Will You Look For Me As I Look For You?

On a hot July night, I sat in HUC's beautiful gardens surrounded by hundreds of young adults seeing Israel for the first time. As the sun set, the white Jerusalem stone of the Old City, just a stone;s throw over our shoulders, turned from white to gold and back to white again. Standing in a circle, we connected with each other - both physically and otherwise. I closed my eyes and sang the blessings to separate Shabbat from the rest of the week, the sacred from the profane. In my hands, a colleague placed this week's bissamim (spices) - rosemary picked from a bush in the very gardens in which I stood. I inhaled deeply, causing a flood of memories to rush forward - the smell of the salmon I made freshman year for my first Pesach away from my family, the smell of the sweet potatoes I often roasted on Shabbat in my apartment in New York, the smell of my mother's garden. We sang. We separated. I looked around at the participants: some with eyes closed, some holding on tightly to a life-long friend they had just made that week, some giggling with discomfort over the ritual. I closed my eyes again. I smiled. I inhaled deeply - I wanted to hold on to that moment. What else is Havdalah about, if not separation? I wanted to remember that moment because it was the first one I had in Jerusalem that reminded me why I am here, why I am studying to be a rabbi.

Moments earlier I had guided students through a text study about Havdalah that was, for the majority of them, the first Jewish text study in which they had ever participated. We talked about the various symbols of Havdalah: the braided candle - the light of Shabbat; the overflowing glass of wine - the joy of the Sabbath, filled to overflow in hopes that the coming week will be one in which they joy of Shabbat overflows and fills us with happiness; the spices - sweet-smelling, representing the sweetness of Shabbat, a remembrance in the week to come. We read Mishnah, we read Torah. They talked to each other. They learned about the concept of chevruta - studying in a pair, each member of the chevruta learning and teaching. Then we gathered to wrap up. I asked them to think about the tradition from which they come as they continued to tour Jerusalem. I asked them to listen to the Hebrew spoken in the streets, remembering that this was the same language (give or take) of the Torah, of the Mishnah, of the Talmud - of our ancestors. I asked them to look down at the stones on which they would walk - stones some of which are 3,000 years old. I asked them to think about the legacy they inherit and to think about how that legacy has evolved, how it has become more modern, how they can incorporate it into their lives, how they can make it relevant while using it as a guiding principle - a light in the darkness, a light in the lightness. They listened, attentively. And I looked into their eyes, into the awe of learning for the first time, into the excitement of thinking about things in a new way, and I felt at home.

Last week, as I walked over the stones, as I listened to the Hebrew, spoke the Hebrew, I thought about the last year of my life. Last year at this time I had just received my application to rabbinical school. I took the first step in making the life-long commitment that I have known was my destiny since I was about 10 years old. I thought about two years ago, about the High Holy Days I spent in an apartment in Michigan with my exiled parents after Katrina. I thought about the majesty of Touro Synagogue's sanctuary on the High Holy Days. I thought of my rabbi, David Goldstein - of his traditional Yom Kippur letter. I reflected, and, though far from home, I let all the memories flow together, bringing a little reminder of home to this foreign land, to this homeland.

Now, with six holiday meals cooked, with 15 American college students at home with their generous hosts from my seminary class, I am looking out at the Jerusalem stone waiting for the sun to set and the New Year to begin. My location feels less physical and more spiritual - and I know I am in the right place.

May this year be filled with blessing, with health and happiness, with success, with peace and calm, with healing and growth. May each of your hopes and dreams for the coming year come true. May we all continue to learn from and teach each other.

Shana tova. Happy New year.

Sometimes This City Pushes You And You Have To Push Back

Sweating hot, covered in a thin layer of "Jerusalem paste" - desert dust and sunscreen - I walk into a somewhat barren store in the Arab shuk in the Old City. Having walked my people's history all day, through the water tunnels under the Old City, over the ruins of the Second Temple, I search for a Kiddush cup. With what will I sanctify the Sabbath tomorrow? I think. Will this perfect cup jump out at me? The store owner talks to another man. I start to walk towards other stores.

"Excuse me," a voice calls after me. "You'll come back?"

He offers me orange juice. He offers me coffee. I accept a glass of water. I can feel the cool liquid moving down my throat.

His name is Mike, he tells me in English - Hebrew is not our common language. He lived in Chicago for a year. He shows me beautiful crystal Kiddush cups; they look like water colors.

I check out. He tells me he will pray for me. He tells me he believes we will have peace - that I look like I want peace. My eyes fill with tears. He grabs my hands.

"We will pray," he says, "for each other. You are nice. I can see it in your eyes."

I whisper, "OK." He asks if I am leaving. I tell him yes. He tells me he will bring me to the gate to the Old City. We walk, side by side, out of his store and he personally escorts me to security, to the guards that separate Muslim from Jewish, Jewish from Muslim.

As I walk through the metal detector, I make my way quickly to the Western Wall before the afternoon sun becomes absolutely unbearable. With my lips and my hands pressed up against history, I mouth the words of Mincha, the afternoon service. I pray for peace, as I promised.

* * * * *

Invisible, I repeat myself for the eighth time, "Slicha - excuse me." The two men, side curls slightly wet with sweat, wearing black pants, white dress shirts, and black coats during an August heat wave ignore me. I do not want to touch them. I want to respect what I guess is their preference not to touch me. I believe in pluralism. "Slicha - excuse me," I repeat. No movement.

I begin walking through them, making a path for myself. I get through. My shuk cart is less fortunate. My arm remains stretched behind me, awkwardly trying to allow my cart to catch up to my current position inside the vegetable store. "Slicha," I repeat. No movement.

I begin to wheel my cart over two sets of feet. This cannot be pleasant for the feet being mashed.

I mutter something about not remembering the part of the Torah that talks about disrespecting women and ignoring fellow human beings. This goes unheard, or, at least, unacknowledged.

I buy sweet potatoes, mushrooms, scallions, so that I can go home to make Shabbat dinner.

* * * * *

I have always struggled with Otherness. Who is the Other? Am I outside? Am I inside? Am I invisible? Am I too loud? Not loud enough? Does anyone care? Does any of it matter?

What happens when the Other feels more familiar? What happens when the Family seems distant, unrecognizable, broken? Ultimately, do we not all come from the same place? One Holy City; three Holy Peoples - or, maybe, it is - it can be, it will be - One Holy City and One Holy People.