Questioning Return

  “The beauty of history is that it can be shaped with hindsight. Shakespeare, in Henry V, speaks of the ability to “remember with advantages.” In reviewing his life, Jacob reshapes his primal scene of impersonating Esau to gain his father’s blessing and removes the violent urges of the shunned older sibling. Jacob is given the ability to re-envision his life, re-enact it in a new form, much as Joseph is able to tell and retell both his own life and the lives of others through dream interpretation.

  “This portion itself is closed—it is the only unit of the Torah that does not contain a space between itself and the previous section. Yet, it encodes another opening. The eighty-five verses in this section are a sign for the word “peh,” mouth, because the numerical value of the letters “peh” and “heh” is equivalent to eighty-five. The mouth with which this portion speaks is the possibility of re-envisioning and transforming the past. Perhaps the ability to use advantaged memory of past knowledge can make possible an enhanced future, as Jacob suggests in the blessing he bequeaths to his grandsons.

  “We don’t know what that future is, or how to ultimately decode it. But when the future comes, when we are able to decode our dreams, I hope we will say with Yosef, ‘God turned it to good.’ The ability to say, whatever happens, God turned it to good, is my bracha for each person here. Shabbat Shalom.”

  When Jason finished talking, there was no sound but the breathing of the Shabbat guests. The ill will of the disagreement over the gender to address God seemed temporarily dispersed in the silence of quiet breathing rather than stunned awkwardness. All the listeners were involved in what Jason had been saying, each with his or her own thoughts and concerns about what their narrow place, their Egypt, might be and how—or whether—they would get to the point of feeling that what had happened to them in life had not been for bad, but for good.

  “Jason, thank you. That was just . . . words of Torah are so . . . sustaining,” said Amy, looking down at Eliana nourishing herself at her breast. Amy had a blanket draped over herself, but Wendy felt awkward seeing a woman nursing her baby even if no anatomical parts were outwardly visible. The baby was making suckling noises, greedily lapping provision from her mother.

  “I love decoding things, thinking about a text. I was an English major,” added James. “That concept that Joseph was able to take something insubstantive like a dream and convert it into a useful currency is so . . . cool. I loved Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat as a kid, but I never thought of that,” he blurted.

  “‘To be fruitful in the land of affliction.’ I really like that idea,” echoed Wendy. “It is what each of us struggles with, how to be productive, despite affliction. The idea that each person has to decode life in a particular way; that’s what I’m writing about. I’m also thinking about what Amy said earlier, that she had a baby to hand down her dreams, to enable them to go beyond her, as her parents gave her things to dream about,” she mused.

  Jason responded, “Thanks. I can’t take personal credit for most of the ideas since I’m echoing the ideas of the meforshim, the commentators.”

  “The cool thing is,” Rich added, “Jews all over the world are reading the same section of text every week. We are coming from different places, going different places, but still reading the same text, right, Yehoshua?” He grinned.

  “We do read the same Torah, for sure. But, I believe in it as God’s word, revealed as a code for my life, and you see it as a myth with sacred overtones, but no real influence.”

  Removing the baby from her breast—still covering herself with a blanket and propping Eliana on her shoulder to burp her—Amy added, as she gave the baby gentle pats on the back, “We’ll see what happens. We need to add other words to our cycle of sacred readings. Words of women, of gays and lesbians, of different groups so people feel they can hear their own voice at sacred moments. I’m not saying we have to replace the Torah, but we need to find other words too. That’s going to be our task as liberal rabbis in the future.”

  Puzzled, Bonnie responded, while twirling her hair, “But what else is there besides the Torah? It’s sacred text.”

  “That’s the question,” replied Amy. “We’ll have to see where people find value and sacredness. It may be that there are contemporary poets who make their way into the liturgy, or songs, like the one Rabin was singing when he was killed.”

  “Get real,” Yehoshua replied. “Some singer can replace Torah? Ridiculous!”

