WANDERING JEWS

Some denominations of Judaism believe the entire Torah (Genesis through Deuteronomy) was given to and written by Moses.  If this is true, Moses then would have known in advance that his people would rise up against him repeatedly, that he would not be granted access to the Promised Land and that he would die. Then he would write about his own death! 

Both Moses and God are repeatedly upset by the rebellion of the Israelites against them, making it seem unlikely to me that either would have foreknowledge.  (Moreover, if God had foreknowledge, how could we have free will and what would be the purpose of prayer, repentence, learning and striving to change?)

I wonder why the Torah ends before the Israelites arrive in the Promised Land. Doesn’t it seem as if the whole point of Exodus, the fulfillment of promises to Abraham, Jacob and Moses is the arrival?  When Rabbi Maurice mentioned this in a Torah class, he grinned, “But it made you buy the sequel, didn’t it?” (Meaning the Tanakh, which contains the rest of the Jewish Bible.)

Is perhaps the point of the story the struggle to stay pure amid tribulations and temptations?

If the Israelites had calmly reached the land of milk and honey before the Current Era, would there be any reason to record the Torah at all? Would there be a Jesus? Would Jews, Christians and Moslems all have separate holy books that claim ancestry of Abraham?

If the Torah had a happy ending, would we treat it like a novel, as a means of escape rather than as an inspiration and source of great learning? Would we Jews feel the need to study Torah over and over, bit by bit in Torah portions in our synagogues and homes?

Will we ever have another Moses? Will we ever really reach the land of milk and honey? The constant uncertainty of our daily living, fears of layoffs at work, of being hit on the way to the grocery store, of the frequent falls from the mountain of love, may lead people to take comfort in the struggles for goodness among even the most holy.  Knowing that even Moses struggled may inspire us to work great deeds.

In fact, Israel was a land of desert, swampland, food rationing, thirst and malaria until kibbutz workers in the 1900s drained the swamp, irrigated the desert, planted fruit trees and established apiaries and dairies. So now it is a land of milk and honey, although the problem of nearly constant war remains.

Perhaps the persistence of Torah lies in the fact that Jews wandered from the destruction of the First Temple to our own lifetimes. We may even be wandering still, since we are still reforming, reconstructing, working to make Jewish life, worship and ritual compelling to modern Jews.  The word Hebrew comes from the Egyptian Habiru, which means "stateless people."  The word diaspora is from the Greek diaspore, which means milkweed or butterfly plant.  Milkweed pods develop from flowers, open and seeds, borne on the wind in a tuft of down-featherlike fuzz travel very far from the mother plant.  One could, in fact, argue that wandering has saved Jews from extinction numerous times, because the Romans, the Crusaders, the Inquistitors, the Cossacks and Hitler's army all attempted complete genocide of the Jews in their midst. 

It is clear to me that although I am no longer wandering in and out of widely disparate religious institutions, I am still wandering. With my children grown and gone, I am devouring books on Judaism and my new career, I am single and considering dating again and I am also returning to college this fall. The wisdom and love in Talmudic teachings have helped me examine my own life. I now believe that even if my prayers of gratitude never reach God, they reach my own heart, and thus are worth saying.

I recently found a note I’d scribbled to myself in the midst of notes on Jewish history. “I want a scholar.” I closed my eyes and tried to remember what inspired that; I remember being moved by the humble wisdom of Rabbi Teluskin, a great modern scholar. For days afterwards I heard over and over again in my head the lilting voices of the daughters in Fiddler on the Roof: “For Papa, make him a scholar…”

During that same week, I also dreamed that I cut my waist length hair so I could wash the remaining hair in a metal bucket of creek water warmed by a campfire. I understood this as a message that my wandering may require personal change.

In synagogue Saturday, an elegant wisp of a girl shone at her bar mitzvah.  She sang hundreds of words in Hebrew before the entire congregation, with only a rare stumble and smile.  She carried the Torah scroll in the procession. She gave her teaching on the week's Torah portion.  I checked the expressions of the others attending.  There were many pleased smiles, but no one looked as surprised as I felt over the poise, intelligence, lovely voice and grace of this young girl.  This is not an unusual occurance, I thought.  Singing before us was justification for thousands of years of wandering, of Torah study, of keeping the Jewish faith and culture alive.

