Rabbi Tamir Nir is an Israeli Reform rabbi and the founder of the Israeli Reform congregation Achva Ba’Kerem in Jerusalem. Here, he shares his hope for regrowth and renewal even in tragic, trying times, and he shares how his Reform congregation, which includes a community garden, has provided a spiritual refuge during the war.
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“It’s not the same old house now; it’s not the same old valley You’re gone and never can return again. The path, the boulevard, a skyward eagle tarries… And yet the wheat still grows again.”
Dorit Tzameret wrote this song after the 1973 Yom Kippur War. In it, she wonders how wheat can grow again after everything has gone and is simultaneously amazed and excited by nature’s regenerative capacity.
This is how I have found encouragement, hope, and motivation since the beginning of the war and even today.
These days, the squill is the only plant that grows and blooms in Israel after a long and dry summer. It emerges from the dry and barren land without leaves or branches, an upright, white, proud inflorescence like the phoenix. It renews itself, like the new year, which comes out of the void, and the moon, which is covered and then shows the ability of renewal.
I founded the Achva Beit HaKerem—a Reform congregation in the Keram community in Jerusalem—in 2007 because I understood the acute need to build communities for secular Israeli urban society. The necessity of fostering identity and belonging and creating frameworks for support and mutual responsibility to build personal and community resilience. We need to achieve political power to make a difference in the neighborhood, the city, and even the country.
The reality in Israel proves that the traditional synagogue is not suitable for most of the Israeli society: Secular Israelis want to contribute and immerse themselves in acts, in tikkun olam.
We built a community garden with the understanding that this is the place where the community can grow. The garden is where trees and vegetables grow, and people create a community. It is a gathering space open to all, without fences or definitions—a synagogue without walls. Since it is an open public space, the garden invites residents from all sectors and genders so everyone can feel welcome and significant.
Our garden calls for an endless and continuing encounter with the cycle of nature. Working in the garden requires faith, even in the simple act of sowing: “Those who sow with tears will reap with Joy” (Psalms 126:1). We need faith that the seed will sprout, grow, and bear fruit. This action encourages faith and hope and a call for action that leads to social action. This act proves our ability to repair and create with nature, with the help of rain and the sun, in partnership with God.
I want to share two new projects that have grown in our community this past summer.
During the war, we started holding carpentry workshops in the garden, focused on repairing old and broken furniture and recycling wood. Here, too, we witness our ability to mend what is broken, despite the brokenness. Many of the participants in the workshops today are reservists who left Gaza, as well as their spouses.
“Beer Garden” has become a regular weekly event lately, attracting hundreds of people. We learned that sitting with neighbors over a glass of beer opens hearts and creates closeness, as well as new interactions between people. Sometimes, it even leads to new initiatives and projects.
“How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven.” Genesis 28:17
The services held in the garden on Shabbat and holidays call us to pause, rest, admire our joint effort, and enjoy “the fruit of our labor.” We connect to each other and God. This profound experience of joining together offers spiritual renewal and strength, which is needed in these difficult days.
In prayer for good days, peace, growth, and peace.
Rabbi Tamir Nir is an ordained Reform rabbi who serves as the congregational rabbi for Congregation Achva Ba’Kerem, which he founded in 2007. Rabbi Nir teaches Jewish and Islamic thought in a high school for religious and secular Israelis.Herecently served as Deputy Mayor of Jerusalem, where he bridged differences between the many diverse communities that make up the city, as the head of the BINA Secular Yeshiva, and as chair of the Heschel Center for Sustainability. He has an MA in Jewish Education and a BA in Architecture and Urban Planning.
Rabbi Oded Mazor is a Reform rabbi living in Jerusalem, where he leads Kehilat Kol Haneshama. During CCAR’s annual rabbinic Convention—held this March 2024 in Philadelphia—he was asked to address an audience of his rabbinic peers and reflect upon life in Israel during the war, specifically the day after the war ends. Below are his powerful reflections.
We were asked to talk about “the day after.”
In the last few days, two quotes from the תפילה (t’filah, prayer)passed before my eyes, bringing two different feelings that many of us feel these days, about the present and about the future.