  “Why not?” Amy said defiantly. “It’s the will of the people. We’ve decided women and gay people can be rabbis. We can change our sacred orientation.”

  “Then it’s not Judaism any more,” Yehoshua added.

  “Judaism is what Jews say it is,” Amy continued.

  “Why study Torah at all then?” Yehoshua continued with growing anger in his voice. “Why not just study the works of Philip Roth and say, ‘Jews read it, so let’s make it our sacred text!’” Yehoshua exclaimed.

  “More American Jews have read Portnoy’s Complaint than, say, the book of Lamentations,” added Noah.

  “We could make Philip Roth or Debbie Friedman our sacred text,” Dara interjected. “In my branch of Judaism, the past has a vote and not a veto. We have to consider that texts have historical resonance. After Jason’s words, I think we can agree that the Torah is probably much richer than anything even the most talented author can write.” She gave Jason a broad smile, which he returned. “Yasher koach, Jason. That was a really nice dvar Torah.”

  “You’re admitting the Torah is a divine product,” Noah said triumphantly.

  “Divinely inspired. There’s a difference,” Dara finished.

  “Everyone had enough salad?” Jason interjected. “Dara, let’s get the main courses.”

  Yehoshua stood up. “I’ll help.”

  “You know,” Orly stated, “every Jew at this table has a completely different opinion, but here we are, eating together, celebrating Shabbat, talking to each other through the squabbles. We do still have shared dreams, like the dream of creating a land together.”

  “It’s a family dynamic kind of thing,” said James. “We might dislike each other, but we need to come together. So we do.”

  “Yeah,” said Bonnie. “I have lots of great aunts and uncles and, even though they are all in their seventies, they still fight like they’re kids. But they want to have holidays together even if they fight about who brings what food, whose house it should be at, when . . .”

  “My family too. All these arguments about what, when, where—yet we do ultimately get together. I remember hearing a definition of family as a group of people with whom you imagine a non-existent home,” said Wendy.

  Dara returned bearing a rice, nut, and cheese casserole and chimed, “Wendy’s right. That could be a definition of the modern Israel. An imagined home—no one is satisfied with what it is, yet we are all in process with it.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Noah. “Wouldn’t it be better if we could all agree on what home is and what values we want in it?”

  “Noah, you don’t even know who you want to make that home with, much less the ‘values’ you want there,” Wendy said sarcastically, her face contorted with annoyance. Maybe I shouldn’t be so publicly mean, she thought once the words were out of her mouth. There was no going back now, she realized. She had drawn the battle lines and put herself and Noah on opposite sides. Even if the evening had been an attempt to get them back together, it was not happening.

  Jason and Yehoshua came out with full platters. One held a baked eggplant dish with cheese and tomatoes; the other was a sort of stew with potatoes, barley, carrots, zucchini, and tomato. The dishes appeared straight out of the Moosewood Cookbook, a gift from Jason’s mom, who was concerned about his getting proper nutrition as a vegetarian.

  Amy continued, “That’s the nice thing about having a baby—I know who I want to make my home with.”

  “I’m glad you’ve found the right balance, Amy,” said Noah with sincerity. �
�I wish we all could. Wendy, maybe you’ll find the right person to make your home with.” She felt sad hearing him say that. Even if she hadn’t been entirely sure about him, the finality of these words ruled out anything between them in the future.

  “It isn’t the only thing I want. I’m looking to have a career. Family comes second,” Wendy said, helping herself to the rice casserole and passing it to Orly on her left.

  “You can have both,” Orly chided.

  “I need to reach my own dreams first, before I can pass them on to someone else,” Wendy responded.

  Bonnie said, “Isn’t having children part of the dream? I wouldn’t mind working for a while, but when I have children I want to be with them. Family first.”

  “I’m with you, Bonnie,” said Yehoshua. “The traditional way of doing things, getting married and having kids right away, is the best. That way you grow and develop with your children, not wait till everything is settled and you are forty. That’s my plan.”

  “Plans are great, but dreams don’t always adhere to plans,” said James.

