One of the things that greatly surprised me when I first started as the rabbi at Ohev Shalom, was learning how many people at the synagogue had never been to Israel. At the time, even our Cantor/Education Director had never been! To be fair, I grew up in Sweden, which was a shorter (and much less-expensive) flight away, and I also briefly lived in London in my 20s, and led trips to Israel from there too, so I admit I had a seriously unfair advantage.
When I came here, I learned that the congregation had done a trip just before I came to Ohev, but before that trip, it had been decades since the last one. That had to change… and I’ll tell you why. But first, let me say something about my own relationship with Israel. I experience a lot of internal struggles, personally, with Israeli politics; the divisiveness that unfortunately pervades much of modern Israeli society; the unbelievably fraught Matzav, the “situation,” with the Palestinians - both the people and their authorities on the West Bank and in Gaza; and especially regarding the tremendous polarization between the Orthodox and non-Orthodox segments of the population. I struggle.
I’ve lived there twice - once, for a year, as a child, and then another year much later as a rabbinical student - and I can tell you it is a *tough* place to be a full-time resident. There is a good reason why Israelis call themselves Sabras, the Hebrew word for the prickly pear or cactus pear, a fruit that both grows on the outside of very inhospitable cacti, AND itself is covered in little spikes and thorns. If you can get past the exterior, the inside is a delicious, sweet fruit. Israelis love the image of being bright, lovely, kind people… on the inside… but you really don’t want to take on their natural defenses! In order to make it in the Middle East, you do kind of have to develop spikes and thorns and a tough exterior, if you’re gonna survive.
I’ve had mixed experiences there and many frustrations. It’s a complex place where challenges abound… and yet, despite all of that, I unequivocally call myself a Zionist. Because Zionism is about the millennia-old connection that we Jews have with the land, and which we have maintained uninterruptedly despite everything that has happened around us throughout world history, and to us as an oppressed minority… basically everywhere. Therefore, even when I grapple - constantly - with so many things happening there right now, nevertheless, as a firm and staunch Zionist, I love that place and feel closely bound to it in many, many ways. Medinat Yisrael, the State of Israel, causes me heartache and grief… but Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel? It will always be a part of my soul, my heart, and my very being. There is just something about that place that calls me back time and again. That’s how I know I am a Zionist. I feel it in my bones, coursing through my blood, and bound up with the very fiber of my Jewish being.
That probably helps explain why, in my 13 ½ years at Ohev, I have led three trips to Eretz Yisrael. Not only for the selfish reason that my soul yearns to return there frequently AS a visitor, but also because it is a thoroughly indescribable feeling to bring other Jews to Israel for their first time. To see the beauty of the land, the cities, the culture, and the history through the eyes of people who’ve never experienced it before, makes my body tingle, both as I wrote these words on my iPad and saying them out loud to you now.
Furthermore, I have a secondary agenda with my trips, and some of you have heard me say this before. A few years ago, I started proposing what we called “boutique trips” to Israel. I very intentionally did NOT want to only run first-timer trips, where we visit all the standard, touristy, obvious sites in Israel. In 2016, we did a foodie trip, called “Milk and Honey, Wine and Chocolate.” And in 2018, we did a trip focused primarily on the south of Israel, called “Into the Desert.” I have a couple of other boutique trip ideas too, by the way, like “The Ten Places You’ve Never Seen In Israel; a Tour Guide’s Hidden Gems,” and also “Israel by Night,” where we would take boat trips and explore how the cities come alive at night, and do incredible things like a desert night hike where the bright white limestone of the Judean desert practically glows by night, and so much more.
So what’s my hidden agenda? I need you all to know that Israel is not another place to put on your bucket list. It shouldn’t be something you tick off, like “we’ve been to Hawaii, the Galapagos, Israel, Thailand, and Paris.” It’s not the same. It’s not a place you visit once. It just isn’t. It is a part of you. And discovering the richness of its food, its nightlife, its topography, its people, and so, so much more is essential to us as Jews, and is vital to me as a rabbi. It needs to be an ongoing relationship; not just a one-off.
There is a reason why Yehudah Ha-Levi, a Spanish poet, philosopher, and physician who lived a thousand years ago, famously wrote, “My heart is in the East, and I am in the utmost West.” He too longed for the Holy Land. Or why 2,000 years *before* Yehudah Ha-Levi, Psalm 137 in the Bible stated, “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, may my right hand cease to function.” To the Psalmist, Jerusalem and indeed the whole Promised Land, was like a physical limb, an indispensable part of the body. It’s simply not a place to go once, experience, buy the t-shirt, and then move on to the next destination on your traveling to-do list.
