יום שני, 22 בפברואר 2010
In the morning of August 1, 1989, I landed in JFK airport, New York. At first, I stayed with my sister who lived in New York, conducting a Jewish religious lifestyle with her converted husband.
I did not identify with the same emotions about Judaism as my sister and her spouse. This new path he chose for himself, the recognition of truth I viewed subjectively as simply an emotional reaction at that time. Therefore, even though I was impressed by his personality, I needed to explore the world myself.
In the following two weeks, my cousin, Gabriel, joined me from Israel and together we rented an apartment in Queens. This period of my life can be summed up as running from pubs to bars, from one cocktail party to the next, from Downtown to the Village, happenings in Central Park and museums in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I let myself be drawn into the vast, warm sea of a life with no meaning, specifically a purposeless existence. I was carried away by the pleasant, easy empty existence, until I recognized the change in myself with my own eyes.
The need to cut myself off led to the point of an intellectual rebellion until I was no longer sympathetic towards Zionism and traditional Judaism. I disgraced it all in my heart. My ties with my family in Israel, and even my sister and her husband, living on the other side of New York, began to weaken. Eventually, I stopped visiting altogether. I found myself in the company of a non-Jewish European woman. We even contemplated the idea of marriage. I befriended other former Israelis that were also looking to disengage.
One evening I went out to a party along with some friends. I realized in the pub that it was Yom Kippur. "I don't feel badly about this,” I told myself. From my point of view, my materialistic life was in and of itself a type of search. Suddenly, sitting in the pub by the bar, I couldn't stop the spontaneous flow of memories overpowering me. I had visions of nostalgia of my childhood, the holiness of the synagogue, of my grandfather, wrapped in a white tallit standing by the bimah crying Kol Nidrei and the congregation crying out loud as they answer him in prayer. I asked myself, Where am I going with my life? Three years of my life had flown by me… What have I learned in the school of life?
During the next following months, I came to a realization that I was tricking myself. It is impossible to live without any meaning in life.
I felt the bitterness of this rebellion and denial. I felt the need to get up and actively search, not allowing time to slip away. I began opening books. First I bought “Man in Search of Meaning” by Victor Frankel. Afterwards, I read books on meditation and yoga. I became a vegetarian, and even, with great difficulty, stopped smoking. All this while taking flying lessons on Long Island.
About the duration of my spiritual and physical journey I will tell to you in the next issue.
I did not identify with the same emotions about Judaism as my sister and her spouse. This new path he chose for himself, the recognition of truth I viewed subjectively as simply an emotional reaction at that time. Therefore, even though I was impressed by his personality, I needed to explore the world myself.
In the following two weeks, my cousin, Gabriel, joined me from Israel and together we rented an apartment in Queens. This period of my life can be summed up as running from pubs to bars, from one cocktail party to the next, from Downtown to the Village, happenings in Central Park and museums in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I let myself be drawn into the vast, warm sea of a life with no meaning, specifically a purposeless existence. I was carried away by the pleasant, easy empty existence, until I recognized the change in myself with my own eyes.
The need to cut myself off led to the point of an intellectual rebellion until I was no longer sympathetic towards Zionism and traditional Judaism. I disgraced it all in my heart. My ties with my family in Israel, and even my sister and her husband, living on the other side of New York, began to weaken. Eventually, I stopped visiting altogether. I found myself in the company of a non-Jewish European woman. We even contemplated the idea of marriage. I befriended other former Israelis that were also looking to disengage.
One evening I went out to a party along with some friends. I realized in the pub that it was Yom Kippur. "I don't feel badly about this,” I told myself. From my point of view, my materialistic life was in and of itself a type of search. Suddenly, sitting in the pub by the bar, I couldn't stop the spontaneous flow of memories overpowering me. I had visions of nostalgia of my childhood, the holiness of the synagogue, of my grandfather, wrapped in a white tallit standing by the bimah crying Kol Nidrei and the congregation crying out loud as they answer him in prayer. I asked myself, Where am I going with my life? Three years of my life had flown by me… What have I learned in the school of life?
During the next following months, I came to a realization that I was tricking myself. It is impossible to live without any meaning in life.
I felt the bitterness of this rebellion and denial. I felt the need to get up and actively search, not allowing time to slip away. I began opening books. First I bought “Man in Search of Meaning” by Victor Frankel. Afterwards, I read books on meditation and yoga. I became a vegetarian, and even, with great difficulty, stopped smoking. All this while taking flying lessons on Long Island.
About the duration of my spiritual and physical journey I will tell to you in the next issue.
Rabbi Assor
Conversations as the Most Powerful Lessons
Years before I became a rabbi, while at flight school during recess from a plane structure class, one of the students asked me, "where are you from?" "Israel," I said. "Are all Israelis Jews?" he inquired further. "Not necessarily, but most of them are." I said. "We are farmers, and rabbis come to our farm to buy animals to slaughter” he said. “They feel the animals with their hands in a strange way...What are they looking for?" "I don’t know about such things," I said. "Well," the cowboy said proudly, "we have one thing in common. We both observe kashrus!" "Oh," I said, "I don’t." "Why not?" he asked surprised. "These are outdated laws that belong to the past and seem irrelevant today." I replied.