On Shabbat, the words that struck me the most were not easy ones. Do you remember the words ואל תטשנו יי אלוהינו לנצח (Al titshenu Adonai Eloheinu l’netzach)?i How should we translate these words? What does the word לנצח (la’netzach, forever) refer to in this phrase? Does it mean, “God, don’t ever forsake us?” Or does it mean, “God, don’t forsake us forever?” It’s not the same thing.
I’m going to refer to a few people in my congregation, Kol HaNeshama in Jerusalem.
The first, her name is Esther. She is eighty-seven years old. She teaches a Torah class every other week, for twelve years now. She’s incredible! And she comes to me every other week with a suggestion for an alternative Haftarah for the next Shabbat, a different reading that we can have from the נביאים (n’vi’im, Prophets) or from the כתובים (k’tuvim, Writings), to understand the Torah portion in a different way, two weeks from now!
Two years or so ago, when we were in the middle of Covid, and I met with her and spoke with her—and, thanks to her, we still have a morning meditation twice a week on Zoom, because even now that we’re allowed to be in the synagogue, the pace that we set during Covid, to meeting on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9:30 in the morning for meditation, we’re still doing it, with more than a minyan on most days. I remember sitting with Esther in her room, and the way she looked at reality and היום אחרי (ha-yom acharei, the day after), she said, “I know the cure is going to be found. We’re going to get over Covid. I’m just not sure I’m going to be here.” ואל תטשנו יי אלוהינו לנצח (V’al titshenu Adonai Eloheinu l’netzach). This feeling of my personal נצח (netzach), my personal “ever,” I feel that I’m already forsaken. Maybe this is going to be the reality. That’s what Esther was feeling during Covid. I think she feels like that again right now, these days.
But when we were saying the Hallel here in Philadelphia, the verse לא אמות כי אחיה (Lo amut ki echyeh, “I shall not die but live”) came to me from the Hallel, as an answer to my feeling of ואל תטשנו יי אלוהינו לנצח (V’al titshenu Adonai Eloheinu l’netzach), insisting on this לא אמות כי אחיה (Lo amut ki echyeh), ואספר מעשי יה (V’asaper ma’aseh Yah), “I will not die but live, and I will tell the deeds of God” (Psalms 118:17). Now obviously, we all know we’re not going to live forever; but as a mental source of strength to ourselves, we may affirm: לא אמות כי אחיה (Lo amut ki echyeh, “I will not die but live”).
Thinking about the day after, I’m also thinking about the manager of our congregation, Anna. Her cousin is Karina Arayev.She’s one of the women soldiers kidnapped from the Nachal Oz base on October 7. For many, many, many awful weeks, Anna’s uncle and aunt (Karina’s parents), and the whole family—which is a rather small family of Ukrainian Jews—didn’t know anything about Karina and her situation. Three weeks ago, Hamas released a short film with three women talking. One of them was Karina. That’s the first time that they received any message, if we can call it that.
When Anna is thinking about היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after), there is no יום אחרי (yom acharei, day after) without Karina coming home. Karina’s parents, Anna’s aunt and uncle, told her that very explicitly: If she doesn’t come home, there is no day after. We try as a community to be there with Anna and her family the whole time through. When we say “the whole time through,” it means that, weeks ago, too many weeks ago, when the first groups of hostages were released, every time a group of hostages came back home and Karina was not amongst them, we were rejoicing with the families who received their loved ones back home; but we were in pain with Anna’s family, with Karina’s family, and the families of all the hostages who are still waiting and have no idea—and had no idea, until the first group of people came off the Hamas vehicle, and still have no idea.
Nati is not a member of our congregation. She is definitely a very close friend of our congregation. She’s not a member of our congregation because she lives on Kibbutz Or Haner, a few kilometers from Gaza. The next kibbutz up the road, further from Gaza, was not evacuated. The next kibbutz to the west was the kibbutz that stopped the terrorists from infiltrating Or Haner, Kibbutz Erez. Nati and others from Kibbutz Or Haner were moved to Tiberias on October 8. They were there for a month, and then they were offered to move from Tiberias to Jerusalem, to the Orient Hotel. Have you ever been to the Orient Hotel? That place was, for three months, a refugee camp for the people from Or Haner. Nati is the chair of K’hilat Sha’ar HaNegev, led by our dearest colleague, Rabbi Yael Vurgan. When they were moved from Tiberias to Jerusalem, Yael made the connection between Nati and me, and we met in the lobby of the Orient Hotel, which didn’t look anything like what you remember from the Orient Hotel’s lobby. The walls were the same, but nothing else. And I sat there with Nati and her husband, Damian. From that meeting on, every Kabbalat Shabbat and every Shabbat morning, Nati and their younger son, Noam, were with us at Kol HaNeshama. Noam would come and stand next to me and with the other children from Kol HaNeshama for opening and closing the Ark. And his job came to be holding my סידור (siddur, prayer book) when I put the Torah Scroll inside the ארון (aron, Ark), and then I would give him a hug when we sang דרכיה דרכי נועם (d’racheiha darchei no’am, its ways are ways of pleasantness).
