of everything that grows toward the light. New branches and shoots, fragile leaves, blossoms, and fruit demand attention: pruning, picking, trimming, tending. How easy it is to forget that roots also need tending.
And so I am grateful for this sabbatical pause in my full and busy life that has allowed me the calm space to learn something new. Places that represent my beginnings, people who “knew me when” – all deserve attention, all have deep truths to offer.
The idea of an obligation to nurture roots occurred to me first in the context of someone else’s place of beginnings. I spent an afternoon in Boynton Beach with Rabbi Scheff’s parents, Stan and Hannah. Almost a year ago, Hannah‘s parents, Israel and Sonia Neiman, best known as Zaidy Cha and Baba, moved into Stan and Hannah’s home. Tucked into a corner of the couch where I could hold Baba’s hand and listen to Zaidy Cha’s stories, I enjoyed a wonderful afternoon of Scheff hospitality.
What I found of significance about that afternoon is something that they all take for granted. The children of these precious elders come to spend the day, son, son-in-law, cousin and their partners, every single Sunday. I am certain that the shmoozing every Sunday includes weather updates, sports controversies and discussions of the waiting times for certain restaurants. The content of the conversations is not what matters. What matters is the very gathering itself. Zaidy and Baba are blessed by a family that acknowledges and nurtures its roots. This awareness of the value of roots came home to me in that moment and has shaped my understanding of the entire month.
I felt fully the power of my origins when I stood on the rocks of Two Lights in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. I respected the strength of memory when Jon and I drove by my childhood home, junior high and high school, and when we drove into the silent, snow-covered Jewish cemetery. At the Maine Jewish Museum (yes, there is such a place and no, it is not as small as a closet!) I looked at pictures of the old Jewish Community Center, my childhood synagogue, and Old Orchard Beach. I had discovered the roots of my roots. These kinds of roots require tending.
Sharing time with Cathy, my best friend in Maine, who has known me longer than anyone else except for my brother and cousins, reminded me of who I was as an eighteen year old. Cathy called my parents Momma and Poppa Mack. She and I lived together after college, back when I had never before written a check to pay rent. Cathy has been there for me through every major transition in my life, applauding my decision to attend Rabbinical School even though it was not in the realm of anything either of us could have dreamed of back in the summer of 1978! These kinds of roots require tending.
I traveled to Alabama and Florida to spend time with my maternal cousins. Pam, Ilene, Beth, and Wendy are my closest family members, and we share what no one else does: stories about our parents and grandparents, all gone now.
We laughed about Grandma Blanche’s afternoon tea parties and Grandpa Lou’s adventures collecting shells on Siesta Key, my Uncle Mel’s terrible jokes and my mom’s rules for making grocery lists. My cousin Pam calls me Paula Ellen, the name my grandparents called me. She is the only person who calls me that today. These kinds of roots require tending.
In between my travels, I spent time with my in-laws, Jonathan’s siblings, and friends from my Caldwell synagogue. These people too represent roots. One Shabbat in Caldwell, at Congregation Agudath Israel, Cantor Joel Caplan asked me to lead musaph. I felt the power of leading prayer before the person who taught me to lead it, in the place where I grew as a Jewish adult. These kinds of roots require tending.
As I have been sharing these experiences by phone with my brother Eric, I know that he understands completely what I am experiencing. My insights are not surprising to him. After all, he has known me longer than anyone else alive today. He knows me from before I knew myself.
And these are the kinds of roots that truly require tending.
Who are you calling today? To whom are you sending a handwritten letter? Are you making a reservation for that flight today? We all have roots that require tending.
We are more than where we came from. But we are not all that we hope to be if we do not acknowledge, remember, and honor from where we came.
With love and friendship, and on to Month Two,
Rabbi Paula Mack Drill
I so clearly remember the day I decided to pursue the rabbinate as a profession. It wasn’t a moment of revelation as much as it was an invitation to recognition. There was no event that suddenly awakened some personal transformation. Instead, there was a suggestion (from my big sister to be exact) that I had been denying my true nature, distracting myself with the pursuit of others’ dreams for me. In that moment, I had a choice: I could ignore the suggestion and continue on my path; or I could take a closer look, be present to the moment, diverge from my course long enough to envision an alternate direction.
