Shabbat
is the day
when we sit with the world as it is.
We accept the Now.
I may notice
something needs fixing,
needs action
needs a letter to the editor but
on Shabbat I must sit
accept the unacceptable
for a few hours.
I must wait for the stars.
Then I may fly
like an arrow from the bow of Shabbat:
potential
unleashed.
——-
Image by theSmart77 some rights reserved
My heart is in the east, and I am at the farthest west.
How can I taste food? How shall it be sweet to me?
How shall I render my vows and my bonds, while
Zion lies beneath the fetters of Edom, and I in Arab chains?
It seems to me a small thing to leave all the good things of Spain,
Seeing how precious in my eyes to behold the dust of the desolate sanctuary.
– Yehuda HaLevi, 12th c.
This 12th century poem is the best way I know to communicate the relationship of Jews to Israel. The poet who wrote it was a Jew who spent much of his life as a refugee from various regimes that were unfriendly to Jews. He was born in Spain, but he was never able to put down roots anywhere. If you asked him, he would tell you that Israel was his home, even though he had never seen it.
He disappeared en route to Israel. We hear the last of him in Cairo, where he could have stayed. He was a celebrity in the Jewish world of his time, a superstar poet and philosopher, but he wanted to go home. He insisted on going, despite the fact that Jerusalem was in the hands of Christian armies who slaughtered every Jew they found. We don’t know if the old man was on a boat that sank at sea, or was taken by pirates, or whether he did indeed reach the holy city and was (as legend has it) trampled to death by a Crusader’s horse.
My heart is in the east right now. I have heard from friends and colleagues who have scrambled to bomb shelters again and again over the past week. I am worried about friends from whom I haven’t heard. It has also stirred my memories of being in Israel during another difficult time, 12 years ago. I moved to Israel to learn Torah, and wound up learning more about bomb shelters and gas masks than I ever wanted to know.
I am angry at the handling of this story by the news media. The rockets and bombs hitting Israel for ten days were not deemed newsworthy. Only when Israel at last began to defend herself again the bombing did anyone take notice, and then it was to talk about “escalation.” What escalation? What other country on earth would be asked to sit quietly and accept bombardment? One million Israelis will sleep in or near bomb shelters tonight.
And yes, I am aware that there have been a terrible number of Palestinian civilian casualties. Their leadership has chosen to shelter their rocket launchers and military facilities in civilian settings, using their own people as human shields. That’s why Israel held off for so long. But I do not apologize for the fact that my people have chosen to keep military targets away from civilians. I do not apologize for the fact that Israel does not use old people and children for human shields. I wish that Hamas would do the same.
Not all the “photos of Gaza” published in social media right now are actually photos of Gaza, or of the current conflict. For more information about that, go to Grasswire.com or follow them at @grasswirefacts. I am angry at the lies, at the manipulation of public perception.
I cannot imagine where this will end, because I know Israelis, and I know how the Jewish heart feels about the Land. No bombardment, no kidnapping, no murder, no harassment, no threat, no propaganda will change the fact that for thousands of years, Israel has been the home of the Jews, the home of our hearts. I wish that the world would not encourage Hamas in its murderous deception, and its use of innocents for military purposes. I wish that there could be two states, and that we could find some way to agree that Israel can exist, and a Palestinian state can exist.
My heart is in the East, and I am at the limits of the West, praying for peace.
Somewhere in the sand
between the Sea and Sinai
there is a pile of rocks, a memorial.
Every year I stumble against it
trip over it
and the sharp stones hit a nerve.
I’ve only lately finished the matzah
only lately begun picking the soft white manna
from the grocery shelves again
enjoying my freedom
and then
wham!
I trip over those damned rocks again.
They recall all those souls, ground to gravel
Reduced to ash.
I cannot bear to think of them
And I cannot bear to forget them, either.
So I sit on the sand
aching
re-stacking the stones.
pause
take it in
just
stop
to breathe
to smell
to feel your chest expand
and relax
listen
for the still
small
voice
Give up.
Give in.
Give way.
Give away.
Give advice.
Give me a break.
Give a damn.
Give tzedakah.
Give a blessing.
Give thanks.
When I watch the passing of the Torah at a bar or bat mitzvah,
I wonder: Who passes the Torah to me?
My father was Irish Catholic,
and my mother a Catholic who was once a Presbyterian.
My name is Ruth bat Avraham v’Sarah
But Abraham and Sarah died a long time ago.
I have no family stories about Passover.
Like Ruth, I’m here only because I wanted to be.
Who passes the Torah to me?
When I approached a rabbi about conversion
He gently suggested we study together
And passed the Torah to me.
When my first Hebrew teacher patiently
guided me right to left through the aleph-bet
She passed the Torah to me.
When I shivered in the water of the mikveh
and the cantor led me through the blessings
She passed the Torah to me.
When I talked for an hour with the Beit Din
When the Torah study class showed me how Jews study Bible
When the Talmud group welcomed me for discussions and stories
When an Israeli acquaintance corrected my Hebrew
When my study partner clapped a kippah on my head
They passed the Torah to me.
When a little girl showed me how to tear the challah
When a woman offered me my first taste of a Hillel sandwich
When the guy at the bakery said, “Shabbat Shalom!”
When a committee chair said to me, “Here, you can do this.”
When friends shared recipes and stories and customs
They passed the Torah to me.
If it takes a village to raise a child
It takes a congregation to raise a convert:
We pass the Torah from hand to hand
and make sure all the Jews who want can hold it:
can write it on their hearts,
speak of it in their homes,
teach it to their children,
bind it on their hands,
hold it before their eyes,
and write it – in golden letters! –
on the doorposts of their gates.
– Rabbi Ruth Adar
