My Story 7

I knew my romance with Chabad was over. But where to now? The other well known Hasdic groups seemed forbidding, and weren't that open to outsiders anyway. The "Yeshivish" communities seemed to needlessly delve into minutia, mostly about topics that didn't really affect people's lives. I viewed them as much ado about nothing, or at least very little. Modern Orthodoxy seemed superficial and artificial, as well as  downright dishonest. (That is still my feeling).The Hirschian approach of the German community seemed to be more about civics than G-d, with a strange fascination for German culture, together with a weird denial of German antisemitism.(There were never more than five Nazis!) As I mentioned, my Cincinnati German congregation was Orthodox, but few of their children were. Many had rare volumes of Jewish religious literature, some centuries old. When one of the members passed away, their families brought their entire libraries to the synagogue for eventual burial. I would often browse through these stacks of ancient tomes, choosing some to keep for my own library. On one such occasion. I found a small booklet that was not old. It was "Tikkun HaKlali" (the General Remedy), Rabbi Nachman's recommended ten Psalms, which he urged people to say often. I didn't know much about Rabbi Nachman., What I did know, was mostly from a 1970 book called "Nine and a Half Mystics". It was written by a Reform rabbi, Herbert Weiner. He had spent the 1960s researching various groups of Jewish mystics. His chapter on Breslov was quite enthusiastic, but he had given the distinct impression that it was depressing. This particular volume of Tikkun HaKlali had something special, though. It had the "Seder Hayom"; the 'order of the day" for a Breslover Hasid. This included spontaneous prayer to G-d, in one's own words. There was sharing burdens with friends. There was joy. There was study, turned into prayer. There was facing the reality that we fall far short of what we should be; including our rabbinic leadership, but reversal was easily possible.  Everything I had been feeling was right there! Wait...the booklet had a name written on it. I needed to talk with that man! I asked around, but no one had heard of him.I mentioned it to one of the Chabad people in Cincinnati; a young rabbi who was a teacher in the local day school. "Breslov? Ha! I have a lot of their books. Breslovers would come into the Lubavitch Yeshiva in Montreal and hand them out. We called them 'Breslover Comic Books. The rabbis said it was forbidden to read them. I"ll give you all that I have". I had been given a treasure! One book was all about individual spontaneous prayer (Hitbodedut). One was about remaining strong in the face of adversity. One was an interpretation of Shabbat and Holidays and what they should teach us. It sounded so wonderful...on paper. They all dealt with disappointments, and how to rise where we have fallen. Besides my disappointment with Chabad, I had just been turned down for a position I was sure I had in Beloit, Wisconsin. I wanted that job so badly, I could almost taste it. I was twenty-six, single, and very lonely. I thought I had found "the one", but she decided she could not accept a religious lifestyle. I was beyond disappointed on MANY levels. All that I read in these books gave me great hope! But who knows if this stuff is real? Wait...there were names and phone numbers of three rabbis on the back of the books. Two of them, alas, were non-working numbers. The third number did work.  The rabbi's wife answered, who explained to me that her husband, Rabbi Hershel Wasilski, was hard of hearing, and could not speak on the phone. However, the next time I would be in New York, he would be happy to meet with me. I immediately took vacation, and went to my parents' home in Brooklyn (Coney Island). I called the rabbi, and he invited me to come to his apartment in Williamsburg on Wednesday night. We spoke for several hours. He explained to me the basic teachings of Rabbi Nachman, as well as the history and ideology of the movement. He gave me many more books. He suggested that I study one teaching in Likkutei Moharan, Rabbi Nachman's main book, every day. He told me to recite the prayer connected with the teaching composed by Rabbi Nachman's disciple, Rabbi Natan. I was also told to speak to G-d every day for ten minutes, in my own words and language. Do this for ten days, and then come to him for Shabbat. He walked me to the elevated train which I would need to get back to my parent's place. Just as we approached the station, a train pulled in, and pulled out. The hour was late, and I knew the next train wouldn't come for at least half an hour. The rabbi said to me "You think you missed your train? You did not miss your train. If that had been your train, there is no way you would have missed it." I had never looked at things that way. He was talking as if...G-d were accessible. I had understood that He was separated from us by many heavens and portals, only to be reached through ancient, special prayers, and then only if recited properly. For the first time, I felt I had a G-d. I spent the next ten days with my parents, in whose home I could not eat. There was a kosher burger joint a few blocks away. I got in touch with some old friends, who were shocked that I was considering leaving Chabad, for a movement that no one had heard of. "You're becoming a WHAT?!?!". There were only about 200 Breslovers in the U.S. at the time. The Friday before going to Williamsburg, I was deep in thought as I walked to the burger joint for lunch. Would this prove to be real, or just another disappointment? I had been with Chabad for eleven years. Could I really start over elsewhere? My thoughts were interrupted as I passed a store that sold old junk; lamps, chairs, tables, that had seen better days. The proprietor came out of the store and said to me "Mister, can you read Hebrew? I have a Hebrew book that you can have cheap". Lo and behold...it was a Likkutei Moharan! I nearly jumped out of my skin. What were the chances? This was a sign! I went to Williamsburg, and showed the tiny Breslov community (about twenty-five people) the book I had found in Cincinnati, as well as the one I had just purchased. They looked at both. they were incredulous. "The one from Cincinnati...we know the man whose name is written on it. He lives in Jerusalem. He has never been to America, let alone Cincinnati".