You might think that the miracle of the burnish bush, as the event is described in this week’s Torah portion, is found in the fact that God spoke to Moses from the bush, or that the bush itself was not consumed. Experience has taught me, however, that a miracle can be found in Moses’ decision to divert from his path long enough to consider a change in course. “Let me divert from my course and examine this magnificent sight,” he says. Certainly, a revelation to Moses of God’s existence takes place; but even more impressive is Moses’ presence in the moment to recognize the invitation to consider his life’s course. The events of his life might have led Moses to a happy life as a shepherd in Midian; but his true calling was to a different path. His acceptance of the invitation to consider that path was not a given.
The burning bush has always been a symbol present in my life, though I was not always conscious to its relevance. It was the emblem of the summer camp I attended (thank you, Camp Ramah in New England); it was at the heart of a blessing I was given upon becoming a bar mitzvah; it lies at the center of the atarah (collar of my tallit) my mother made for me when I was in college; it is the logo of the Jewish Theological Seminary. Some might go so far as to say it was even a sign, pointing the way to my ultimate destination.
My decision to become a rabbi certainly did not come as a surprise to those who knew me well or who watched me grow up. The signposts were everywhere to be seen. But the combination of experiences that shaped my life did not necessitate one particular path. The invitation to recognize my life’s “true calling” would have passed had I not chosen to give it my attention.
I do not believe that we have only one calling in our lives. We may find contentment down multiple life paths. But each interaction in our lives offers us a choice of paths to travel. Our aversion to change and uncertainty may sometimes limit the options we perceive, getting in the way of our ability to entertain even a minor detour from our current path. But life presents us with multiple burning bushes just calling out to be examined. And we are invited to stop, look and consider the alternate directions our lives’ circumstances have presented us.
Rabbi Craig Scheff
Okay, I admit it. It is one of my least favorite songs, and by far my least favorite Hanukkah song in a world sorely lacking good Hanukkah songs. Please don’t take my dislike personally if Peter, Paul and Mary’s lyrics happen to be among your favorites. That being said, there is something to this idea of “lighting one candle,” especially considering the Talmudic debate surrounding the procedure for lighting the lights of the holiday. While we often quote the opinions of Beit Hillel (one candle on the first night, ascending to eight on the last) and Beit Shammai (eight candles on the first night descending to one on the last), we rarely reference the fact that the average person was expected to light only one light for the household each night (Shabbat 21b).
I actually love this idea of lighting one candle. After all, when the Maccabees lit the Temple’s menorah, they had no way of knowing how many days the oil would last, if it would even last a day. But they rekindled it anyway. It didn’t matter to them how many days the oil would last! Hanukkah could have been three, five or seven days and it wouldn’t have mattered. Their goal wasn’t eight. All that mattered was that they displayed the courage to kindle the lamp for one more day. That act of defiance, resilience and hope—to push back against the darkness one more day with no guarantee that the light would be burning on the day after—is the true miracle of the holiday for me, epitomizing the Jewish spirit throughout time.
Today, the day after the Hanukkah lights have gone out for this year, is the winter solstice. The Northern Hemisphere is tilted farthest away from the sun, resulting in the shortest “day”—and longest night—of the year. From where will the light come to push against the darkness? Hopefully, we’ve been storing up on the oil necessary to kindle a lamp, if only for a day. As a big Star Wars fan, I will share with you (spoiler alert?) that one of the things I love most about this movie is the message it sends about the responsibility that each of us bears to serve as a shamash for one day, for one other person.
While ruminating on my disdain (a little too harsh?) for Peter, Paul and Mary’s song, I came across another set of lyrics by Ronnie Spector (lead singer of the Ronettes) for another song with the same title:
Make the sun rise tomorrow with your faith in today
You can soften a sorrow if you just light the way
All it takes is a candle to turn darkness to light
Like the promise of the dawn
On a long winter’s night.
Figures, she wrote it as a Christmas song.