My First Service at TBI

Two weeks ago I moved into a woodsy community near Dexter Lake, only 12 miles from Temple Beth Israel. I meant to go to service last Shabbat, but was feeling awkward and shy. Last night I put my Kol Haneshamah and Torah into my car and headed that direction, but suddenly decided I was underdressed so I went to Borders instead! After leaving the bookstore, I went home, said a little prayer over wine I’d bought just for that occasion (my first service), blessed my dogs to be like Ephraim and Manasseh and felt ashamed of myself. So this morning I went to Torah Study in the library before the Shabbat morning service. I arrived ten minutes late, thought about turning around, but decided to go in quietly and sit off to the side. Rabbi Yitzhak motioned me to the table, where there was an empty seat. I blushed, got up and seated myself between two men. Within a few moments, though, I was following along and commenting. I am frequently intellectually competent and socially INcompetent within the same few moments.

Our weekly Torah portion included a passage that I found shocking when I first read it, Numbers 20:12. Moses had led the Israelites faithfully and well through four decades, during which there had been many hardships. Miriam had just died. Although it appears Moses and Aaron did not have a chance to grieve, the people berated them for bringing them to this wretched place, with no water, grain, figs, vines or pomegranates. God commands Moses and Aaron to assemble the community and with rod in hand, order a rock to bring forth water. Moses, apparently at wit’s end, speaks in anger to his people and strikes the rock twice. Water gushes forth. So little was said here; I wonder if Moses perhaps was angry with God, too – for it was God who told him to bring the people out of Egypt. The greatest test of faith, in my opinion, comes with the death of a loved one. Apparently Moses failed the test. Aaron did not correct him. God tells them he will not allow them into the promised land.

At my first reading, I closed the Torah, indignant for Moses. But reading on, I realized that Moses was old and was being granted the honor of training his successor, Joshua. Moses’ life was not immediately snuffed by a “jealous God”. It was simply time to relinquish leadership.

Rabbi said this passage dealt with ego – Moses, held up to us as the greatest of Jews, the one chosen for Revelation at Mount Sinai, ultimately had human emotions that brought his downfall. We are to honor God, not play God.

When class was over, we stood and the man to my left, Zachary, introduced himself. Then, going down the stairs to service, Susan introduced herself. I sat off to the side again, and Rabbi came over to introduce himself and to say I should keep in mind that a much smaller congregation came to Saturday morning services. I answered perhaps that was what I needed since I had been feeling too scared to come. Rabbi started to tell me which liturgical book they would be using, I showed him mine and we realized together I had brought the wrong one: the one in my car, Shabbat EVE! Doh! Fortunately, there were many of the correct books available.

Moments later, Susan invited me to sit near her, which was a blessing to both of us. Her voice, clearly articulated and sweet, helped me participate during communal song, since I do not know Hebrew. I could tell it pleased her to be able to do this kindness for me. Later it became apparent that if I had come Friday night instead of Saturday morning, the congregation would have been one person short of a minyan and she would have been unable to say kaddish for her deceased mother.

I also stood to say kaddish, the prayer that does not mention dying, but is traditionally said in honor and remembrance of the dead. It is an affirmation of belief in and devotion to God, chanted or sung aloud by the community, drawing us close to each other. I was thinking of my father, and realized part way through that only those who had lost a loved one within the last year were supposed to stand. I heard Susan’s voice waver; I put my hand on her back. When we sat, we whispered briefly about our losses, tears in our eyes. I apologized for standing when my loss was over three years ago; she said that I could stand whenever I felt the need.

For those who have never been to a Jewish service, it is a communal affair. Although the rabbi leads, he does not preach. Under his direction, we sing, read aloud and have moments of silent prayer. He chooses members of the congregation to help with devotional duties and rituals. It is clear that those chosen feel honored. I was stunned and delighted to see David, still dressed in his leathers from his morning ride, chosen to carry the Torah scroll in a procession around the room so we may touch our prayerbooks and shawls to it and kiss them. Clearly I could have come last night in my khaki pants and blouse that looked somewhat dressy until you realized the fabric, like a vinyl tablecloth, could be wiped clean (I am now a professional caregiver).

When we rose and gathered around the scroll, we read and sang from one book, then changed to another and I found myself on the wrong page in the wrong book. Zachary noticed and motioned that I could read along with him.

Unthinking, I placed my stack of holy books on the floor next to me.  Susan swept them up and put them on a chair.  Oops. 

Afterwards, we blessed little cups of wine and grape juice, washed our hands and wrists and shared challah. I had been afraid of the moment the challah was offered to me; refusing it due to celiac disease seemed like turning away a Godly ritual. So much ritual in Judaism revolves around food, so much of it wheat based! But no one pressed me and the moment I’d been dreading was quickly over. We talked among ourselves; by the time I left I had met nearly all and was feeling good.

Rabbi Yitzhak said I had come to the right service. He was right. I will be back next Saturday morning!