Long Journey Home: Chapter 2
Recap: Steve introduces the purpose of this series: to bring us closer together as the “family of Jews” and to spotlight the Orthodox community by reminiscing about his own Long Journey Home.
One thing you have to know about Orthodox Jews; G-d is ever-present in their lives. The Orthodox understanding and relationship with G-d is very different than in the secular world. True, there are feelings of spirituality there, and many sense there is Something beyond us, but there is a gulf between those who hope there is a G-d and those who know there is G-d.
It is notable that we don’t use the word “G-d” except to speak to non-Orthodox. G-d’s name is so holy that we usually speak of “HaShem” — “the Name” — as well as other words and phrases we use to refer to HaShem, terms that identify His characteristics — Master of the World, All Powerful, The Holy One Blessed Be He — but none that refer to G-d Himself directly.
Now, if I would ask my youngest granddaughter, a very mature six-year-old, the one missing two front teeth, where HaShem is, I know she’d say, “Zaydie!” with that tone of voice and that twinkle in her eye that says I’m being so silly.
“HaShem is everywhere!” she would continue, spreading her arms to portray the purest truth.
For those who “know,” that is more than sufficient, but...on the other side of the divide it isn’t, so while I can’t tell you directly, I can tell you my story.
I grew up like most of my friends. Our grandparents came to America from Europe, in my case Russia. They brought with them traditions and a warm, all-consuming culture where you knew you were Jewish and you knew you were very different from the others. My parents’ generation grew up as Americans in the shadow of the Depression and fought in World War Two, with the same dreams and desires as other Americans of the time (not Jewish that is). Being Jewish was just something you were. My generation was thoroughly assimilated, though we still pretty much hung with a Jewish crowd.
So it was strange that upon graduating from UC, I found myself on a student charter flight from Basel, Switzerland, to Israel. It was an “accident” — a friend had convinced me to go along on a trip, I bought a ticket, and then my friend backed out.
It was midnight; I watched the stars and the black of night as I pressed my face against the window. The students began singing. I didn’t know the words or what they meant, but tears began running down my cheeks. I remember thinking, Why am I having these emotions? as something deep within was stirred.
When we arrived at the airport in Lod, it was early morning. I don’t know why, but I got down on my knees and kissed the ground. Perhaps it was the stories of David and Goliath that Grandpa told me, or Grandma’s Shabbos table, decked in a white tablecloth and gleaming silver candlesticks. Most assuredly it was the warmth, the love, and the feeling of security that came with everything Jewish that I didn’t understand but felt deeply. Even now I remember as a five-year-old watching my grandfather every Friday night, reading from this book and crying.
Israel awakened within me something I wasn’t aware of. Over the next four months, I lived on a Kibbutz (Maabarot), spent three weeks on the beach at Eilat in a fishnet-and-palm leaf tent with the “Beatnikim,” spent a month in a Harry Potter room, literally under the steps in someone’s Jerusalem apartment, and came to love the land and the people called Israel. I also became consciously Jewish; Judaism was now something I was proud of, it was an important part of who I was, yet while I had fallen in love, I didn’t know why.
On my last day in the country, I was standing at the old bus station in Jerusalem when someone suddenly grabbed me, spun me around, and poked me in the chest. I stared up at this tall Hassid — flaming red beard, long black “kapota” (jacket) — while he said in English, “You Americans, your mothers teach you Greek and Latin, what do you know of your own heritage?!”
I was shocked. I backed up, and it was over as quickly as it started, but his words penetrated. I spent the next twenty years asking myself the same question.
To be continued...