The cowboy was amazed. "Even I observe kashrus, though not for religious reasons. It just seems healthier," he said, "those rabbis, at first they looked to us like they didn’t know what they were doing, but soon we realized they are top professionals. After they feel a few animals, they buy only the healthy ones, always leaving us with the sick and wounded ones. I'm telling you, they are top professionals!"
"By kosher, do you mean that you wash the meat with water before you cook it?" I asked. "Not at all," he responded. "We are familiar with all the kashrus signs: the encircled letter K, and even OU, I’m telling you, these are the healthiest."
Listening to our conversation was an F-15 pilot. "During the Gulf War," he suddenly said, "I came to Israel with the Patriot batteries and I must tell you - I believe you are God's nation. He is definitely watching over you quite nicely.
I’m not Jewish, and I think it does not matter. Everyone saw what happened in the Gulf War. We did our job and you just sat quietly. Even the 39 Iraqi scuds that slipped through the aerial defense system and hit Israel, miraculously missed their targets. These are undisputed facts."
He went on. "If the Christian claim that we, Christians, replaced you and that wherever the Bible speaks of Israelites, it refers to us, why do the prophecies materialize in the Jewish nation? Why are the prophecies by Jeremiah and Isaiah realized as Jews are those who return to Jerusalem and rebuild it?" He told me that a Christian prophecy, attributed to Saint Augustine, claims that since the Christians replaced the Jewish nation, it no longer has an eternal message to convey to humanity; Jews are doomed forever, and will never return to the Land of Israel. "You see?" the aviator told me, "when the State of Israel was founded, Pope Pious XII was asked how that happened, contradicting the old prophecy. The Pope had to explain that prophesizing 1,600 years ago, Augustine meant that the Jews will never return to Jerusalem. But when they did in 1967, the Church could no longer adhere to that prophecy… You can walk around Jerusalem with an open Bible and see how its word materialized in every corner. I was very excited about this,” he concluded.
I listened to him closely, greatly impressed… I went home that day with a lot to think about. How this story unfolded will be revealed in the next issue.
Conversations as the Most Powerful Lessons
Years before I became a rabbi, while at flight school during recess from a plane structure class, one of the students asked me, "where are you from?" "Israel," I said. "Are all Israelis Jews?" he inquired further. "Not necessarily, but most of them are." I said. "We are farmers, and rabbis come to our farm to buy animals to slaughter” he said. “They feel the animals with their hands in a strange way...What are they looking for?" "I don’t know about such things," I said. "Well," the cowboy said proudly, "we have one thing in common. We both observe kashrus!" "Oh," I said, "I don’t." "Why not?" he asked surprised. "These are outdated laws that belong to the past and seem irrelevant today." I replied.
The cowboy was amazed. "Even I observe kashrus, though not for religious reasons. It just seems healthier," he said, "those rabbis, at first they looked to us like they didn’t know what they were doing, but soon we realized they are top professionals. After they feel a few animals, they buy only the healthy ones, always leaving us with the sick and wounded ones. I'm telling you, they are top professionals!"
"By kosher, do you mean that you wash the meat with water before you cook it?" I asked. "Not at all," he responded. "We are familiar with all the kashrus signs: the encircled letter K, and even OU, I’m telling you, these are the healthiest."
Listening to our conversation was an F-15 pilot. "During the Gulf War," he suddenly said, "I came to Israel with the Patriot batteries and I must tell you - I believe you are God's nation. He is definitely watching over you quite nicely.
I’m not Jewish, and I think it does not matter. Everyone saw what happened in the Gulf War. We did our job and you just sat quietly. Even the 39 Iraqi scuds that slipped through the aerial defense system and hit Israel, miraculously missed their targets. These are undisputed facts."
He went on. "If the Christian claim that we, Christians, replaced you and that wherever the Bible speaks of Israelites, it refers to us, why do the prophecies materialize in the Jewish nation? Why are the prophecies by Jeremiah and Isaiah realized as Jews are those who return to Jerusalem and rebuild it?" He told me that a Christian prophecy, attributed to Saint Augustine, claims that since the Christians replaced the Jewish nation, it no longer has an eternal message to convey to humanity; Jews are doomed forever, and will never return to the Land of Israel. "You see?" the aviator told me, "when the State of Israel was founded, Pope Pious XII was asked how that happened, contradicting the old prophecy. The Pope had to explain that prophesizing 1,600 years ago, Augustine meant that the Jews will never return to Jerusalem. But when they did in 1967, the Church could no longer adhere to that prophecy… You can walk around Jerusalem with an open Bible and see how its word materialized in every corner. I was very excited about this,” he concluded.
I listened to him closely, greatly impressed… I went home that day with a lot to think about. How this story unfolded will be revealed in the next issue.