A month ago, they returned to their home in Or Haner. What does היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after) mean, when you return to your kibbutz, just a few kilometers from Gaza, and the kids go to school, and some of their friends are not there anymore and will never be? And some of their friends will be there, but still are someplace else around Israel and not yet allowed to come back. What it meant for Nati: Returning home is to go pick the lemons from the lemon tree in their yard. היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after) will be to know that this lemon tree will give lemons again next year as well.
And if we’re talking about picking lemons, Debbie is a member of our congregation. Debbie retired from being a lawyer at משרד הרווחה (Misrad HaR’vachah, the Ministry of Welfare) just a few months ago, in August. She didn’t know what she was going to do in her retirement. What she has been doing for the past five months—on top of worrying about her three children, all three of whom were recruited to the army—she has been organizing our volunteering in agriculture, twice a week, every week, for the past four months. Ten to twenty people on each group from Kol HaNeshama, from the area, and people from abroad who hear about it and ask, “Can we join?” One of them is a very dear friend of mine, Rabbi Aaron Goldstein from London. When he told me that he was coming to visit a month and a half after October 7, he asked, “Can I do anything with you?” I said, “OK. Let’s join the agricultural volunteering,” and we planted broccoli. The name Aaron gave it is “brocco-therapy.” It was walking in the field and planting broccoli, one after the other, one after the other. “The day after” will be when Aaron comes again with his congregation and shows them, “You see, this field? Now we’re going to plant another line of broccoli together.”
My deepest sense of היום שאחרי (hayom sh’acharei, the day after)—and I hope this time I won’t dissolve into too many tears—every day is when I drive my children to school, to the יד ביד (Yad b’Yad, Hand in Hand), bilingual school in Jerusalem, that has been functioning incredibly in these months. Since it’s a rather new building, they have enough shelters in the building, so they were able to return to a regular schedule in the school as soon as anyone was allowed, because they have enough shelters. Many other schools had to require the children to come in shifts—a day yes, a day no; in the morning or in the afternoon—because they only had so much room in the shelters. But the Yad b’Yad school in Jerusalem, of all places, has enough room in the shelters to have everybody coming on the same day from the first day that was allowed in Jerusalem. And every day when I get the privilege that my schedule allows me to drop them off and pick them up at school, and see their teachers and see their friends—Jews and Arabs, Palestinians who live in West Jerusalem, Palestinians who live in East Jerusalem, Palestinians from across the checkpoint to Bethlehem, from Beit Sahour and Beit Jala.
Some of their teachers were not allowed to come to school in the first few weeks, because they’re on the other side of the checkpoint. Some of their teachers couldn’t come to school because they have little children who had nowhere to go, and the other parent was in מילואים (miluim, reserve duty). And these teachers have to come to school and teach in the same class. And I was told an incredible story by one of my kids’ teachers. In another class, the Jewish teacher was teaching, and the Muslim teacher was there with her. One of the grown children of the Jewish teacher walked in the room in uniform, having come back home from the army. He asked his mother to go out with him for a coffee. His mother told him, “I can’t go. I’m teaching now.” And the Palestinian teacher said, “Of course you should go with him! He’s your son! He came home!” She understood that as a mother, even though that son came into the class in uniform, and I can only imagine what that meant for the Palestinian teacher. That mother had to go with the son who came from the battlefield. What they didn’t know was that the reason he came to get her to go out for coffee was that, at the coffee shop, the other son who came home from מילואים (miluim, reserve duty) was waiting.