  “What do you mean, buddy?” Rich queried, looking at James next to him.

  “Dreams are so . . . diffuse. There is this clear image; but then you wake up, poof, it dissipates. Like cotton candy, which looks so solid until you put your tongue on it, and it just becomes nothing, colored sugar. It used to disappoint me so much as a kid—it looked so good and then it wasn’t there. Then it is gone completely. Being in Jerusalem this year is like a dream for me. I . . . I don’t know if I want to be a rabbi any more. I wanted to do it because I love being Jewish. Now, being here, I see all these other ways to be Jewish, not just as a rabbi. I love not driving on Shabbat, the connectedness to the city I feel walking, not having to worry about spending money. I don’t know if I’d even like it if I just stayed on, outside the school framework.”

  Amy said, high-pitched, “You can’t leave the program; I’d lose my best sitter. I’m counting on you to see me through.”

  James gave her a smile. “As long as I’m in the program, I’ll always be happy to watch Eliana.”

  Wendy realized, watching James, that what irritated her about Amy was that both of these guys, younger than Amy, were infatuated with her. It may have been their admiration at her boldness at being able to go ahead and do something that she wanted, which they envied, being more-insecure twenty-three- or twenty-four-year-olds in comparison to her early-thirty-something age. Amy seemed to revel in their attention without noticing its nature. Did motherhood turn flirtatious signals off?

  Dara said, “I agree with you, James. I love Shabbat in Jerusalem, people to share meals with, going for walks, relaxing. I don’t know that it is enough to make me change my dream of being a rabbi. I’m just . . . Not willing to change so much of myself.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Jason challenged her.

  “I hope it’s a good thing. I don’t want to become a radically different person than I was when I came,” said Dara.

  “Isn’t there something wonderful about finding a passion and yielding to it?” Noah queried.

  “I think so,” said Amy. “James, if you feel passionately about life here, stay. Leave rabbinic school. I give you permission,” she said, smiling and pushing the coppery strand of hair that Eliana had yanked in front of her mouth away from her face.

  Jason said, “The Torah warns us about giving in too much to passions in the story of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, who offered strange fire to the Lord and were killed for it. The commentators are perplexed by the story—what did they do that was so wrong? Doesn’t God want us to serve with joy? Some say they tapped into the passion and joy felt by the high priest on the Day of Atonement, the joy at being forgiven, but inappropriately. Not all passion is acceptable.”

  Orly said, “Wendy, you’re writing about Jewish returnees. Do most follow their path out of passion or for other reasons?”

  “Some didn’t like their lives before and wanted something completely different. Some fell in love with Shabbat or Torah study. Some don’t have rational explanations, or will say, it just made sense to me. I guess I have to consider a space for passion,” she answered, surprised at her words.

  “Maybe we have something to add to Jason’s dvar Torah,” added Noah. “That just as we hope we can achieve certainty, we hope we can find and pursue our passions appropriately.”

  “I’ll second that,” said James.

  “Dessert anyone?” said Jason. He and Yehoshua cleared the uneaten food platters off the table, while Dara went into the kitchen to get a garbage bag. She returned and everyone passed paper plates and cups and plastic flatware into the trash. Then, the three hosts returned to the table bearing the desserts. There were cookies from Marzipan Bakery that Wendy had brought, a bowl of pistachio nuts, and a large elaborately decorated cake.

  “Ooh, that cake looks good. Who brought it?” Bonnie asked.

  “I did,” said Rich. “Angel Bakery, best in Jerusalem. Everyone has to try it.”

  “You won’t find me saying no,” says Yehoshua. “One should enjoy what is permitted. We have to give an accounting in heaven for denying any permissible pleasures.”

  Wendy found herself annoyed by his logic. “Doesn’t it take the fun out of everything, if you are only doing it because it is permissible, not because you really want to?”

  “Depends on your attitude.”

  TEN

  “Good Night World”

  Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him.