I want to share with you one story from the first trip that I organized to Israel, in 2011. (I’m actually going to tell a second story that also took place on that trip, but I’m saving that one for the Neilah service tomorrow evening. If you’re able to make it back, I think you’ll find it worth your while…) But this evening, I want to tell you about our trip to Masada. We did the usual touristy thing of trekking up the Snake Path at dawn, so that we could be at the top before the real desert heat blanketed the area. And then we had the amazing experience of davening shacharit, our morning service, at the top of Masada, in a secluded, ancient prayer space, overlooking the Dead Sea and the surrounding mountains, as the sun rose and glistened across the surface of the water. It was simply spectacular.
We had the special treat of celebrating a Bar Mitzvah that morning, and I also remember so fondly standing there reading Torah, next to Karen Stesis, of blessed memory; and I had the great privilege and immense joy of traveling to Israel - as well as to Europe - with Karen and Louis several times. As the service on Masada was coming to a close, I asked everyone to indulge me for a minute. I told them to close their eyes and actually envision *this place*, this Sanctuary here at Ohev Shalom. I remember it so clearly. I said to them: “Can you picture it? The cinderblock walls (this was before we had the mosaic panels), the Tim Burton-esque tree/menorah thing, the windows, and the pews?” I asked each person to pick a spot in their minds. Pick a specific row and a seat, and imagine yourself sitting down and looking around at all the familiar aspects of the Ohev Shalom Sanctuary. Then, I told those Ohev congregants to open their eyes and look at the breathtaking, sensational view that we had right there on the top of Masada.
I encouraged each person to find that seat when we get back home, and actually go and sit in the Sanctuary in your chosen chair. And then - when you’re back at Ohev - close your eyes and conjure up THIS view, here at Masada. I wanted their brains and their memories to link the two together. Standing on gorgeous, ancient, hot, sunny Masada, picture Ohev Shalom in Wallingford, Pennsylvania, SO THAT when you’re back in DelCo, you can teleport yourself to this spiritual, awesome experience in the Judean Desert, overlooking Yam Ha-Melach, the Dead Sea. THAT is the power of place. And that is what I want to talk to you about here tonight; the Power of Place.
This evening, I am continuing my sermon series with part three, after the first two sermons I gave on Rosh Hashanah, days 1 and 2. My theme this year is “to aspire,” by which I mean that the goal of these High Holidays, and perhaps throughout our lives in general, is not to achieve some state of perfection and bliss and then stay there forever.. I believe our task is to aspire always to be better, to increase kindness, knowledge, and equality for our fellow human beings, for animals, and for the very planet itself. God is constantly inviting us to be partners in Tikkun Olam, Repairing the World. On Rosh Hashanah, I quoted an ancient sage named Rabbi Tarfon, who wrote 2,000 years ago in Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of Our Ancestors, (Hebrew, then) “You are not required to finish the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.” In other words, we keep striving, we keep aspiring. It continues throughout life.
Whether you agree or not about the importance of aspiring, you might justifiably point to the High Holiday Machzor, the prayer book in front of you, and say “this thing doesn’t talk about striving; it focuses on repentance, judgment, and obeying God. And if that is indeed what the book says, and what people believe Judaism says, then I understand why so many people tune out. For many people here tonight, and likely in shuls all around the world, they just have no relationship - or interest in pursuing one - with God at all. I get that. I hear that, and I know where you’re coming from. But here’s my counterpoint: On Rosh Hashanah, I shared with you some observations from Rabbi Toba Spitzer’s book, “God is Here,” which endeavors - or perhaps aspires - to change the way we relate to the Divine. What if we could let go, entirely, of the idea of God as a Big Person, as a Being that guides, or controls… or manipulates our lives, and relate to the concept of a Force outside of ourselves in a completely new way?
Rabbi Spitzer offers several metaphors for God that look nothing like a King, a Shepherd, a Warrior, or any of those other images we see in the Torah, throughout the Jewish Bible, and indeed even right here in our High Holiday Machzor. Tonight, I want to introduce you to another intriguing God-metaphor. (If you want to read, or re-read, the first two, they’re already up on my blog) Spitzer writes: “When I ask people to tell me about their God beliefs, often they have no idea what to say, or simply say they don’t believe in God. But if I ask them to describe a spiritual experience that they’ve had, whatever that may mean to them, many will tell me about special PLACES in their lives.” Places, spaces can indeed be magically full of spirituality and meaning.
I believe very strongly in the Power of Place, of having unique and meaningful experiences in a location where everything seems to come together perfectly. The sights, sounds, smells, and the feeling of being present right there create an awesome sense of presence that we hold onto long after we leave. That’s why I wanted to start my sermon tonight talking about Israel. No matter how much I grapple with it, the Power of THAT place has imprinted so many core memories on me that I can’t help but feel tied to it and bonded with it.