My children came with us to many of the הפגנות (hafganot, demonstrations) in Jerusalem in the past few months. The two younger ones said that they’re not willing to come any more after, at one of these demonstrations, they saw how I was screaming, לא תהיה לבן-גביר מיליציה (l’Ben-Gvir lo tihyeh militziah, “No private militia for Ben-Gvir!”). There was a proposition that there would be some kind of force that would be under Ben-Gvir’s direct supervision. I think that got them really scared, not so much Ben-Gvir’s militia, but seeing me screaming that way. They prefer being with their Arab Palestinian homeroom teacher, their Jewish homeroom teacher, and their friends, whom they might get along with or not get along with. It’s OK. They’re children in school; that’s what happens. It’s not heaven in that school. It’s the normal life that we want to see.
It’s the day after that we pray for.
Will Esther live to see it? Will Karina come back to see it? Will Nati really be able to feel it also in Or Haner, seven kilometers from Gaza? Will Debbie’s three children, coming back from the army, be willing to take part in it, after what they have experienced?
But my children are going to school. And on מוצאי שושן פורים (motz’ei Shushan Purim, the night that Shushan Purim ends), in Jerusalem, in the courtyard of Kol HaNeshama, we’re going to have an Iftar meal for the families of our daughter’s class.
Last year, during the High Holidays, my Heshbon nefesh brought me to question whether I am doing enough to share and protest regarding my unhappiness with the Netanyahu government. I felt that there was much more that I could do.
I thought about the meeting I had with Muslim, Christian, Druze and Jewish religious women… a place of true meeting, and thought to myself, “Everyone enjoys Arab hospitality, what about if we turn this on its head and invite our neighbors from Arab towns and villages to our Jewish homes? ”
We invited 40 women of three religions to be hosted by 40 Jewish women. We met their bus with songs and flower petals. Drinks were served. A representative from each religion offered a prayer. Right there, I felt the Oneness of Rachmana, I understood in basic Arabic, that the Muslim prayer was a like Shema and V’Ahavta. A love prayer for God. We danced, warmly and closely, we served our lovingly made food. They joked that it wasn’t spicy or sweet enough, but they appreciated the effort. Our cultural differences are real, emphasizing the need for a bridge.
Meanwhile the cataclysmic changes of the government in the USA took place. We joined those of you who marched on Washington and around the States. A sister demonstration was organized in Tel Aviv opposite the American Embassy. Rabbi Naama Kelman asked if I would address the crowd as an Israeli Rabbi ordained here but brought up in America. I was thrilled as I was born in 1958, and grew up in the anti-Vietnam protests, cut my teeth on sit-ins to wear pants to school in the 5th grade and was blessed to grow up in the first wave of Jewish feminism. That experience and music are what brought me to Judaism, as my sisters assimilated into American society and disappeared as Jews. Social justice is in my blood and in my soul.
Feeling a strong sense of Oneness with everyone marching in the world against racism, sexism, heterosexism, chauvinism, and anti-religious sentiment- we arrived with our signs. Do you ever wonder if Rachmana arranges Torah portions to fit a given situation?
I spoke these words as I spoke to the crowd in Tel Aviv:
Israeli women unite with women of the world! We are the midwives of a new era of activism and hope, we are Shifra and Puah, who refused the edict of the newly appointed leader and chose life for all!
We are the Daughter of Pharoah, whose simple but profound action changed the course of history. She had her eyes open to see a troubled situation, she empowered other women to help, and she opened up the basket to get to the root of the problem. She heard the pain and cries of the child. She paid women what they were worth! She adopted another as her own. She teaches us all that we have to know as to how to bring godliness to this world. We join the chain of women who redeemed others.
We are seeking our name and our voice, like God, “We will be what we will be.” We will be our best selves and dedicate ourselves to be change and hope in this world.
The promenade by the sea filled up with hundreds of women, men, and children, some of American origin, some Israeli born. My husband is who is British, was there as a feminist and a seeker of justice, and as the steadfast partner to a Rabbi. It was so liberating to remind ourselves that action, praying with our feet, making an effort to go to the big city, to call friends is what it truly important. Today we appeared in Haaretz and other press, including the Hebrew press.
There are so many ways to explore the meaning of “Shema Yisrael.” To make our voices heard. To make our voices count. To listen to the “other.” I was delighted to hear at this rally, “Black lives matter!” “Queer lives matter!” To be humbled by the “other.” By our togetherness, by our Oneness. We are all one.