My Story 6

Rabbi Sharfstein arranged for me a position as the assistant rabbi of Cincinnati's Orthodox German Jewish Congregation, New Hope. This was an unlikely match; I, a 24 year old Hasidic baal teshuvah, in a congregation of mostly seventy and eighty year old stayed, very formal immigrants who had escaped from Germany on the eve of the holocaust. But they were proud Germans nonetheless. Arguments about politics, all too common in most synagogues, centered there not on then President Richard Nixon, but whether Kaiser Wilhelm was or wasn't a great man. All were proud of their war records in "the war to end all wars". They were not comfortable with any displays of emotion, or even talk of spirituality. Judaism was, for them, about how to be a good neighbor and citizen. Some were actually observant, others were there in the name of clinging to the German Jewish tradition, which was, I was to learn, very different from anything with which I had been familiar. They referred derisively to other Ashkenazic Jews as "Ostjuden" (Eastern Jews). Some would chide me for how I could hope to be a rabbi when I had not studied Goethe. Most of their children were in the local Conservative congregation, and most of their grandchildren were intermarried. I was specifically instructed not to mention this from the pulpit. My salary was minimal, but it afforded me the opportunity to study daily with Rabbi Sharfstein. Rabbi Sharfstein was, in my eyes, the epitome of the ideals enshrined in the Chabad literature. He was learned, wise in the ways of the world, compassionate, and open to people who were not like him.He even had non-Jewish friends, which was unheard of in the Chabad I had known. I would come to his home every day. I would pose a question, and he would give me a two hour discourse; tracing the issue from Talmud through responsa literature. He would open books that covered many centuries of rabbinic thought. Although very loyal to Chabad and its seven generations of Rebbes, he was knowledgeable in, and respectful of, other approaches. Nevertheless, he was very open about who "the bad guys" were at various stages of history. He was dismissive of the Mishnah Berurah, the widely accepted non-Hasidic early twentieth century halachic work, because of its extreme interpretation of halachah, as well as its anti-Hasidic prejudice. He preferred instead the Aruch HaShulchan, which was published at the same time as the Mishnah Berurah, but re-examined halachah based on classical sources, letting the chips fall where they may. It was he who showed me that in American Yeshivot, the Aruch HaShulchan had been the standard text for halachah until about 1950, when the heads of Yeshivot switched to the far more conservative Mishnah Berurah. This gave me perspective on the "Yeshivish World", and the dynamics behind political issues it was dealing with. Rabbi Sharfstein had risen from a modest teaching position, to become the de facto Chief Rabbi of Cincinnati. He was in charge of supervising the kosher slaughterhouse, the bakery, three butcher shops, running a Beit Din to deal with community disputes, as well as conversions and divorces. He took me to the various places he was supervising, showing me how he kept them kosher, as well as the pitfalls that needed to be avoided. He taught me how he could make the kitchen of a non-kosher hotel kosher for a community event. He put me on his Beit Din, which afforded me practical experience in ways that few rabbis ever know. In many ways, that was the most productive learning experience I had ever known. Everything was amazing for a year and a half. Then a turn of events occurred that radically challenged him as well as me. He decided that the time was right for a Chabad house in Cincinnati. The powers that be in Brooklyn sent him a protege of the Chabad house rabbi I had just "escaped" from. All I had experienced in my ill-fated Chabad house experience had now come to Cincinnati. After a few months, Rabbi Sharfstein ordered the new man out of town. He received orders from New York, including from the Rebbe himself, that he must take the man back. It was a crisis for my beloved rabbi. He felt that everything he had built in Cincinnati over two decades was crumbling. At the age of 46, he suffered a massive heart attack. I visited him in the hospital. He said to me "Jeff, I want you to know that this is because of him". He never opened up to me how he reconciled the treatment he had received at the hands of the Chabad organization, including the Rebbe, with the new reality. But he maintained his faith and commitment. I realized that I could not do the same, although I stayed in touch with him until his death in 2008. But where to go?

