I always stand in awe of my colleagues who
are able to put out an articulate, inspiring statement to their communities
just hours after a horrific tragedy has occurred – whether in Israel or at
home. For me, when these things happen, I immediately find myself at a loss. It
takes me hours – sometimes days – to find the strength to speak and the words
to speak with. This was one of those weeks, but I hope that tonight I have found
some words I can share.
23 of us – Christians and Jews from CBSRZ and
the United Church of Chester - had just returned from an incredible interfaith
trip to Israel. We came back feeling connected to each other and to Israel, and
we were full of awe. We had seen the beauty of the land and its peoples – and
the terrible complexity of the geopolitics. We were moved, we were joyous, we
were sad, we were confused. So many feelings. And I was excited to talk about
all of it to you this Shabbat.
And then, the second morning we woke up in
our own beds here, we saw the news. Four Jewish men slaughtered while praying
in their synagogue in West Jerusalem – murdered by two Palestinians, from
neighboring East Jerusalem. Later, a fifth victim died in the hospital– a Druze
police officer who had rushed into the synagogue to help.
During our trip, we felt safe. We knew that violent
demonstrations were taking place in Palestinian East Jerusalem and in some Arab
Israeli villages. We heard about attacks on Jews– with cars, with knives. We
even had to change some of our plans in order to stay out of harm’s way. We
were certainly aware of the reality of the conflict, and how it was playing out
while we were there, but thankfully, that reality mostly receded into the
background for us.
The stories I want to share with you tonight,
highlight that tension between what stood in the foreground of our awareness, and what lay in
the background, during our trip.
What stood in the foreground for me were the
overflowing blessings of the Israeli and Palestinian people, and their cultures
of hospitality and openness.
In the Old City of Jerusalem, on our way
towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, we saw that many shops in the Arab
market were closed. Tourism has suffered these past few months, and business is
slow. But as we turned a corner, a pastry vendor, wearing a white Muslim prayer
cap, wheeled his cart over to us, and offered us a snack. He was clearly happy
to have some customers – his smile said it all. I found myself moved to tears
by this simple, warm, human interaction among us Christians and Jews, and this
Muslim man in Jerusalem.
Later that afternoon, we made our way to the
Kotel – the Western Wall – to welcome in Shabbat. The Kotel plaza was packed with
young modern Orthodox men and women, and with male and female Israeli soldiers.
On the women’s side, the women were singing out loud and dancing in circles.
Some of the women saw our group standing on the edges, grabbed our hands, and
drew us into the whirl – we sang L’cha Dodi and turned together to symbolically
greet the Shabbat bride. There was a sense of unity and joy, even as we
periodically could hear firecrackers and tear gas canisters being shot at
demonstrators in an East Jerusalem neighborhood just outside the Old City’s
walls.
On the day that we floated in the Dead Sea
and then visited the ancient ruins on top of Masada we finished our excursion
with a meal at the home of Juju and Mazal, Tunisian Jews who live in the desert
town of Yerucham. Mazal is one of the “Culinary Queens” of Yerucham – women who
make a living by hosting tourists in their modest homes, serving them food from
their countries of origin, and telling the story of how North African Jews made
their way to the State of Israel. Mazal and Juju had moved all of their
furniture out of the way to make space for us to eat – and the food was
incredible. I purchased a cookbook for our CBSRZ library if you’re interested.
A highlight of the evening was purchasing those
cookbooks – the proceeds of which go to help poor children in Yerucham – and
having them inscribed by Juju. In each book, Juju wrote a blessing, depending
on the recipient – for good health, success, for marriage or children, or
grandchildren. We left with his blessings resting on our heads.
There are so many stories – I’ll just leave
you with a couple of images from Jaffa – the ancient Arab port city that has
now been integrated into Tel Aviv.
Jaffa is inhabited mostly by Arab citizens of
Israel, and a bunch of us grabbed lunch from the famous Arab bakery, Abulafia.
There we saw that all of the servers and bakers were wearing bright orange
T-shirts that said in Hebrew, Arabic and English, “Arabs and Jews refuse to be
enemies.”
Later that day, we got permission to visit a mosque,
although the man overseeing the mosque would only allow us into the courtyard,
and not into the prayer space of the mosque. But when we arrived and asked
again, he did allow us in to see the prayer space, with its intricately
decorated ceilings and lush carpets. He seemed wary of our presence, but I
think he could tell that we were there out of respect. Given the tensions in
the country right now, especially about who is allowed to have access to holy
places, it was remarkable that this man felt comfortable enough to welcome strangers
into his holy space.
The openness, the generosity, the beauty, the
humanity– these are the aspects that stood in the foreground of my vision
during our trip. I believe that these are the true qualities of the people who
dwell there. And this is what makes it all the more tragic that the background
consists of walls and knives and bombs – of division and pain and blood. It is
this horror that moved from the background
to the foreground as soon as our feet touched down in Connecticut.
This week’s
Torah portion, Toldot, reminds us that this conflict between Jews and Arabs can
be seen as going back to Jacob and Esau, the twin sons of Rebecca and Isaac.
The brothers wrestle in Rebecca’s womb, causing her great pain. And so Rebecca
goes to inquire of God, and she says, famously, "eem cain, lamah zeh
anochi? If this is so, why am I?" (Gen. 25:22)
This is an
existential question that rings out throughout the generations, and that we ask
ourselves now. If this is so – if this struggle and pain continues to be the
reality we face, why am I? Why are we? What is the meaning of Israel, the
meaning of peace?
While we
were in Israel, with incredible timing, my 101 year old great aunt – the last
of the Holocaust survivors in my family – died, in Jerusalem where she lived. My
Tante Else survived the Shoah, hidden by Dutch Christian farmers. She lived
until a ripe old age, and she died peacefully, surrounded by children,
grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a blessing to sit shiva for her
in Jerusalem.
But this
week, there are widows and orphans in a neighborhood in West Jerusalem, sitting
shiva for their husbands – their fathers. And there is a Druze family sitting
in mourning for their loved one, in their village. These men did not die at a
ripe old age. There is no blessing here.
Im ken, lama
zeh anochi? If this is so, then – what is the point? The point, I believe, and
the vision that I pray leadership on both sides will someday decide to work
towards - is one in which all children and grandchildren – Jews and
Palestinians – are afforded that blessing – to sit at the deathbed of a parent
or grandparent, who has lived to a ripe old age, who has lived and died in
peace.