My Spiritual Search
One weekend, during a cocktail party for bachelors, I met an Israeli friend with whom I'd served in the Israeli Air Force. He invited me for a Friday dinner. A week later I arrived at his house and was surprised to find out that he is married to a Christian woman, but they are still having the Kiddush before dinner. When I asked, he explained that for me to understand him I should join him at his synagogue. Then, he said, I'll be able to explain.
A week later I accompanied him to the Friday prayer and to my amazement I saw a cross on the parokhes. I've never seen anything like this before. Some of the worshipers donned yarmulkes, while others were not even Jews. Their chants sounded Christian, but the lyrics were definitely Jewish. The synagogue was called Aaron Kadesh. I visited the strange place again a few weeks later on a Sabbath, and saw that after prayer, the rabbi handed out the Eucharist, handing out "sacred" wine and bread as in a Catholic church.
This was not a reformist synagogue, but a Messianic Temple. Sometime later, I was invited for the Seder in the Cornerstone Church. There, I met a rich Jewish convert who introduced me to some of his priests, a group of friends who study together every Sunday in the hotel he manages. I decided to join them and spent a year studying the Christian angle from a reliable source. The priests got to know me personally and occasionally invited me to their home to chat, or study, or partake in ceremonies that I usually just watched.
One day, my brother-in-law called from Israel. He currently gives lectures in Israel's largest repentance movement. He told me that he was sending his 3-year-old to a Talmud torah, asked me why I never visit Israel anymore, and said he fears for me because he had heard that I am a spiritual seeker. "I hear you are a bit confused," he said. "I'm your brother. Don’t you forget that! There is this rumor here that you are about to convert to Christianity. I don't know if it is true, but I will be coming to the US to lecture for the Arachim Movement in upstate New York. Could we meet? I'm a former priest and a priest's son. My father was the eldest priest in Mexico. I know all about Christianity. I convinced my family to convert to Judaism. I'm sure I can enlighten you."
I met him some five months later. During the conversation, I claimed that if we engaged in a debate, I would eat him alive. Still, soon after our meeting ended, I called my friend and asked for help. He updated the priests I used to meet on Sundays and asked them to discuss the theological struggle between Judaism and Christianity. I took notes, taped, and studied their words for months, meeting the priests more frequently than before.
Five and a half months later, I went to meet my sister, her husband, and their little son Adiel in upstate New York. On that meeting and the conversation with the rabbis who came with him, I will tell you next time, God willing.
One weekend, during a cocktail party for bachelors, I met an Israeli friend with whom I'd served in the Israeli Air Force. He invited me for a Friday dinner. A week later I arrived at his house and was surprised to find out that he is married to a Christian woman, but they are still having the Kiddush before dinner. When I asked, he explained that for me to understand him I should join him at his synagogue. Then, he said, I'll be able to explain.
A week later I accompanied him to the Friday prayer and to my amazement I saw a cross on the parokhes. I've never seen anything like this before. Some of the worshipers donned yarmulkes, while others were not even Jews. Their chants sounded Christian, but the lyrics were definitely Jewish. The synagogue was called Aaron Kadesh. I visited the strange place again a few weeks later on a Sabbath, and saw that after prayer, the rabbi handed out the Eucharist, handing out "sacred" wine and bread as in a Catholic church.
This was not a reformist synagogue, but a Messianic Temple. Sometime later, I was invited for the Seder in the Cornerstone Church. There, I met a rich Jewish convert who introduced me to some of his priests, a group of friends who study together every Sunday in the hotel he manages. I decided to join them and spent a year studying the Christian angle from a reliable source. The priests got to know me personally and occasionally invited me to their home to chat, or study, or partake in ceremonies that I usually just watched.
One day, my brother-in-law called from Israel. He currently gives lectures in Israel's largest repentance movement. He told me that he was sending his 3-year-old to a Talmud torah, asked me why I never visit Israel anymore, and said he fears for me because he had heard that I am a spiritual seeker. "I hear you are a bit confused," he said. "I'm your brother. Don’t you forget that! There is this rumor here that you are about to convert to Christianity. I don't know if it is true, but I will be coming to the US to lecture for the Arachim Movement in upstate New York. Could we meet? I'm a former priest and a priest's son. My father was the eldest priest in Mexico. I know all about Christianity. I convinced my family to convert to Judaism. I'm sure I can enlighten you."
I met him some five months later. During the conversation, I claimed that if we engaged in a debate, I would eat him alive. Still, soon after our meeting ended, I called my friend and asked for help. He updated the priests I used to meet on Sundays and asked them to discuss the theological struggle between Judaism and Christianity. I took notes, taped, and studied their words for months, meeting the priests more frequently than before.
Five and a half months later, I went to meet my sister, her husband, and their little son Adiel in upstate New York. On that meeting and the conversation with the rabbis who came with him, I will tell you next time, God willing.