When I think of Eretz Yisrael, I can feel instantly teleported to the Shuk, the bustling marketplace in Jerusalem that certainly overloads my senses. I recall breathtakingly beautiful drives around the Kinneret, the Galilee, on tour buses that somehow take hairpin turns down mountain paths at alarming speeds; I picture standing at different levels of the Baha’i Gardens in Haifa, or just gazing out at the mountain views from the top of the city; or returning to my most favorite place in all of Israel, Machtesh Ramon, a massive, naturally-formed crater in the south, in the Negev Desert.
Most of us have had incredibly powerful and life-changing experiences in special locations that are forever etched into our memory banks. Perhaps not in Israel, but someplace, at some time, you had a similar moment of unforgettable awe in a most magical place. Or, as Rabbi Spitzer wonderfully quotes the Beatles’ lyric: “There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed…” But “hang on,” you might say, “God had nothing to do with my memory! I didn’t encounter God in that place! In fact, I never associated God with that experience in the slightest!!” Ok, but let’s stop and examine that for a moment. The God that wasn’t there was perhaps the “Big Person God” that I am seeking to unpack. What if God could be viewed differently, not as Something or Someone you have to try and bring into your experience… but the experience itself? What if God IS the place you remember all your life? Or what if Divinity and holiness can be found in simply BEING, simply experiencing something magnificent and jaw-dropping, and feeling our bodies tingle with the smallness of our own existence in the face of the enormity of a mountain range, a waterfall, a trip to the ocean, or insert-your-own-fantastic-experience-here?
This may surprise you, but “The Place” is actually one of our names for God! When someone is in mourning, grieving the loss of a loved one, we say to that person, “המקום ינחם אתכם בתוך אבלי ציון וירושלים”- “May ‘The Place’ comfort you among all those who mourn for Zion and Jerusalem.” I’ve actually wondered about that phrase for many years. Ordinarily, we refer to God as Adonai, Elohim, Eil, YHWH, Yahwe, Shaddai, Hashem, Adonai Tzevaot, and many more. But why, in that most vulnerable and painful moment of experiencing death, do we use the Divine pseudonym of “Makom”? Rabbi Spitzer answers this for me beautifully.
She uses the story of our ancestor, Jacob, in the Book of Genesis, who wakes up from a dream in which he saw a ladder going straight up to heaven, with angels ascending and descending it, and he declares, “Mah Norah Ha-Makom Ha-Zeh! - How awesome is this place!” Spitzer even uses that phrase as the title of her chapter on place, and Rabbi Miller recently shared with us a beautiful melody, written by Rabbi Shefa Gold, for those words: “Mah Norah Ha-Makom Ha-Zeh!” Spitzer writes that envisioning God as Makom - Place, “emphasizes the nearness of God, [and] the ability to access God in moments of vulnerability and transition.” Just as we said last week, when we talked about God as Water, this is an image of God that isn’t transcendent, high up in the clouds or beyond space and time; this God is right here, closely residing with - and perhaps inside - all of us.
Furthermore, even though I spent the first half of my sermon talking about Israel, and what a special and spiritual place it is, Rabbi Spitzer talks about the power of place being achievable anywhere. “The underlying irony,” she writes, “of calling God ‘HaMakom/The Place’ is that there isn’t just one place to encounter godliness - that can happen in any place.” A good friend of mine recently said that the ocean is her second synagogue. For her, that is indeed a holy place. Do you have to bring a Siddur and a tallit for it to be “officially” holy? Or do you need to hear a voice from heaven declaring “I approve this message,” for it to “count”? No, absolutely not. We can aspire to find God and godliness in any place.
Makom is specifically God as intimacy, support, love, caring, and vulnerability. All of a sudden, it makes perfect sense to use Makom when comforting mourners. Because especially when we are grieving, or in pain, or lost, or experiencing any other form of chaos in our lives, we need a safe “place” to return to. In that story about Jacob in the desert, he felt tremendously lost, alone, scared, and anxious. Which is why he needed God to support and protect him in the midst of his vulnerability. Rabbi Spitzer writes: “[Jacob] learns that there is godliness even in places where we wish we didn’t have to be.” She also writes that, “We can think of God as a Place to which we retreat to find comfort and relief.” Or as we might say colloquially when we’re feeling stressed or anxious, we can “go to our happy place.” We may not think of that place as containing God, but just finding safety and security there might, in a sense, be godliness still.