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Rabbi Judith Edelman-Green serves as Pastoral Care Giver at Tel HaShomer hospital and at Beth Protea with the elderly, those with dementia, and those in nursing care. She also leads creative musical services in Kfar Sava. For the High Holidays, Rabbi Edelman-Green has served Rodef Shalom in Mumbai, India since 2010.
I love Israel. The landscape, the language, the food, the mix of old world culture and hi-tech innovative breakthroughs, the mix of east and west, its mix of deep spirituality, irreverent atheism, passionate doubt, and zany mysticism. I love the mix of brash chutzpah and soul-searching analytical reflectiveness. I love that Israelis buy more books per capita than any other country in the world.
Israel is in many ways where I became an adult. After living in Israel for a year during college, I moved back upon graduation. It was there that I first lived in my own apartment, looked for a job, got a paycheck direct deposited into my account, and learned to cook for myself. Israel was where I was able to explore my personal Judaism and realize that I didn’t have to go to rabbinic school in order to have a rich, fulfilling, Jewish life, and it was where I made the choice to not become a rabbi (yes, I later changed my mind again, but it was the right choice at the time).
Israel is my family, both metaphorically and literally. I married into a large, warm Israeli family twenty-four years ago. They have truly become my family over these years. When I worry abstractly about Israel, I worry concretely about them and their emotional and physical wellbeing.
And yet loving Israel doesn’t mean loving everything about it. Like any family, and I speak here of the metaphoric family, not my actual family, there are those members I tolerate just because they’re family. And then there are those I can’t even abide. They stand for all that I stand against. You know what that’s like. Just because they’re family doesn’t mean you have to like them.
It’s been a long, painful summer.
I confess that I’ve been in a social media semi-hibernation mode this summer. I’ve felt paralyzed, powerless, unable to say or do anything helpful or productive. It’s been shocking to watch the conversation, both domestically and internationally, devolve into black and white rhetoric, often laced with ancient anti-semitic tropes. People I love have taken extreme and often ill-informed positions. Blame is thrown back and forth, with all sense of nuance and complexity absent from the conversation.
And conversation is probably the wrong word in any case. When accusations are tossed without context, and without reflection, that is not a conversation.
As things heated up in Israel, the CCAR made a quick decision to organize a solidarity mission to Israel in order to both show support to our friends, family, and colleagues in Israel, as well as to provide our members with a more nuanced sense of the reality there.
It was a somber time to be there, and of course the tension has only increased. We set up meetings with a varied group of people in different parts of the country. We met with Knesset members and soldiers, activists and negotiators, reporters and scholars. Many of those we spoke to while there voiced deep concern for the future of Israel’s soul, and worries about growing extremism on all sides. A number of speakers talked about the national soul-searching that must come when some semblance of stability is restored.
In a prayer service with our Israeli MARAM colleagues one morning, we read several new prayers written by Rabbi Yehoyada Amir. One is a Mi Sheberach for those wounded, which speaks of the suffering of those of both nations who lie in sickbeds, and the other is a Mi Sheberach for the members of the IDF. The service was followed by a conversation with our local colleagues, who shared what they are going through, trying to serve and support their communities while in the midst of fear and concern for their own families and still continuing their work in areas like human rights and peace. Their stories were moving and powerful – and in some cases very painful.
Like so many of those we spoke to, our colleagues also talked about being torn up by the deaths and suffering of the Gazan civilians, even as they grieved the deaths of the young Israelis killed in the conflict. In the face of fear and pain, they refuse to let go of empathy and give in to hate. They are living out what we are taught in Pirke Avot: in a place where there are no human beings, be a human being.
I am worried. I worry on Israel’s behalf, and I worry about Israel. I worry about what will happen to Israel, and I worry about the choices Israel will make. Even as we witnessed the pain and worry of our colleagues and friends and relatives, we also were grateful to see flashes of hope here and there. There are many who think that the questions being asked in the public sphere within Israel will lead to a better future. Even in the midst of new waves of hatred, there are new partnerships being created by those seek peace and coexistence, and are concerned with issues of human rights. So I continue to hold on to hope in the midst of worry.
I would guess that I am not alone in struggling to articulate something meaningful about Israel for the coming high holy days, words that express both deep love for Israel along with concern, a sense of complexity, and a message of hope.