My Story 5

Completing my Master's work in one year, I was faced with a choice. I could continue towards my PhD, with a view to an academic career, or go into the great unknown of the world beyond New York. Everything inside of me pushed me to the latter choice; I wanted to spread Torah and Jewish spirituality. I asked the Dean of the Chabad baal teshuvah division what I would need for smichah (ordination). He said "Let me test you right now". He tested me not on the usual halachic requirements, but on the Kabbalistic and Hasidic teachings I had been learning from my Chabad teachers. He was satisfied, and wrote me out a certificate on the spot. It was not the standard smichah; but rather the honorary smichah given to those who are dedicated, but not yet ready to be halachic decisors (Poskim). That was the smichah they gave for baalei teshuvah. (In the next two years, I was tested and ordained with standard smichah by three prominent rabbis. When I moved to Israel, I received smichah from the Chief Rabbinate). The campus rabbi who had set me straight about aggadah, recommended me to the international Hillel office, which placed rabbis in campus positions all over the world. I had just turned twenty-two, was full of idealism, and was ready to change the world! They first placed me as the assistant director of a Hillel in  Madison, Wisconsin. The director was a Conservative rabbi, who, at 35, was dying of a heart condition. He realized that any Assistant Director was being groomed to replace him. He had booted two previous rabbis (both Orthodox), leaving copies of complaints about them sent to the Hillel International office for me to see. The complaints were actually rants against Orthodoxy. Soon, I saw letters about me. I resigned. I was then placed as the assistant director of the Hillel at Ohio State University in Columbus. I loved the work, and happily put in a seventy hour week. I was the same age as the older students. I would drink beer with them, play darts, and talk to them about Judaism. One of our members messaged me recently that he found a 1972 publication that listed me as the Chabad representative in Columbus. But, alas, this Paradise was not to continue. Members of the local Jewish community complained to the International Office that my dress was too informal (overalls, OSU sweatshirt). The faculty of the Jewish Studies department at OSU were offended that I was teaching "an emotional interpretation of Judaism". After two years, I was fired. The Orthodox rabbis in Columbus, afraid of the power and influence of one of the faculty members, remained silent. The Conservative and Reform rabbis wrote letters in support of me, (as did much of the Christian Clergy) but to no avail. Sadly my "dream job" came only at the beginning of my career. In the meantime, the first Chabad House had opened in  Cleveland. The Director said that he admired what I had done on campus, and wanted me to come work for him. I consulted the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who advised me to take the position "for the meanwhile'". Little did I know that I was in for a major trauma, which took me years to work through. No sooner had I walked in the door, than the Director said to me "Jeff, I don't care how many people you got to keep kosher or keep Shabbat in Columbus. If you didn't bring them to the Rebbe, you did nothing". I had never heard anything like this in my then nine years in Chabad. "We're going to Case Western University tonight, to speak with Jewish students. I want to see what you can do. You're on". I welcomed the opportunity. If I do say so myself, I think I did pretty well. "How was I?" I asked the Director after the session. "Terrible. You used a word we never use; "G-d". Kids don't relate to G-d. We are here to "sell" the Rebbe, not G-d.. Next week, you will see how it's done". The following week, we returned to the university. A similar group of about thirty students was in attendance. He chatted them up, looking for a person who was vulnerable, but to whom the others would relate. He found his target. A young woman asked "What is the Jewish view of the afterlife?" He went on the attack."You phony! You don't know how to live this life, so you ask about the next? Your whole life is one big lie!" She broke down crying. Several others joined her. "What shall I do?!?!" "I can't help you. But, there is a plane out tomorrow morning at nine. Be on it, and I will send you to Crown Heights, Brooklyn, where you will be helped". Five students were on that plane the following day. I wasn't sure how I felt about what I had just seen. I would see more of this in the coming weeks; people coming for a Shabbat meal would have their entire sense of self-worth destroyed in an hour, only to be sent to Brooklyn the next day for re-education. It didn't end with students. The Director boasted on a radio program "Give me one half hour with Gifter (Rabbi Mordechai  Gifter, the Rosh Yeshiva of the Telz Yeshiva), and he'll either become a Lubavitcher, or else give up Judaism altogether!" When I pointed out that some things being done at the Chabad House were not in accordance with halachah, He told me "If you're really mekushar (connected with the Rebbe), it doesn't matter". This was much bigger than the aggadah issue. Was I part of a sinister cult? I made frantic phone calls to Chabad contacts I had. Much to my surprise, I learned that, unbeknownst to me, two factions had grown up in Chabad, and the gulf between them was growing. One was concerned with bringing people to Judaism, albeit with a Chabad spin. The other stressed the uniqueness of the Rebbe, with connection to him being the primary message. The latter group was excited about his alleged  Messiahship. THAT was the mission! This group would come to be known as the "Meshichists" (Messianics).There were, in fact, two separate kiruv (outreach) organizations within Chabad, one representing each of these approaches, It boggled my mind that the Rebbe had never taken sides in this! I wrote several letters to the Rebbe, describing what I had seen. They went unanswered. I contacted Rabbi Zelig Scharfstein, the unofficial chief rabbi of Cincinnati. I  had contact with him in the past, conferring with him on halachic issues. He was Chabad, but a man of tremendous openness, combined with erudition. He was to become a major influence in my life. I told him that I was ready to give up Chabad, but was frightened that there was no alternative. He assured me that what I had seen was an anomaly. He agreed to find me a position in Cincinnati, and I could study with him daily. This was a fantastic opportunity. I stuck with Chabad...for the meanwhile.