My Spiritual Search
One weekend, during a cocktail party for bachelors, I met an Israeli friend with whom I'd served in the Israeli Air Force. He invited me for a Friday dinner. A week later I arrived at his house and was surprised to find out that he is married to a Christian woman, but they are still having the Kiddush before dinner. When I asked, he explained that for me to understand him I should join him at his synagogue. Then, he said, I'll be able to explain.
A week later I accompanied him to the Friday prayer and to my amazement I saw a cross on the parokhes. I've never seen anything like this before. Some of the worshipers donned yarmulkes, while others were not even Jews. Their chants sounded Christian, but the lyrics were definitely Jewish. The synagogue was called Aaron Kadesh. I visited the strange place again a few weeks later on a Sabbath, and saw that after prayer, the rabbi handed out the Eucharist, handing out "sacred" wine and bread as in a Catholic church.
This was not a reformist synagogue, but a Messianic Temple. Sometime later, I was invited for the Seder in the Cornerstone Church. There, I met a rich Jewish convert who introduced me to some of his priests, a group of friends who study together every Sunday in the hotel he manages. I decided to join them and spent a year studying the Christian angle from a reliable source. The priests got to know me personally and occasionally invited me to their home to chat, or study, or partake in ceremonies that I usually just watched.
One day, my brother-in-law called from Israel. He currently gives lectures in Israel's largest repentance movement. He told me that he was sending his 3-year-old to a Talmud torah, asked me why I never visit Israel anymore, and said he fears for me because he had heard that I am a spiritual seeker. "I hear you are a bit confused," he said. "I'm your brother. Don’t you forget that! There is this rumor here that you are about to convert to Christianity. I don't know if it is true, but I will be coming to the US to lecture for the Arachim Movement in upstate New York. Could we meet? I'm a former priest and a priest's son. My father was the eldest priest in Mexico. I know all about Christianity. I convinced my family to convert to Judaism. I'm sure I can enlighten you."
I met him some five months later. During the conversation, I claimed that if we engaged in a debate, I would eat him alive. Still, soon after our meeting ended, I called my friend and asked for help. He updated the priests I used to meet on Sundays and asked them to discuss the theological struggle between Judaism and Christianity. I took notes, taped, and studied their words for months, meeting the priests more frequently than before.
Five and a half months later, I went to meet my sister, her husband, and their little son Adiel in upstate New York. On that meeting and the conversation with the rabbis who came with him, I will tell you next time, God willing.
One weekend, during a cocktail party for bachelors, I met an Israeli friend with whom I'd served in the Israeli Air Force. He invited me for a Friday dinner. A week later I arrived at his house and was surprised to find out that he is married to a Christian woman, but they are still having the Kiddush before dinner. When I asked, he explained that for me to understand him I should join him at his synagogue. Then, he said, I'll be able to explain.
A week later I accompanied him to the Friday prayer and to my amazement I saw a cross on the parokhes. I've never seen anything like this before. Some of the worshipers donned yarmulkes, while others were not even Jews. Their chants sounded Christian, but the lyrics were definitely Jewish. The synagogue was called Aaron Kadesh. I visited the strange place again a few weeks later on a Sabbath, and saw that after prayer, the rabbi handed out the Eucharist, handing out "sacred" wine and bread as in a Catholic church.
This was not a reformist synagogue, but a Messianic Temple. Sometime later, I was invited for the Seder in the Cornerstone Church. There, I met a rich Jewish convert who introduced me to some of his priests, a group of friends who study together every Sunday in the hotel he manages. I decided to join them and spent a year studying the Christian angle from a reliable source. The priests got to know me personally and occasionally invited me to their home to chat, or study, or partake in ceremonies that I usually just watched.
One day, my brother-in-law called from Israel. He currently gives lectures in Israel's largest repentance movement. He told me that he was sending his 3-year-old to a Talmud torah, asked me why I never visit Israel anymore, and said he fears for me because he had heard that I am a spiritual seeker. "I hear you are a bit confused," he said. "I'm your brother. Don’t you forget that! There is this rumor here that you are about to convert to Christianity. I don't know if it is true, but I will be coming to the US to lecture for the Arachim Movement in upstate New York. Could we meet? I'm a former priest and a priest's son. My father was the eldest priest in Mexico. I know all about Christianity. I convinced my family to convert to Judaism. I'm sure I can enlighten you."
I met him some five months later. During the conversation, I claimed that if we engaged in a debate, I would eat him alive. Still, soon after our meeting ended, I called my friend and asked for help. He updated the priests I used to meet on Sundays and asked them to discuss the theological struggle between Judaism and Christianity. I took notes, taped, and studied their words for months, meeting the priests more frequently than before.
Five and a half months later, I went to meet my sister, her husband, and their little son Adiel in upstate New York. On that meeting and the conversation with the rabbis who came with him, I will tell you next time, God willing.