With issues this big and complicated, sometimes prayers and meditations are a helpful way to begin to get a hold of concepts that otherwise feel almost impossible to grasp.
Toward that end, I offer you some readings related to the events of this summer which you are welcome to use in your communities. We ask only that you use them with attribution. Please also see additional readings we posted earlier.
Here is a poem written by the liturgist Alden Solovy, inspired by a workshop he held with us during the CCAR trip.
These Ancient Stones
When these ancient stones whisper to us,
They yearn for our steadfast love.
They yearn for us to remember
How Israel walks through history,
With justice and wisdom,
With righteousness and mercy.
God of our fathers and mothers,
Let compassion enter the land.
When these ancient stones whisper to us,
They yearn for our devotion and our service.
They yearn for us to remember the vision of our ancestors,
Their strength,
Their love of God and
Their love for our people.
God of generations,
Let tranquility enter the land.
When these ancient stones speak to us,
They yearn for peace.
They yearn for us to learn
How to turn swords into plowshares,
And spears into pruning hooks.
They yearn for us to remember
That we have been outcast on foreign soil,
That we are bound by Torah to guard the land
And to protect the stranger in our midst.
God of all being,
Let joy enter the land
And gladness enter our hearts.
Two Readings by Rabbi Yehoyada Amir,the Acting Chairperson, MARAM – Israel Council of Reform Rabbis, translated by Ortal Bensky and CCAR staff. (See the Hebrew, posted earlier)
A Prayer for the Wounded
May the One who brought blessings to our fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and to our mothers Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah, bring blessings to the wounded of both nations who lie on their sickbeds. Instill in their caring physicians hearts of wisdom and good sense, in order to restore them to full health and give them encouragement. Bestow God’s holiness upon their relatives and loved ones in order to stand with them in this time of need and to give them love and faith. Strengthen their spirits to chose life in times of pain and suffering. Hear their prayers and fortify them so that they will continue to lead lives of health, creation, joy and blessings. And together we say: Amen.
A Prayer for the Israel Defense Forces
May the One who brought blessings to our fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and to our mothers Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah, bless the soldiers of Israel’s Defense Forces, and all who stand guard in order to protect the Land of Israel. Give them strength against our enemies, and strengthen their spirit to preserve their highest values at this time of trial. Protect them from all troubles and afflictions, so that they will return in peace and joy to their families and friends, and may they prosper as human beings and citizens in their land.
Rabbi Hara Person is Publisher of CCAR Press and Director of Strategic Communications for the Central Conference of American Rabbis
“There was a siren as we readied for Chupa… and after breaking the glass the sirens sent us back to the shelter…”
“I am gripped with fear for my son in Gaza, yet I must serve the needs of my community members too…”
“Our Oneg Shabbat was filled with emotion – we give spiritual power to one another…”
“Can you imagine? We need to move our 700 children from summer camp into a shelter and yet our work is to stay calm…”
“Our Beit Knesset became the Gan (preschool) because it is closer to the shelter…”
“Our society is more united than ever…. And we must not allow the extremist groups to define us…”
“I am distressed over the loss of human life on both sides…. I know many Palestinians in my work… Hamas holds these people as hostages.”
“Many of my community feels isolated, alone… one of us being strong helps another be strong…”
“We move from funeral to shiva to shelters….”
“I will not thank you for coming to Israel this week. What you are doing is a Mitzvah and we do not thank someone for doing a Mitzvah…”
CCAR Rabbis with MARAM colleagues in Tel Aviv.
It is impossible to capture in writing the emotions of the many people with whom we engaged during the CCAR’s Israel Solidarity Mission this past week, let alone the voices of our Rabbinic colleagues serving in Israel. It was a moving moment to simply sit with the Rabbis of MARAM – the Council of Progressive Rabbis in Israel –who are also members of the CCAR, and to listen to their stories.
Serving as a Reform Rabbi in Israel presents its own unique set of challenges for sure. Yet, like rabbis in North America and throughout the world, our Israeli colleagues regularly serve as teachers of Torah, religious leaders, pastoral guides, community organizers, fundraisers, and advocates for a just society that includes pluralistic voices and the right to practice Judaism as Progressive Jews.