My Story 4

My feelings towards Chabad were extremely positive at that point. I have never, before or since, seen a group of people so completely dedicated to their ideals, that they would go to the ends of the Earth to bring Judaism to their wayward brothers and sisters. Money and fame didn't seem to drive them. There is no group without a few bad apples, but, as far as I could see, the overwhelming majority "walked the walk". This was before Chabad emissaries were ubiquitous. True, rabbis had been sent out to communities in order to teach and guide, but these were mostly "poskim", rabbis well versed in Jewish law, who often became the main rabbinical figures in their towns. It would be several more years until young families were sent out, usually big on enthusiasm, less so on erudition. There were, however, aspects that troubled me almost from the beginning. First of all, there was no indication that what I was being taught was a special interpretation of Judaism. This WAS Judaism. Everyone who was Orthodox believed the same things, but many were too full of themselves to admit that Chabad was the best, nay the only way. Everything had a single answer. Those rabbis and groups who openly opposed them were people who, deep down, rejected G-d. Non-Jews had a lower soul, and were barely human. I had then, as now, many non-Jewish friends. I had great difficulty seeing them as anything but human, and fine human beings to boot. This gave me great anguish. (I later realized that they were speaking from the pain of two thousand years of relentless persecution, worse in Czarist Russia than most places, and still worse under Communism). The two most famous non-Chabad Orthodox rabbis in New York were often spoken about in mocking terms. (This changed many years later, when both came to visit the Lubavitcher Rebbe. They both became "kosher"). As I began to read more, and speak with other Orthodox Jews, I was hearing very different ideas. When I asked the rabbis who were teaching me, they either said "So, if good is good, then better isn't better?" or simply "those people are seriously mistaken". The famous "openness" of Chabad was really an openness to accept everybody into their organization, not an openness to accept other ideas as potentially valid. Once a person became Lubavitch, total conformity to their customs and traditions was demanded. Even other forms of Hasidism were seen as "watered down". There was only one Chassidus, which only Chabad proclaimed clearly and openly. I gained a lot in terms of knowledge and spirituality, but I was faced with ideas that were very difficult to accept. They supported Talmudic science over modern discoveries. For them, the Sun still circled the Earth. Insects were formed from filth and decay.The one that troubled me the most was their insistence on a literal interpretation of aggadah in all things. That there once existed giants bigger than the mountains, or that BILLIONS of people lived in the Land of Israel until the Romans slaughtered them, was very hard to swallow. A pivotal event in my life and thinking occurred around this issue. I started college in 1966. The campus rabbi was Modern Orthodox. As baalei teshuvah were still exceedingly rare, he was curious how I was relating to what I was learning and experiencing. I told him that I found it very rewarding, but that the aggadah was putting a wedge between me and full acceptance of Judaism, and I wasn't sure I could continue. To my amazement, he said that Judaism does NOT accept the aggadah literally, and this was backed up by RAMBAM. I went back to the rabbi who was teaching me, and told him what I had heard. "NOOOO! RAMBAM never said that! He is lying!" A few days later, I met the campus rabbi, and told him that he had lied to me.(Remember, I was only seventeen). "I lied to you?!?! Let's look at what RAMBAM wrote". Sure enough, there it was in black and white, in his commentary to the Mishnah, RAMBAM wrote that the aggadah is allegory, Anyone who does take it literally is a fool, and should keep his mouth shut, so we should not all be considered fools. I was stunned. I went back to the rabbi who was teaching me. "Oy! Why did he show you that? I didn't want to confuse you!" I now knew that I wasn't necessarily being given truth, but was being sold a party line. I cannot deny that I would not be where I am if not for Chabad. I am grateful for all they did for me. But I began to see that I must learn sources for myself,  hear all ideas, but seek the truth on my own. I began to go to lectures given by various rabbis, and I dove into sources. I began to see that what I had been taught was a combination of extreme stringencies, as well as extreme leniencies. It all boiled down to Chabad traditions. I began drifting away from the Chabad book of customs, and more towards the classical codes, and the responsa literature. I thought of going elsewhere, but where? Modern Orthodoxy seemed to me superficial, and even schizophrenic (it still does!). I attended graduate school at Yeshiva University. Many of the professors were also Orthodox rabbis. But they made a distinction between what we should DO, and the "truth". For instance, my main professor believed that we are observing the Shavu'ot holiday on the wrong date. I asked him if this was not heresy. "No, I keep it according to the halachah. I just think the halachah is wrong". I was shocked. This was both heresy, and hypocrisy. Perhaps what I had learned at Chabad was correct; there was nothing outside Chabad of any value. I stayed with Chabad for another four years after graduate school. What changed? That will be the next part of my story.