Dear Readers,
Last time, I told you about a debate I had with a group of great rabbis in upstate New York, in the presence of their pupils and many viewers. The debate, where I represented Christianity, was surprisingly very hard for me and left me with powerful impressions. I felt battered and bruised by the powerful questions the rabbis addressed to me for the first time.
I returned to Florida with burning questions about Christianity and its interpretations of the Bible, which I could not even begin to answer. Still, I was certain that I would find the solutions in my Sunday meetings with the priests. Indeed, I was allowed to pose questions whenever it was possible and I taped the answers they offered, but sometimes my questions led to a lengthy debate that ended with evading or unsatisfactory answers.
That year I went on an intensive study. I contacted priests and former bishops who converted to Judaism and reside in Jerusalem. I met a former Franciscan nun who converted and currently lives in Zefat as an ultra-Orthodox Jew, raising 10 children. I conversed with a German priest from Hamburg who became a Hassid and lives in Jerusalem. I read articles by an Argentine bishop who quit his post with the church after 23 years in office, was circumcised and started attending a Jerusalem yeshiva. I met a Belgian and an Italian who studied for high priesthood in the Vatican, but then converted to Judaism and became Hassidim.
I expanded the circle of my conversants, and with every encounter, phone call, book, and debate over interpretations of holy books, I began to realize that I left behind, in my homeland, a hidden treasure of universal truth which I carelessly abandoned and scornfully turned my back on years ago… I realized then that I had not known enough about my being a Jew. I realized I cannot answer why I had forsaken it without studying Judaism just as I studied Christianity. I did not know what it was, so how could I hate it? How did I lose control of my actions without research and criticism?
My friends at the Church started to notice that I was attending the regular meetings less frequently than before. To pull me back in, they invited me to "give a preaching" on Sunday. Being a former Jew, they asked me to explain about Bar Mitzvah and tefillin. I tried to get some tefillin and called my mother and brother to ask if they could send me a set. Both hung up on me as soon as they heard my voice. It turned out that they found out what I had been up to, and naturally felt betrayed and hurt. I called my brother-in-law, the priest-turned-rabbi, who quickly sent them to me, hoping I was beginning to repent, but I only wanted to present the tefillin process to the churchgoers.
On a Sunday, having expressed fears that the worshippers would not want to hear and after the priest assured me that they all do, I stood on the podium and explained what it is that a Jew celebrates when he reaches 13, the order of the tefillin placement, the meaning of the ceremony and the meaning of Mitzvah.
Next time, dear readers, I will tell you how the church reacted.
Last time, I told you about a debate I had with a group of great rabbis in upstate New York, in the presence of their pupils and many viewers. The debate, where I represented Christianity, was surprisingly very hard for me and left me with powerful impressions. I felt battered and bruised by the powerful questions the rabbis addressed to me for the first time.
I returned to Florida with burning questions about Christianity and its interpretations of the Bible, which I could not even begin to answer. Still, I was certain that I would find the solutions in my Sunday meetings with the priests. Indeed, I was allowed to pose questions whenever it was possible and I taped the answers they offered, but sometimes my questions led to a lengthy debate that ended with evading or unsatisfactory answers.
That year I went on an intensive study. I contacted priests and former bishops who converted to Judaism and reside in Jerusalem. I met a former Franciscan nun who converted and currently lives in Zefat as an ultra-Orthodox Jew, raising 10 children. I conversed with a German priest from Hamburg who became a Hassid and lives in Jerusalem. I read articles by an Argentine bishop who quit his post with the church after 23 years in office, was circumcised and started attending a Jerusalem yeshiva. I met a Belgian and an Italian who studied for high priesthood in the Vatican, but then converted to Judaism and became Hassidim.
I expanded the circle of my conversants, and with every encounter, phone call, book, and debate over interpretations of holy books, I began to realize that I left behind, in my homeland, a hidden treasure of universal truth which I carelessly abandoned and scornfully turned my back on years ago… I realized then that I had not known enough about my being a Jew. I realized I cannot answer why I had forsaken it without studying Judaism just as I studied Christianity. I did not know what it was, so how could I hate it? How did I lose control of my actions without research and criticism?
My friends at the Church started to notice that I was attending the regular meetings less frequently than before. To pull me back in, they invited me to "give a preaching" on Sunday. Being a former Jew, they asked me to explain about Bar Mitzvah and tefillin. I tried to get some tefillin and called my mother and brother to ask if they could send me a set. Both hung up on me as soon as they heard my voice. It turned out that they found out what I had been up to, and naturally felt betrayed and hurt. I called my brother-in-law, the priest-turned-rabbi, who quickly sent them to me, hoping I was beginning to repent, but I only wanted to present the tefillin process to the churchgoers.
On a Sunday, having expressed fears that the worshippers would not want to hear and after the priest assured me that they all do, I stood on the podium and explained what it is that a Jew celebrates when he reaches 13, the order of the tefillin placement, the meaning of the ceremony and the meaning of Mitzvah.
Next time, dear readers, I will tell you how the church reacted.