But these past few weeks our Israeli colleagues have had to reach deep within themselves in ways that few of us in North American have ever experienced. They must rely upon their own spiritual and emotional anchors to find the strength to serve as rabbis to their congregations, communities and Israelis in general. They are caring for those who run to shelters, who fear for their children and grandchildren on the front lines, and are concerned for the future of their country, even as carry their own worries and fears.
Israeli Reform Rabbis serve as leaders in building sacred and safe communities Israeli society; in established locations in Tel Aviv, Modiin, Jerusalem, and Haifa, as well as emerging towns like S’derot, Ashkelon, G’dera and more. They lead the way in creating an Israeli society based upon Jewish values through Jewish education that extends far beyond the Hebrew language to the essential teachings of Jewish tradition; by creating holy places where men and women are equal in ritual matters and daily living; by welcoming new Jews into their community through their conversation and beit din; and importantly by educating the next generation of Israelis in the meaning and practice of Judaism.
And in these challenging weeks these rabbis provide the religious spiritual and emotional leadership that will enable Israel to move past this war as a healthy and fulfilled society.
The Israeli Reform Rabbinate is making significant strides in the religious life of Israel, and we must all commend our seminary, Hebrew Union College, Jerusalem, for its visionary work ordaining Reform Rabbis in Israel. Once ordained, these rabbis are members of MARAM, which continues to support, encourage, unite, and empower these rabbis as leaders in Israeli society. Of course, MARAM plays a significant role in this work, especially in cultivating new Reform communities throughout Israel and in partnership with the Israel Movement for Progressive Judaism (IMPJ).
CCAR with Rabbis Kinneret Shiryon and Nir Barkin and some of their members at Kehillat Yotzma in Modi’in.
Amidst all this, it comes down to the human side of the rabbinate and our rabbis. Last week, we sat with Rabbi Nir Barkin and Rabbi Kinneret Shiryon to study texts. With Kinneret we studied the Akedah, looking at through poems of Yehudah Amichai and relating it to the current situation in Israel. Kinneret spoke of her own tremendous fear for her son who had just been called up to serve in Gaza as a reserve soldier. With Nir we studied about Tisha B’av and were challenged by him to rethink the meaning of the Tisha B’av. During our study session, Nir revealed that their middle child, Omri, was somewhere in Gaza, and that they had gone days without hearing from him. (See what Nir wrote about this experience at Rabbi Nir Barkin Relates His Experience as the Father of a Soldier). A few hours after saying goodbye to Nir, we learned that Omri’s unit had come under attack and suffered devastating losses with three people killed and fifteen injured. Omri survived, others did not. Within hours it was Shabbat; a Shabbat for Nir’s congregation and community, but not a Shabbat of Shalom for Nir, his wife Anat, their family, friends and country.
We offer this selection of readings and prayers from the CCAR Israel Solidarity Mission for your use this Shabbat. Please use them with attribution.
These first two prayers were written by liturgist Alden Solovy, inspired by the insights and yearnings of the rabbis who participated in the CCAR Israel Solidarity Mission.
When Peace Comes: A Meditation
When peace comes,
When the tunnels are gone and the walls come down,
When we sing together as brothers and sisters,
We will remember these days of sorrow and grief,
Of rockets and terror,
Of longing and despair,
As a memorial to those who were lost,
As a remembrance of our mourning,
As a monument to our yearning,
On the road to wholeness,
On the road to wisdom,
On the road to our days of rejoicing.
Oh you children of Abraham,
You sons and daughters of Sarah and Hagar,
What will you become?
How long before shalom and salaam
Echo in these hills,
In these valleys and on these shores,
As shouts of awe and amazement?
How long before we remember
To hold each other dear?
One God,
Maker of All,
Banish war from our midst.
Speedily bring forth justice, understanding and love.
Bind these wounds and heal our hearts.
On that day the children of Ishmael
And the children of Isaac
Will dance as one.
Joy will rise to heaven
And gladness will fill the earth.
We are One
My heart breaks when Jews profess their anger, loathing or distain for other Jews.
My heart breaks when Arabs profess their anger, loathing or distain for other Arabs.
My heart breaks when Jews profess their anger, loathing or distain for Arabs.
My heart breaks when Arabs profess their anger, loathing or distain for Jews.
Maker of Peace,
Heal our broken hearts with new vision,
New wisdom and new compassion,
So that we embrace each other with understanding,
With wonder and amazement,
And with love.