My Story 3

The members of Bnei Akiva went to day schools. I was odd man out; no knowledge of Talmud, halachah, or even Hebrew, other than being able to sound words out, with no understanding of what they meant. I was in tenth grade (having skipped 8th), and was in my second year of learning a foreign language; French. I loved French (and still do), but I desperately wanted to learn Hebrew. I requested the right to drop French, and take Hebrew, which was also offered at my school. My request was denied. I went to the school's Hebrew Language instructor, Mr. Moskowitz. I told him of my dilemma. He agreed to do something illegal, which might have well cost him his job. He had a first semester Hebrew class at the same time as my lunch period. He said I could cut lunch, secretly take that class, and study ahead, so as to complete the material of a year and a half of Hebrew instruction in that one semester. I was successful, and Mr. Moskowitz convinced the school to allow me to start fourth semester Hebrew, along with fourth semester French. I graduated with honors in both. My knowledge of Hebrew enabled me to read actual sources, instead of relying on teachers to spoon-feed them to me, often with their own agendas being read into the text. (This is often a problem with translated texts as well). I had begun attending Shabbat morning services at the Bnei Akiva building. One snowy Shabbat, I couldn't make the longish walk to Bnei Akiva, so I went to a "shtiebel" (tiny, rather informal, prayer room) near my home. I was the only English speaker there; all the others being Yiddish speakers who had arrived in the U.S. after the war, some 20 years earlier. My Hebrew was rudimentary, to say the least. It took me nearly half an hour to say the Amidah prayer. One elderly gentleman was impressed by my determination. "Where do you learn (Torah)?" he asked me. "I don't learn". "Do you want to?" I grew excited "of course!!!!". "Meet me here tomorrow at 9 am". The following morning, he took me to 770 Eastern Parkway, the Lubavitcher (Chabad) world headquarters. They had just begun a Sunday learning schedule for young men who were interested in becoming observant. The program was tiny; only five students and three rabbis! I was taken to the administrator of the program, who accepted me, at no cost, to my first authentic Torah learning experience. Every Sunday, there was a class in Chumash with Rashi, a basic Talmud class, a class in halachah, and a class in Tanya; the foundation text of Chabad Hasidism. I loved everything, but the Tanya was my first experience with concepts of spirituality. Already at the first class, I could hardly contain my enthusiasm. My parents were less than enthusiastic, as I would be learning from Old World types. The expression "Zitzen un Lernen" (sit and study), so admired in Orthodox circles, seemed like a formula for laziness and lack of productivity to the "modern" American mindset. My teachers were savvy. It was the time when the Vietnam War, so unpopular in New York even at that time, was heating up. One of my cousins had recently been killed in Vietnam. "We can keep him out of Vietnam!" explained the rabbis. That was all my parents needed to hear! They were now on board with my nascent transformation. I was closely connected with Chabad for the next eleven years. Some things were beyond wonderful. Some things turned out to be disappointing, or even downright negative. But one thing is certain, without them I would not have made it. There simply were no other avenues at that time for a fairly assimilated Jew to penetrate the walls of the Yeshiva. I have never disclosed these things publicly before, (the members of the Chabad community in a nearby town have told me that they think I must secretly be Chabad, or how else would I know all their secrets!) but I think that these things need to be said in order to understand some of the dynamics of the Orthodox community, and which resources are good for which problems and challenges. I still admire much of their work, but also recognize areas of danger. I realize that some of you will be offended by my criticisms, but I would be remiss in not sharing what I have experienced, both the light and the darkness.