Getting Acquainted with the Other Religions
by Rabbi Daniel Asor
In the previous issue, I stopped at the point where I moved from New York to Fort Lauderdale, FL, and attended college, seeking a degree in professional aviation.
Once, a Pakistani student lent me a book in my mother tongue, Hebrew, which presented an Islamic interpretation of parts of the Bible. I read it with great interest, since I never knew that such commentaries even existed. The book attempted to present a Biblical truth toward Islam that was different from the familiar Jewish view.
Soon I discovered that there were Christian students on campus who used to get together and read the Bible along with the New Testament. I became even more curious… My interest in the Bible grew and so I started reading at least one chapter every evening at home.
At a certain point, I took courses in theology and familiarized myself with Christianity according to the Church. I even heard arguments that often chastised the Judaism I had known since I was a child and studied in schools in Israel, but never felt a need to defend.
But then, something strange happened during one of the theology classes. The priest, who lectured about all the religions, started with Oriental faiths and reached Judaism towards the end of the course. He started discussing the Jewish faith and said that Abraham "worshiped the mountain gods, whom he called ‘El Shaday’." Shocked and surprised, I raised my hand to ask a question and the priest gave me permission to speak. "Did you know," I asked, "that this name, ‘Shaday,’ appears on the mezuzah at the entrance to every Jewish home, pinned to the right side of the doorframe? Do contemporary Jews also worship ‘the mountain gods’ in your opinion? Is Judaism not a monotheistic religion?"
The class fell silent. The priest took his time answering. I seized the opportunity and added: "I was raised in a Jewish home and attended Israeli schools, and I never heard that ‘El Shaday’ is associated with any mountain gods.”
The priest remained silent, as embarrassment and tension in the room rose. Suddenly, a tall and longhaired Catholic student rose to her feet. She must have felt the need to defend the honor of the priest or her religion. She turned to me angrily, pointed an accusing finger at me, and yelled in excitement: "You! We did not come here to listen to you! Get out!"
Before she could complete the sentence, she suddenly choked and fell to the floor with her accusing hand clasped to her throat, choking and coughing as she fell.
I just sat there, stunned, not daring to even breathe. Students who were sitting next to her rushed to her rescue. They gave her some water and soon she recovered. Other students just glared at me. It was very tense. The class went on a break.
While I was sitting on a wooden bench, my Israeli student friend asked me: "Why do you have to be so provocative? Sit quietly and shut up even if you don’t like what you hear."
Suddenly, the tall Christian student walked up to me. Embarrassed, she said: "Please, forgive me." I apologized for inadvertently hurting her feelings. I explained the source of the things I said, and she was satisfied and left.
When I came back to class, the priest was waiting for me at the door. We walked out to speak privately, and he asked me not to show up at class anymore. "There is no need for that," he said. "You must be familiar with the material on both Judaism and Christianity, which is all that is left till the end of the course. So I will give you an A and you don’t have to show up in class. Sit at the library, and I will send the weak students to you to help them find material for their papers."
I took the hint and indeed never showed up at this class again. From that day on, the other students started calling me ‘Rabbi’ whenever they met me. One day, several older students asked me: "Rabbi, does that priest teach Judaism properly?" I believe you can guess my answer…
This event was very confusing for me emotionally, but even more so, it made me interested in theological debates between Judaism and Christianity.
The rest of the story will, naturally, be told in the next issue.
by Rabbi Daniel Asor
In the previous issue, I stopped at the point where I moved from New York to Fort Lauderdale, FL, and attended college, seeking a degree in professional aviation.
Once, a Pakistani student lent me a book in my mother tongue, Hebrew, which presented an Islamic interpretation of parts of the Bible. I read it with great interest, since I never knew that such commentaries even existed. The book attempted to present a Biblical truth toward Islam that was different from the familiar Jewish view.
Soon I discovered that there were Christian students on campus who used to get together and read the Bible along with the New Testament. I became even more curious… My interest in the Bible grew and so I started reading at least one chapter every evening at home.
At a certain point, I took courses in theology and familiarized myself with Christianity according to the Church. I even heard arguments that often chastised the Judaism I had known since I was a child and studied in schools in Israel, but never felt a need to defend.
But then, something strange happened during one of the theology classes. The priest, who lectured about all the religions, started with Oriental faiths and reached Judaism towards the end of the course. He started discussing the Jewish faith and said that Abraham "worshiped the mountain gods, whom he called ‘El Shaday’." Shocked and surprised, I raised my hand to ask a question and the priest gave me permission to speak. "Did you know," I asked, "that this name, ‘Shaday,’ appears on the mezuzah at the entrance to every Jewish home, pinned to the right side of the doorframe? Do contemporary Jews also worship ‘the mountain gods’ in your opinion? Is Judaism not a monotheistic religion?"
The class fell silent. The priest took his time answering. I seized the opportunity and added: "I was raised in a Jewish home and attended Israeli schools, and I never heard that ‘El Shaday’ is associated with any mountain gods.”