Wholeness is our journey,
And wholeness is our destination.
With Your loving hand,
God of Old,
We will find the path.
Let the Jewish people now say, “We are one.”
Let the Arab people now say, “We are one.”
Let Arabs and Jews now say together, “We are one.”
Let all people now say together, “We are one.”
The following prayers come from Rabbi Yehodaya Amir, the Acting Chairperson of MARAM – the Israel Council of Reform Rabbis. The CCAR Israel Solidarity Mission were introduced to these prayers during a t’filah experience with our Israeli colleagues this week in Tel Aviv. We hope to be able to offer English translations in the near future, but in the meantime, here is the original Hebrew.
מי שברך אבותינו אברהם יצחק ויעקב ואימותינו שרה רבקה רחל ולאה הוא יברך את הפצועים בני שני העמים השוכבים על מיטת חוליים. ייתן ה’ בלב הרופאים המטפלים חכמת לב ושכל טוב, לסעדם לרפאם ולחזק את רוחם; ישרה האל מרוח קדשו על כל קרוביהם ואוהביהם לעמוד לימינם בעת מצוקתם ולהעניק להם אהבה ואמונה; יאמץ ה’ את רוחם לבחור בחיים גם בעת מכאוב וסבל; ישמע ה’ את קול התפילה ויחזקם למען יוסיפו ויידעו שנות בריאות ויצירה, שמחה וברכה. ונאמר: אמן.
מי שברך לחיילי צה”ל
מי שברך את אבותינו אברהם יצחק ויעקב, ואימותינו שרה רבקה רחל ולאה, הוא יברך את חיילי צה”ל ואנשי כוחות הביטחון הנלחמים למען בטחון ישראל ושלומה. יתן להם ה’ עוז לצאת חושים נגד אויבינו הקמים עלינו, ורוח איתנה לשמור על ערכיהם ועל צלמם בעת מבחן זו. יגן ה’ עליהם מכל צרה ומצוקה, למען ישובו בשלום ובשמחה אל משפחותיהם ואל חבריהם, ולמען ימשיכו ויפרחו כבני אדם וחוה וכאזרחי מדינתם.
Walking through the late afternoon in Maktesh Ramon, breathing in air that is simultaneously warm and cool the way air in the desert in the late afternoon tends to be (but not at all the way the air in New Jersey tends to be), I overheard a colleague say: “if I’m not enjoying it, I’m doing the wrong thing”. I wasn’t really part of his conversation, more wandering alongside lost in my own moment, so I’m not entirely sure what “it” was. But whatever he meant, he got me thinking.
It is easy to throw around sentences like that one when you are on vacation and the only decision to be made is which of two equally gorgeous hikes to take through the desert. We can love either. But what about loving to do what we’re about the rest of the time: when the sun is not setting over the crater and the sky turning to colors we’ll never see in Princeton, or Joliet or wherever.
I don’t know well the rabbi who was speaking but from what I can tell he certainly seems passionate about the work of his rabbinate. And another rabbi on our trip told me today that she actually was prepared to hate the form her rabbinate had taken until she discovered that she loved her work with the people with whom she engaged day by day. The CEO of Friends by Nature, Nir, got involved in the Ethiopian community when in his post army wanderings he fell in love with an area, met the people there and loved those people even more than the surroundings themselves. He has dedicated his life to that love. Miri Eisen started our day talking to us about the geopolitical reality of Israel given the world in which it exists. She is a woman whose passion for the people of Israel, her love for them and the need to protect them is evident in all she says. In other words, what struck me today was the power of love.
When you love what you do and who you do it with, the impossible sometimes becomes less so. I know we don’t live our lives on vacation where loving what you’re about is easy. I understand that there are plenty of things that all the love in the world is not going to make possible. But I came here to Israel with the CCAR Start Up Israel trip to learn what makes the impossible possible. A MARAM colleague who met with us for lunch and is building in Caesaria one of the newest congregations in Israel — a place where she herself declared there could never be a reform community — told us that she didn’t let herself focus on what couldn’t be. She focused on what she knew in her heart there needed to be. And she shared that love with others. Guess what? They had 100 plus people at the high holidays last year.
My questions then: how do we make the impossible happen? And what’s love got to do with it?
