A Trip to Israel — VII

Shabbat.

At 7:30 in the morning, Rabbi Wolpe leads a group of us to the Jerusalem Great Synagogue for services.  It is a 15-minute walk from our hotel.

As we walk up the street, the early morning light streams in from behind us and illuminates the city in front of us in a soft glow.  The sidewalks and streets are empty, and the air is still.  Later in the day, the traffic will return, and the vertical sunlight will make the air heavier and hotter.  But right now the city is completely quiet, Independence Park is a brilliant green, and the cool air is luxurious.  

The Jerusalem Great Synagogue is an imposing structure, with tall towers and a moving dedication prominently inscribed on the front wall:  “In memory of all those who died so that we, the Jewish people, could live.”  But the outside of the building barely prepares us for the interior.

The sanctuary is a huge modern space, a combination of marble and glass and air, with 26 chandeliers ringing the sanctuary and large stained glass windows along the entire back of the synagogue.  In the center is a large bima where the cantors chant the service, facing the ark and a choir of 15 men in tallit and kippot.  There are no microphones or other amplification, and the sound created in the natural space encircled by marble is extraordinary.  The cantor’s voice carries throughout the sanctuary, even though he is facing the ark away from us, and the choir sounds like a classical concert.

Above the ark are stained glass windows in 65 panels.  The same sunlight that lit up the city in front of us on our walk over is now streaming toward us through the stained glass, creating bursts of deep blue, luscious yellow, and brilliant red. 

Howard Brandes and I move our seats over to the center of the sanctuary, so we can see the windows better and study the scenes in the panels.  We can make out the Tree of Life and the Burning Bush.  Rabbi Wolpe comes over and points out to us the seiferot subtly spread over multiple panels, and reads the inscription at the bottom of the windows:  “Do not be afraid, my servant Jacob.”

The gabbai of the Jerusalem Great Synagogue comes over to our group and selects Mark Dubin for the honor of lifting the Torah.  In an act of extraordinary generosity, Mark gives the honor to Howard (one of the congregants who removes and replaces the Torah during services at Sinai Temple), who later tells me it was a moment of a lifetime.

There is no English in the three-hour service, no sermon, no secret schnapps study session, no familiar Sinai melodies.  In truth, I am having trouble keeping my place in the prayer book.  It does not matter.  To attend a service like this, in a sanctuary like this, on a day like this, in Jerusalem, is one of the increasingly frequent occasions this week when I have said to myself:  This alone was worth the trip.

The next such occasion — and later in the day there will be a third one — occurs over the next few hours.  After the service, Howard and I decide to walk over to the Israel Museum.  It is a longer (and hotter) walk through the hills of Jerusalem, but I had heard it was worth it. 

I had no idea.  The museum has a seemingly endless series of permanent and special exhibits of Judaica, archaeology, modern and ancient art, religious relics, photography, multiple sculpture gardens, and an entire building housing the Dead Sea Scrolls that is worth seeing for the architecture alone.  We ended up spending four and a half hours there, skipping lunch.  We left only because the next event was about to start. 

At 4:30 p.m., I accompany Howard to hear Amos Oz speak to a small group of Israel Museum supporters.  Howard has an invitation to the event, and generously brings me along. 

Oz’s speech combined stories from his beautifully written, extraordinarily moving memoir (“A Tale of Love and Darkness”) with his reflections on Jerusalem, the Hebrew language, Israelis and Palestinians, and peace.  He speaks and answers questions for more than an hour, in an English so articulate and elegant it is difficult to believe it is not his native tongue. 

He remarks on the changing slogans of anti-Semitism.  In his youth, the slogan was “Jews go back to Palestine.”  Now it is “Jews get out of Palestine.”  He remarks that some people speak of the return of the Jews to their homeland as if it were simply an unfortunate choice of location, as if a travel agent could have arranged the French Riviera instead.

There was no other place to go.  It was the only plank they could hold to when they were drowning.  Every door was slammed everywhere they went.  Even Canada’s immigration policy was “one is too much.”

He views the dispute with the Palestinians as a battle of “two rights” — both sides have claims; the dispute is not the result of a misunderstanding, but of mutual claims to the same land.  His solution is compromise, which he views as an essential ingredient of life.  He thinks there are too many prophets and world redeemers in the Land, too many people trying to save your soul, and favors temporary arrangements regarding religious sites until a Messiah comes (or returns) to adjudicate the competing claims.

It is a great speech — if only a prominent Palestinian would deliver it.  One could be more optimistic about the situation if there were a Palestinian Amos Oz.  Why, exactly, has one not emerged?

It is now after 6 p.m. and Shabbat is almost over.  It has been a remarkable day.  Later in the evening, we will go out to an elegant dinner at an intimate Jerusalem restaurant and then tour the fascinating tunnels underneath and along the Temple Mount, returning to the hotel around midnight. 

Such a small country, so much to see.  So blessed to be here.