The priest remained silent, as embarrassment and tension in the room rose. Suddenly, a tall and longhaired Catholic student rose to her feet. She must have felt the need to defend the honor of the priest or her religion. She turned to me angrily, pointed an accusing finger at me, and yelled in excitement: "You! We did not come here to listen to you! Get out!"
Before she could complete the sentence, she suddenly choked and fell to the floor with her accusing hand clasped to her throat, choking and coughing as she fell.
I just sat there, stunned, not daring to even breathe. Students who were sitting next to her rushed to her rescue. They gave her some water and soon she recovered. Other students just glared at me. It was very tense. The class went on a break.
While I was sitting on a wooden bench, my Israeli student friend asked me: "Why do you have to be so provocative? Sit quietly and shut up even if you don’t like what you hear."
Suddenly, the tall Christian student walked up to me. Embarrassed, she said: "Please, forgive me." I apologized for inadvertently hurting her feelings. I explained the source of the things I said, and she was satisfied and left.
When I came back to class, the priest was waiting for me at the door. We walked out to speak privately, and he asked me not to show up at class anymore. "There is no need for that," he said. "You must be familiar with the material on both Judaism and Christianity, which is all that is left till the end of the course. So I will give you an A and you don’t have to show up in class. Sit at the library, and I will send the weak students to you to help them find material for their papers."
I took the hint and indeed never showed up at this class again. From that day on, the other students started calling me ‘Rabbi’ whenever they met me. One day, several older students asked me: "Rabbi, does that priest teach Judaism properly?" I believe you can guess my answer…
This event was very confusing for me emotionally, but even more so, it made me interested in theological debates between Judaism and Christianity.
The rest of the story will, naturally, be told in the next issue.
Dear Readers,
Last time, I told you about a debate I had with a group of great rabbis in upstate New York, in the presence of their pupils and many viewers. The debate, where I represented Christianity, was surprisingly very hard for me and left me with powerful impressions. I felt battered and bruised by the powerful questions the rabbis addressed to me for the first time.
I returned to Florida with burning questions about Christianity and its interpretations of the Bible, which I could not even begin to answer. Still, I was certain that I would find the solutions in my Sunday meetings with the priests. Indeed, I was allowed to pose questions whenever it was possible and I taped the answers they offered, but sometimes my questions led to a lengthy debate that ended with evading or unsatisfactory answers.
That year I went on an intensive study. I contacted priests and former bishops who converted to Judaism and reside in Jerusalem. I met a former Franciscan nun who converted and currently lives in Zefat as an ultra-Orthodox Jew, raising 10 children. I conversed with a German priest from Hamburg who became a Hassid and lives in Jerusalem. I read articles by an Argentine bishop who quit his post with the church after 23 years in office, was circumcised and started attending a Jerusalem yeshiva. I met a Belgian and an Italian who studied for high priesthood in the Vatican, but then converted to Judaism and became Hassidim.
I expanded the circle of my conversants, and with every encounter, phone call, book, and debate over interpretations of holy books, I began to realize that I left behind, in my homeland, a hidden treasure of universal truth which I carelessly abandoned and scornfully turned my back on years ago… I realized then that I had not known enough about my being a Jew. I realized I cannot answer why I had forsaken it without studying Judaism just as I studied Christianity. I did not know what it was, so how could I hate it? How did I lose control of my actions without research and criticism?
My friends at the Church started to notice that I was attending the regular meetings less frequently than before. To pull me back in, they invited me to "give a preaching" on Sunday. Being a former Jew, they asked me to explain about Bar Mitzvah and tefillin. I tried to get some tefillin and called my mother and brother to ask if they could send me a set. Both hung up on me as soon as they heard my voice. It turned out that they found out what I had been up to, and naturally felt betrayed and hurt. I called my brother-in-law, the priest-turned-rabbi, who quickly sent them to me, hoping I was beginning to repent, but I only wanted to present the tefillin process to the churchgoers.
On a Sunday, having expressed fears that the worshippers would not want to hear and after the priest assured me that they all do, I stood on the podium and explained what it is that a Jew celebrates when he reaches 13, the order of the tefillin placement, the meaning of the ceremony and the meaning of Mitzvah.
Next time, dear readers, I will tell you how the church reacted.
Last time, I told you about a debate I had with a group of great rabbis in upstate New York, in the presence of their pupils and many viewers. The debate, where I represented Christianity, was surprisingly very hard for me and left me with powerful impressions. I felt battered and bruised by the powerful questions the rabbis addressed to me for the first time.
I returned to Florida with burning questions about Christianity and its interpretations of the Bible, which I could not even begin to answer. Still, I was certain that I would find the solutions in my Sunday meetings with the priests. Indeed, I was allowed to pose questions whenever it was possible and I taped the answers they offered, but sometimes my questions led to a lengthy debate that ended with evading or unsatisfactory answers.