My Story 2

After my Bar Mitzvah in 1962, I had ambivalent feelings about my Jewishness. I had a strong sense of the reality and presence of G-d, but could not relate that to the Judaism of my parents and my friends' parents. We kept (sort of) kosher at home. but not outside the home. No one I knew had ever read the Torah, except for brief excerpts. We were taught that these strange immigrants who had come from Eastern Europe after the Holocaust, with their beards, pe'ot,and strange dress, were in no way like us. When being polite, we called them refugees. When not in mixed company, they were derisively called "Mockees". We were American Jews, We KNEW BETTER. Hey, our families were here since the first decade of the twentieth century! Yet, at Hebrew School, we were taught exactly as the "Mockees" were doing. That we were receiving mixed messages would be an understatement. Being Jewish was something to be proud of, but not to be observed. If the "Goyyim" see us being outwardly observant, that would lessen our acceptance as Americans. So, were we supposed to be proud of being Jews, or ashamed? My older brother assured me that Judaism was merely "an organized persecution complex". The Eichmann trial, which had taken place the previous year, created more complex feelings. On the one hand, many of my non-Jewish classmates expressed feelings of sympathy. But many less sympathetic people mocked us for going like lambs to the slaughter. I, and many others, felt uneasy about the entire topic. During Winter vacation that year, I saw the movie "Exodus". Sure, it didn't even mention G-d or religion. But it was about Jews fighting for survival in a hostile world. They were not apologizing for their existence, but fighting for it. My imagination began racing. The first thing I did was to read the novel "Exodus". It contained many points of Jewish history of which I was unaware. I raided our public library, devouring every book I could find about Jews and Judaism. My quest was partly religious, and partly an attempt to figure out my identity. We had an English translation of the Torah at home. I read and reread it. I tried to follow what it said, but wound up totally confused as to how to apply various verses. My brother would often derisively call me "Moses". I  had little experience going to synagogue, and what experience I had, was not positive; Hebrew prayers were recited in a perfunctory manner with no explanation other than "this is what we do". This frenzied search for information, with no guidance, or even a sense of direction, continued for about a year. Then, an acquaintance of my father suggested to him that he have me join a Zionist youth group. As most Zionist groups are secular, he recommended Bnei Akiva, identified with Israel's Mizrachi/National Religious Party. There was a local branch about 4 blocks away. I showed up there one Shabbat in the Fall of 1963. I approached the leader, and told him that I was interested in Zionism and Judaism. I said that I believed in G-d, but would never do anything fanatic, like put on Tefillin. (I now wear three pair). Rather than rebuff me, he invited me to join. Very wisely, he assigned a young man my own age to spend an hour with me each Shabbat, explaining Judaism to me. (That young man is now the Assistant Director of the OU Center in Jerusalem). The members of Bnei Akiva were all from Modern Orthodox families and attended Day Schools. The emphasis was clearly Israel, but with a spiritual interpretation of Zionism, which I would later learn is anathema to most Israelis. For most of the members, I was the first baal teshuvah (newly Orthodox) they had ever met, as the Teshuvah Movement was still four years in the future. Many invited me to their homes, and I began to see how Judaism was practiced. A half a block away was another youth group, Pirchei. It was identified with a more right-wing Orthodox approach, and had what seemed to me a strange approach to Zionism. They were against Zionism, yet believed in living in Israel. They were more dedicated to study than Bnei Akiva, and were horrified that our events had boys and girls together. From time to time, older Pirchei members would come into our meeting place, and rebuke us for our laxity. There was considerable animosity between the two groups, that I was unable to understand. Only many years later would I learn that, in their zeal for Truth, most Orthodox Jews are quick to dismiss what they see as untruth, even if likewise Orthodox. I was totally unaware that two and a half blocks away was the world center of Chabad Hasidism. I had never even heard of it. But that situation was not destined to last long.