  —E. M. FORSTER

  At the beginning of February, Wendy was strongly engaged with her oral interviews. She’d done the preliminary questionnaires and analyzed them. Now, with the permission of the roshei yeshiva at RISE/Yeshivat Temimei Nefesh and RISEN/Bayit Ne’eman, she was speaking with students individually, getting them to tell their stories. This was the part of her work she loved: getting her subjects to the point of revealing something, eliciting a particular detail that marked a moment of certainty for them. She loved to hear them articulate a turning point when they knew their path was leading irrevocably in one direction and not another, and to understand something new about themselves and their journey, to consider themselves in a fresh way in light of her questions. It was thrilling to watch insight come, seeing the glistening on a face as though the fairy dust of understanding had just been sprinkled upon it. Of the fifteen interviews she had done so far, each subject had had a moment like that.

  And then there was this most recent one.

  Standing at the place where the cabs stopped for passengers outside the Dung Gate of the Old City on her way to meet Orly for dinner in the center of town, Wendy thought about her last interviewee of the day, Shaul Engel. Like her, he was from Westchester—the town of Larchmont, not her New Bay—and a year or two younger. If she’d tried, it would not have taken long to do the Jewish geography thing; he would have known friends of hers who had younger siblings or belonged to his synagogue or went to his summer camp. The interview seemed to take its course, she remembered, fingering her backpack to be sure the tape recorder and computer were in there, until she got to the question about the irrevocable moment, when he knew, for sure, what his direction was.

  He could not answer.

  She needed her data. She challenged him, and cringed now in retrospect. What did she say? Something like, Maybe you won’t stay religious. Everyone else could answer it. After her remark, Wendy saw shame in his eyes. She shouldn’t have said that; she was supposed to hear them tell their stories, not to shape and control what subjects said. Configuring the information, finding the patterns and motifs, that was all for after the interviews, when she was writing. During the interview, Wendy was just supposed to listen. Ask open ended questions; induce the subject to tell his story so you can obtain information—that was the key interviewing technique, her anthropology advisor, Violet Dohrmann, had instructed. Maybe she could somehow do something to let him know she regretted her conduct?
What? Apologize? Tell him. She wanted to let him know she was unnecessarily rude—it had been the end of the day, she was tired, now she realized her behavior was inappropriate. I’ll do that, she decided.

  Once she got back to her apartment, she’d send an e-mail. She and Orly were planning to have dinner and catch a movie. She made a note to herself in her planner, so she wouldn’t forget, before a cab came and she went off to her destination.

  Later that evening, Shaul Engel strode into his room at Yeshivat Temimei Nefesh. He crossed the room, over piles of Jerusalem Post newspapers, kicked a Wilt Chamberlain regulation basketball away from his feet, and reached the bookcase with his personal possessions. There were two other bookcases and three beds for the three students who shared this dormitory room at the yeshiva. Everyone else was davening Maariv, the evening prayer. Shaul reached for morning prayer accessories, tefillin, on top of the shelf. He took the heavy plastic case, which held both a tallis and a velvet pouch containing the tefillin, and sat in the chair at the desk intended as a place for students to write letters extolling the virtues of the religious life. All he had to do now was adjust the tefillin, recently purchased so the leather would be strong. He had written his letter. He removed it from his jacket pocket and placed it unmistakably in the center of the desk.

  He removed the shel rosh, the headpiece, from its blue velvet case and began to undo the knots. The amulet part of the tefillin, the heavy black box, was supposed to rest on the forehead, between the eyes. The leather strap ringed the head and held the box in its place at what the ancient rabbis believed was the seat of the intellect. The knot fitted the nape of the neck. His hands were practiced at adjusting the knots. New students at the yeshiva came to him to adjust tefillin that they had never worn, items that had belonged to a father, grandfather, or brother who had probably never worn them either. Shaul could tug and pull the knots so the amulet fit naturally on someone who was trying on this ritual item for the first time. Once the tefillin fit, other practices would too, he would tell new recruits.