February article

Skip this if you read the blog regularly - I only have so much material in me at once!


When I meet a Jew in the United States, I feel like we have a bond. No matter where the other person is from, how long I have known them, or what their interests are, I feel connected to them by virtue of a shared religion.

In Israel, this bond is cemented a hundred fold. Orthodox, secular, or Reform, I feel a kinship with other Jews and an underlying sense of community. Eighty percent of Israelis are Jewish, and that’s a huge pool with whom to feel connected. In California, Temple Israel was my Jewish haven in the midst of a secular maelstrom. Here, I need no such safe place, for the entire world outside understands what it means to daven with a tallit, eat brisket for dinner, and say l’vreiut when someone sneezes.

Case in point: over the past two weeks I have had two very random, very memorable encounters with Israeli strangers. In each case, our Jewish bond quickly overcame small talk, and we connected on a deep, metaphysical level due solely to our shared foundations.

The first such instance was my conversation with a taxi driver. Buses don’t run on Shabbat, so two weeks ago, on a Friday night, we called a cab to take us home. We got into the cab, told the driver where to go, and settled into the back seat. He asked us our names, we told him; he said it was cold, we agreed. Then he asked the million-dollar question: what were we doing in Israel? I admit, I paused - the majority of the time I tell an Israeli in this conservative city that I, a woman, am a rabbinic student, I get a negative reaction. But I decided to risk possible backlash, and I hesitantly said, in Hebrew, “I’m studying to be a Reform rabbi.”

“Reformi???” he repeated, incredulous. “Ken,” I said, yes, “it’s different in America than it is here.” And our conversation began in earnest. Talk ranged from how much rabbis get paid, to what my parents think of my profession, to how common it is to have women rabbis, when all of a sudden the driver got more personal. He asked if I knew the story of my name, Michal, and her relationship to King David. He began to expound, complete with fervent hand motions, how David had loved Michal, and had arranged for her to be divorced to her then-husband so that she could marry him. Yes, I said, I knew of it. It’s like the story of David and Bathsheba, I said, and I proceeded to launch into the tale of the king looking over his balcony, seeing Bathsheba in the bath, wanting to marry her and sending her husband off to the battle front. From there we went onto Solomon; and the rest of the ride consisted of swapping Biblical stories at a rapid-fire pace and constantly interrupting each other.

When we got close to our destination, the driver paused in his speech and slowed down the cab. “From today on I’m Reform!” he proclaimed. “You drive on Shabbat, your husband doesn’t have a [black] hat or payes – you’re so nice, and Jewish. If all Reform is like you, then I am Reform!” And he meant it; it was all he talked about for the next few minutes, until we got out of the cab.

Flash forward to one week later, when I found myself standing in the grocery store checkout line. I was third in line and was extremely frustrated; it had looked so good, but in accordance with Murphy’s Law, the man at the head of line was arguing strenuously with the checker about coupons and the line had come to a complete standstill. I sighed, and the man immediately in front of me turned and smiled. He commented on the brand of wine I was buying; I commented on the amount of onions he had. He asked me where I was from; I asked him how old his children were.

Fifteen minutes later, the customer up front had finally settled his coupon debate with a huff, and the checker had to verbally prod my checkout partner forward – he hadn’t noticed that the line had moved, nor had I, for we were deep in the middle of discussing the divisive nature of religious denominations, and the authenticity of the “God-idea” throughout history. My new friend paid for his groceries, waited for me to pay for mine, and then walked me partway home. We exchanged emails, and Jonathan and I are now going to his house this Shabbat to join him, his wife, and his children for services and dinner.

Israel is a country where deep connections are easily made. The land invites closeness, for the roots of all Jews are, at heart, the same. Shared bonds bring together the American student, the native Israeli-born, and the Yemenite, Greek, or Russian immigrant who has made aliyah. Openness is not a rare commodity, and friendship with strangers can be found in the most unexpected places. I didn’t want to walk home late at night, and ended up introducing someone to Reform Judaism; I grumbled in the supermarket line and became an adopted member of an Israeli family. I cherish this quality in Israel, and mourn its absence in the country of my birth. But I am hopeful that I will not completely abandon it when I return - although the majority of America isn’t Jewish, everyone has something in common. After all, bonds are not formed by religion alone, and friendship is truly unlimited.