My Story 1

This series is about about what I believe, and what events brought me to those beliefs. It is also about  where I agree or disagree with other rabbis or groups. I never intended for this group to be about me, but rather about G-d, Torah and community. However, as controversy has often arisen, I thought it prudent to discuss who I am, and how I got to be where I am. This is not for re-posting.

My Story 1

Let me begin with an incident that I saw on an Israeli news program. I believe it is a metaphor for the issues that drive me. Moroccan Jews have a lovely tradition called "Mimuna". It is a uniquely Moroccan holiday, which has captured the imagination of many Jews from other cultures. Immediately after the conclusion of Passover, the Moroccans make a feast. Traditionally, it was held at the local rabbi's home. It is the first chance to eat hametz. Various pastries are quickly prepared. Mufletas, a wheat pancake, are served, to be topped with various condiments; most often honey or sour cream. Beautiful, intricate cookies of various colors, shapes and textures are made. The rabbis would speak words of encouragement. Yes, Passover, the feast of deliverance, was over. The Mashiach had not yet arrived. As tradition said that Mashiach would come either during Passover or the High Holidays, redemption was now at least half a year away. The rabbis would say words of Torah, urging the people to maintain their faith, for deliverance was surely on its way. "Mimuna" is derived from the Arabic word for "Faith"; not, as many mistakenly believe, from the name Maimonides. Some ceremonies of the Mimuna are apparently holdovers from ancient  Spring rituals, such as sprinkling the participants with milk, shaken from a lettuce leaf. When questioned about this apparently pagan ritual, one gets the inevitable answer "Rabbi so and so always did it, so it must be good". Today, Mimuna celebrations are held in Town Halls and public parks all over Israel. Politicians of every stripe show up in traditional Moroccan robes and hats. Whether anything religious will be heard, depends on the particular community. One year, a reporter went to Sachar Park in Jerusalem, where thousands had gathered to celebrate Mimuna. She asked a woman who was frying mufletas, the reason for the celebration. The woman replied, "So that these foods will not be forgotten (!!!)". I immediately thought that this was typical of much of Judaism today. Beautiful, meaningful customs and traditions are often transformed into culinary exercises. Growing up in a family that was several generations distant from complete Torah observance, there was always the Friday night roast chicken, and the braided Challah bread (of very dubious origin)...but no Shabbat. Passover saw matzah and wine served...but no Seder. All of my friends' families had the same thing. One year, after I had started Hebrew school, I decided to see to it that my family would have a real Seder. My parents were supportive of my plan. However, my Secularist, Socialist grandfather was livid, and walked out when he understood it was to be a religious ceremony. That was our last Seder for many years. So, was Judaism only a bunch of recipes? An expression of ethnic pride? A collection of ancient practices; some based on Torah, some based on folklore, some based on...paganism and superstition? Most of my childhood friends rejected the mish-mosh of popular Judaism completely. I decided to seek what, if anything, it all meant. Was being Jewish something to be celebrated, or hidden away like an old family scandal? I am reminded of the story of a group of college students meeting with the Dalai Lama. They asked him if he thought they should become Buddhists. He replied in the negative, saying that they must find depth in their own religions. One young woman said: "But I'm Jewish. There is no depth!". He answered, "then you do not know Judaism". Although I had never heard of the Dalai Lama until many years later, I quickly learned from my reading about Judaism, so different from my childhood and adolescent experiences, that I, and everyone I knew. did not know Judaism. Next time I will begin to describe my search.