The Edible Torah

49, 48, 47…

The opening moments of Passover are behind me, and I’m left with a sense of something momentous having passed with it. There’s a dryness in my mouth and heaviness in my gut that has nothing to do with the matza I’ve consumed.

…46, 45, 44…

I’ve traveled out of Mitzrayim (“the narrow place”, the place which may once have been big enough for me, but which became constricting); I’ve run pell-mell through the gauntlet of nature’s forces, chased by the demons of my past to emerge out into vast unknown desert where I apparently must wander. Without a guide, I will easily lose my way.

…43, 42, 41, 40, 39…

Each day, each step, is a single drum beat, counting out a steady rhythm of moments. The days of the Omer, marking time from Pesach to Shavuot, also note the potential for the transformation of the rough, low-quality barley of my soul into a pure, humble, chometz-free offering.

…38, 37, 36…

Where will these days take me? I feel like I need to have a plan, even as I know that anything I expect to happen most likely won’t. But without a goal, what would keep me moving at all?

…35, 34, 33…

Do I know where I want to be? Is it even possible for me to imagine how this geography and community will shape me? What opportunities will be presented to me? Which ones I’ll be brave enough to take advantage of? Who, of those around me will be persistent enough to overcome my fear and doubt?

…32, 31,…

Still…
Even if, 49 days from now, I look back and say “I had no idea I’d end up here”, I still must start the process, if I expect to get anywhere.

…30, 29, 28, 27…

For a long time, I carried around with me a very depressing mental image for the Beatles song “Blackbird”. I would relate it here, but I’ve been told by enough people that it ruined their enjoyment of the song so I usually just keep it to myself.

Not that my mental image inhibited my own love of the song. I took a fond, if somewhat morbidly melancholy, pleasure in singing it and hearing it performed. But it was never a happy song.

Then, when my son Joram (who is now 10) was a baby we had this routine. He was hard to put to sleep, so we would rock in the chair and I would pat his back. With significant force. No namby-pamby girly-man taps for him. He would only settle down if you gave him room-echoing “whomps” with your whole hand. And it wasn’t that slow, heartbeat type rhythm that seems so soothing. Joram preferred a medium-to-fast beat. So there I am, pounding out a steady rhythm and rocking him to sleep when I realized:

(pat pat pat pat)
Blackbird singin’ in the dead of night
(pat pat pat pat)
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
(pat pat pat)
All your life
(pat pat pat)
You were only waiting for this moment to arrive

In that moment of discovery, several things came together for me and were resolved – my concern about having a son; the personal upheaval of that time – a job change, a country change, a new child; and so on. And above it all was the immediate and complete transformation of that song into something positive and hopeful. The lyrics took on new and very personal meaning, and I knew I would never hear it the same way again.

It is said that encounters with God (however you envision God) are transformative. Torah shows us this with the many name changes (Abram becomes Abraham, Sarai becomes Sarah, Jacob (“heel”) becomes Israel (“God wrestler”).) Upon meeting Moses, even God gets a name change (or at least the revealing of a name within the context of the Torah narrative).

What we understand from these episodes in Torah is that meeting God is transformative – once you’ve encountered the Divine, you cannot remain the same. By reverse logic, if you find yourself (inexplicably) transformed, that is evidence of an encounter with God.

In that instant of change for Joram and I, Shechinah (another name for God, meaning “her spirit which surrounds us”) came into the room.

I think Mr. McCartney would be proud.

How do you connect to a place? To a moment? To a historical period?

Is it even possible to create a connection to a moment you weren’t yourself part of?

Talmud asks us to invest in the idea that every Jewish soul was present at Mt. Sinai. Various Rabbis took it a step further and asked that we try imagine (remember?) ourselves standing at the foot of the mountain. Rabbi Elimelech of Lyzhansk took that idea even further when he said “Not only can I remember the moment at Sinai, I remember who was standing next to me”.

Such a sense of connection is, at the very least, difficult. Perhaps even impossible for most of us.

Even so, there are situations where exactly that emotional connection naturally takes place. Hiking through the desert at the edge of the Mitzpe Ramon crater is one such time. Walking across the uneven ground, a pack animal at my side, sand and dust swirling around me: who did I feel like? One of the Moses? Abraham? Lawrence of Arabia?

It was with surprise that I found myself connecting with Isaac as we walked through the sparse landscape. I guess I expected Abraham, or maybe Jacob (although my family is nowhere near THAT big). Heck, even Sinbad (the sailor, not the comic) would have made more sense in my mind.

You see, Isaac is, honestly, one of my least favorite biblical characters. He’s not dynamic. He hardly does anything except retrace his father’s footsteps.