I love this imagery. It is incredibly resonant for all of us, whether we’re thinking of a childhood home or other place in the past that was safe and reassuring, or some fabulous vacation memory that was blissful and peaceful, or our own homes right now, that are hopefully a place of solace, intimacy, and relaxation. But even more than that, think about this space right now. Not just the sanctuary in general, the one I encouraged everyone on Masada to envision, but your experience here tonight in our Kol Nidrei service.
The lighting falls just so, as the afternoon sky turns to dusk and then nighttime. The beautiful sounds of Mara’s and Bruce’s playing still rings in our ears, as do the notes of Rabbi Miller’s fantastic voice, singing the familiar, mournful, solemn notes of the Kol Nidrei prayer. We are surrounded by family, friends, fellow congregants, and perhaps thinking about previous years with others who are no longer with us. Everything about this evening is just infused with spirituality and holiness.
Mah Norah Ha-Makom Ha-Zeh - How awesome is this place! How powerful is this moment right now, with all of us here together? And now imagine that you don’t have to therefore - because of this experience here tonight - subscribe to the Book of Life idea, or that God controls our destiny, or any other aspect of classical, traditional theology. We spend so much time grappling with God; wrestling, arguing, challenging, and demanding accountability for hurricanes, pandemics, recessions, and of course, the Holocaust. What about dedicating some time to just be, to just experience a moment of connection, spirituality, and meaning, and not have to challenge or question it? Let the godliness find you, just by residing in a place that is imbued with meaning.
To me, the point of all these new metaphors for God is that we’ve let other people dictate for us how we’re supposed to feel about God, or about our own mortality or the origins of our world, and so on. Opening ourselves up to new possibilities allows us to aspire for something different. Something personal and deeply meaningful… and something you don’t have to struggle to find or hold onto. It might just exist in the very place where you stand or sit.
I began tonight’s sermon talking about Israel, because that is such an impactful place for me. I *also* struggle with the politics and the religious oppression, the constant fighting and the tough exterior that one experiences in Israel. But then I also have an immensely strong relationship with the Makom, with the place itself. And no matter how angry or frustrated I get about the stuff in the newspapers and the opinion pieces, I will always strive to maintain my Zionist passion for the Makom. That relationship is too precious to me, too vital to my identity as a Jew, to ever relinquish.
That may not be your experience of Israel. I’m not trying to make you feel what I feel, regarding Israel, God, or anything else. But I do want to challenge you to reconsider some of the notions you’ve been taught, and which simply may not resonate with you. God can be found and encountered in any space and at any time.We can bring spirituality and meaning into any situation, even by just closing our eyes and imagining ourselves in an incredible place we once visited. By connecting back to that memory, you can bring holiness into the present. We should aspire to find opportunities to exclaim to ourselves: “Mah Norah Ha-Makom Ha-Zeh!”
Rabbi Spitzer writes about that phrase, stating: “To live in the reality of “how awesome is this Place” is to live our lives open to the possibility that there is a spark of the holy - a bit of wisdom, a deeper understanding, a sense of connection - available to us in any place, in any moment, even the most difficult.” God is not meant to be about judgment, criticism, or rule-following, but rather as a resource to help us get through life, appreciating the wonderful moments and persevering through the tough ones… maybe even finding a way to bless the good AND the bad, because of how it helps us grow and become stronger. When we are in relationship with ourselves, delving into what’s going on inside me, in Judaism we call that the connection “Bein Adam La-Makom,” which is often translated as, “Between a person and God.” There it is again, the name “Makom” being used for God! In part, it’s because your private introspection is seen as being only between you and God, and perhaps it’s yet another time when you need a lot of support, kindness, and acceptance. At the same time, I also think it’s because it’s really about a relationship between yourself and The Right Now, this moment in this very space, this Makom.
Standing up there on Masada, I wanted everyone to know that all you have to do is close your eyes and you can return to that Makom. I used that exercise again on a later Israel trip, standing on a pier in the Kinneret, the Sea of Galilee, watching the sky change color as we sang Lecha Dodi and welcomed in Shabbat in that incredibly holy space. Again, I wanted people to be able to return there whenever they wanted or needed to. And I would like to invite you all here tonight to do the same; to close your eyes and hold onto the holiness of this evening and this beautiful place. Take that feeling with you into the year ahead, and let it elevate the good times with a blessing of “Mah Norah Ha-Makom ha-Zeh,” and let it strengthen you in the bad times as well.
Then it will become more than just a “happy place” you can go to, but one filled with sparks of holiness and incredible meaning. You also don’t have to search for God OR reject God. Just be present, in the experience you’re in, firmly rooted in your Makom, and it will create a memory you’ll remember all your life. That is the Power of Place.
Shanah Tovah!