Happy solstice, and may all your winter days be bright,
Rabbi Craig Scheff
As I fold the last laundry load of sheets and tablecloths, I stop for a moment of pure gratitude. The Sunday after Thanksgiving was filled with the obligatory breakfast at the Pancake House, a competitive game of Scrabble, and yoga with three of my kids. In my family, from Wednesday evening through today, we have enjoyed an abundance of family time, food, and joy.
According to Jewish law, if I do not give thanks to God for all of the gifts of the earth that I have enjoyed, then I am stealing. So thank you, God, for holiday tables and Shabbat meals shared with loved ones.
According to Jewish ethics, if I live in plenty without caring for those who live without, then I turn my blessings into curses. On this Sunday, I reflect back to last Sunday.
I was privileged to travel into New York City with an OJC crew of volunteers who have been serving breakfast and providing warm clothing to people who are homeless for at least fifteen years. Meals from the trays of egg and broccoli frittatas, boxes of coffee, bagels, and fresh fruit were accepted with dignity and thankfulness by the sixty people who lined up on the corner of 24th and Ninth Avenue last Sunday morning. Just as important as the nourishment we provided was the respectful friendship we offered in that hour.
The teens who traveled with me in my car reflected on the people they had met during our drive back to Rockland County. They met an opera singer, a Hasidic Jew, a comedian, a recovering addict, and a woman who had lost the ability to provide for her family. I wondered aloud with them about a society that lacks a safety net for so many thousands of people. How alone in the world must a person be to stand on a line in New York City waiting for a free breakfast?
Tonight I write a tale of two Sundays; a tale of two very different Thanksgivings.
Let me always be open to assisting those who have so little and remembering what it means to have so much.
Hallelujah, hodu l’Adonai!
Praise God and give thanks to God.
Rabbi Paula Mack Drill
Friday morning in Jerusalem, our OJC track team greeted the day with a brisk 3-mile run (4 for Steve!) down and up a scenic trail through Jerusalem’s original train station and its surrounding neighborhoods. After morning tefillah and breakfast, we boarded the bus promptly (they are so good!) at 9am.
Pantry Packers, run by Colel Chabad, is a food distribution facility that packages and delivers food to the most needy citizens identified by their municipalities. Divided into 3 teams, we donned aprons and hairnets, and got to work. In an hour and a half we bagged, sealed, labeled, date-stamped and boxed 500 packages of grains for delivery to the needy. We had fun, even as we remained conscious of the sad reality that necessitates our efforts.
Our driver Nati delivered us next to the shuk in Machaneh Yehuda, where the bustling market place was teeming with shoppers prepping for Shabbat. We were individually assigned different categories of food to acquire and contribute to our Shabbat afternoon potluck lunch. Among the throngs of people, we still managed to bump into familiar faces!
After a brief afternoon breather back at the hotel, we rode to the Old City and arrived at Ezrat Yisrael, at the southern end of the Western Wall, to welcome Shabbat in song as a community. The sun dipped below the horizon behind us. While we appreciated the beauty and peace of the space we occupied, many of us felt the discomfort of being separated and hidden away from the thousands of Jews just north of us in the main plaza sharing the same words we sang. More about that on a different occasion.
The walk back to the hotel got us good and hungry! We made kiddush, attracting the warm and welcoming gestures of a group of Messianic Jews who wanted us to join them in Bim Bam and Am Yisrael Chai—interesting!!! We delighted in blessing the younger generation that had joined us for Shabbat. After dinner, our group sat in a private hall and shared highlights of the week.
Shabbat morning, we attended Moreshet Yisrael, the nearest Conservative Masorti congregation. Jeff Lance served as a greeter and gabbai, and we were warmly received with several honors to the Torah.
We sat on 7th floor terrace for hours, eating and laughing, enjoying the leisure of Shabbat, until darkness fell on Jerusalem and we recited Havdallah together. Warm goodbyes, expressions of appreciation and gratitude, and most of us were on the way to the airport.
As I descend into Newark, I already look forward to the next time in which we make the ascent together.
Rabbi Craig Scheff