But there I was:  walking across the hard terrain, two rambunctious boys running from the long-suffering llama at our side to the 3 dogs who I believe were following us simply because the boys were the most exciting animals they had seen in a while. Meanwhile my wife was calmly taking it all in, reveling in the miracle of simply being in this place.

I wondered what this said about me – was I more like Isaac than I cared to admit? Less than dynamic? Simply running along old paths?

I realized that what I was doing – maybe what Isaac was doing too – was living my life. Going from here to there, digging wells when water was needed, enjoying hospitality where it can be found.

And in that moment, like Rabbi Elimelech, I could not only imagine standing in a sacred place, I knew who was standing next to me as well – a tall man with a gentle voice who was quietly telling me about the time that his boys ran off after the dogs and…

During our month-long stay in Israel, we spent a lot of time in Jerusalem and it’s nearby areas. But we did venture to a few places further out – Haifa, Ein Gedi (the Masada/Dead Sea area), etc. One of the places I wanted to try to have the family experience was the area known as Mitzpeh Ramon. Many people choose to camp or hike in this area, the site of the world’s largest crater, but that wasn’t going to work for us for a two key reasons:

1) A family with both big and small children plus a directionally challenged parent (me) plus an extended stay in the wilderness equals a recipe for disaster. Or a great idea for a sit-com.
2) We were in Israel in August, when the average temperature was about 3 degrees shy of the surface of the sun.

But I found a spot near the crater that offered a kid-friendly atmosphere, including an attraction my family would not be able to resist: Alpacas!

“The Alpaca Farm” is one of those “best kept secrets” of Israel’s Negev region. They are a fully functioning farm with llamas, alpacas, camels, sheep, goats and horses; the owners and employees are committed to a very specific way of life that is both inspirational and engaging; they are warm, and friendly and helpful and willing to share what they know, what they believe and even (in the case of my kids) what they are eating. Along with a petting area (which is basically the whole darn place) they also offer educational programs, wilderness hikes and horseback tours.

And they have the most beautifully appointed rooms we found during our entire stay in Israel.

Traveling on a budget, we don’t ask for much when we’re picking a location to overnight. As long as a place is basically clean and has enough beds, we’re good to go. The Alpaca Farm blew those expectations out of the water. They had some of the most reasonable room rates, and those rooms were drop-dead gorgeous! We were able to get a single accomodation that slept six people (!) with two bathrooms, a huge airy kitchen, two bathrooms, and a view overlooking the entire area. And two bathrooms – did I mention those?

We arrived expecting to “enjoy” a night of rough living with the animals, and to grab a quick shower at our next destination. Instead the farm was an literally an oasis in the desert where we took time to unwind and recharge.

What I also didn’t expect, besides the fact that I had booked rooms at a bed and breakfast with a petting zoo attached as opposed to the reverse,  was that it was here – in all of our travels – where I would make a connection to our ancestors.

More on that in the next post.

I’m in transit this afternoon, but didn’t want this to wait until after Shabbat.

In the portion we will read tomorrow morning, we find:

When any of you presents an offering of cattle to the Lord…

When a person presents an offering of meal to the Lord…

When you present an offering of meal baked in the oven,

If your offering is a meal offering on a griddle…

If his offering is a sacrifice of well-being…

…and it goes on. Offering after offering after offering.

In her book “Kids Are Worth It“, one of my favorite parenting educators, Barbara Coloroso says:

“…so you offer your kids a choice: ‘Do you want to go to bed now in the green pajamas, or do you want to go to bed now in the red pajamas?’. Please note the part that is NOT a choice…“

In the (admittedly dry) portion this week, Torah is giving us a similar option. The part that is NOT a choice is whether or not to present an offering.

I am making that point because we are yet again being given an opportunity to help in the world – as long as we understand which parts of the question are not a choice.

Do you want to help relief efforts in Japan by donating to the JNF, or by donating to Mazon, or by donating to Unicef, or by donating to the Red Cross…?

As I wrote about here, after the tragedy in New Orleans in 2005, and again here after the troubles in Haiti, in order to make a difference, you have to choose to do something.

Reports are still incomplete – we don’t know the extend of the damage. But we DO know there was damage, we do know there will undoubtedly be people who need help. We don’t need to wait for the final tally before we start acting.

On this Shabbat – a week after we all said “Chazak Chazak, v’nitchazek” (Be strong, Be Strong and we will be strengthened);
During this Shabbat when we are commanded to cease from work;
In the next 25 hours, let’s take time – as our Patriarch Jacob did:

• First to plan
• Next to prepare
• and finally, to pray

…so that after the Havdallah candle is extinguished, we are ready to begin to the work of offering a helping hand.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”
Margaret Mead (1901 – 1978)