That year I went on an intensive study. I contacted priests and former bishops who converted to Judaism and reside in Jerusalem. I met a former Franciscan nun who converted and currently lives in Zefat as an ultra-Orthodox Jew, raising 10 children. I conversed with a German priest from Hamburg who became a Hassid and lives in Jerusalem. I read articles by an Argentine bishop who quit his post with the church after 23 years in office, was circumcised and started attending a Jerusalem yeshiva. I met a Belgian and an Italian who studied for high priesthood in the Vatican, but then converted to Judaism and became Hassidim.
I expanded the circle of my conversants, and with every encounter, phone call, book, and debate over interpretations of holy books, I began to realize that I left behind, in my homeland, a hidden treasure of universal truth which I carelessly abandoned and scornfully turned my back on years ago… I realized then that I had not known enough about my being a Jew. I realized I cannot answer why I had forsaken it without studying Judaism just as I studied Christianity. I did not know what it was, so how could I hate it? How did I lose control of my actions without research and criticism?
My friends at the Church started to notice that I was attending the regular meetings less frequently than before. To pull me back in, they invited me to "give a preaching" on Sunday. Being a former Jew, they asked me to explain about Bar Mitzvah and tefillin. I tried to get some tefillin and called my mother and brother to ask if they could send me a set. Both hung up on me as soon as they heard my voice. It turned out that they found out what I had been up to, and naturally felt betrayed and hurt. I called my brother-in-law, the priest-turned-rabbi, who quickly sent them to me, hoping I was beginning to repent, but I only wanted to present the tefillin process to the churchgoers.
On a Sunday, having expressed fears that the worshippers would not want to hear and after the priest assured me that they all do, I stood on the podium and explained what it is that a Jew celebrates when he reaches 13, the order of the tefillin placement, the meaning of the ceremony and the meaning of Mitzvah.
Next time, dear readers, I will tell you how the church reacted.
Tefillin, and the Church…
When my friends at the Florida church asked me to tell about the Bar-Mitzvah ceremony and the wearing of tefillin, I was flustered. Eventually, I chose an original explanation; I drew parallels between wearing tefillin and the procedure of resuscitation. It may sound funny, but it came to me so naturally after having thought about it.
In my lecture, I first showed how to wear the talis, the prayer shawl, explaining how it wraps the body, mainly the respiratory system, which I likened to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I went on to explain that arm-tefillin, worn on the left arm, runs along the heart, which is left of the chest center. The tefillin box must be placed so that it turns directly toward the heart, just like the paramedic checks for pulse after resuscitation. Failing to find pulse, he will massage the heart, which is the center of the blood vessels.
In medicine, a person is not declared dead when their heart stops pumping, as long as the brain still functions. Only when all electric activity in the brain stops, a patient will be declared dead. The Jew turns to the center of the nervous system and places the head-tefillin. Just as there are four kinds of brainwaves, the head-tefillin is divided into four parshiyot. God's name also comprises four letters - each for one type of brainwave and one parshiya.
Questions came pouring from all directions. “What is the meaning of the knot on the back of the head?” This one was a question I was not ready for… "Let's think together…” I said, “What is there?" The answer came in a second: the brainstem, or, the "fifth brain" is right there, under the tefillin knot. The brainstem is the instinctive brain, which orders the heart to pump blood and the lungs to draw air in and push it out in a constant pattern. This is the nervous center of the cardio-vascular system and of the respiratory system.
A woman in her 70's, at the far end of the church, asked: "How did they explain the tefillin to you when you were a child?" I told her that one thing I clearly remembered was that a Jew is a son of the king of kings, and therefore a prince. As such, he needs to wear a crown, which is the head-tefillin. The box on the forehead is the diamond fixed in the spiritual crown. The son of the king also has a ring with the royal seal, which is the arm-tefillin, wrapped around the arm to symbolize his authority. The shawl is the royal cape of the son of the king of kings, but it is not an earthly kingdom like all others. This is the eternal kingdom of heaven.
With tears in her eyes, she approached me and said: "In the name of the church, I am asking for your permission to hold on to the hem of your robe." She held the hem, raised it, and cried: "Hallelujah!" The crowd echoed: "Hallelujah!" She opened the Bible and said: "All of you, who want the Old Testament prophecy to come true, raise your hands!" The churchgoers raised their hands, and she said: "May this come true: ‘In those days, ten men from all languages and nations will take firm hold of one Jew by the hem of his robe and say, 'Let us go with you because we have heard that God is with you.’ (Zecharia 8: 23)”.
Until next time, be well my dear readers.
When my friends at the Florida church asked me to tell about the Bar-Mitzvah ceremony and the wearing of tefillin, I was flustered. Eventually, I chose an original explanation; I drew parallels between wearing tefillin and the procedure of resuscitation. It may sound funny, but it came to me so naturally after having thought about it.
In my lecture, I first showed how to wear the talis, the prayer shawl, explaining how it wraps the body, mainly the respiratory system, which I likened to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I went on to explain that arm-tefillin, worn on the left arm, runs along the heart, which is left of the chest center. The tefillin box must be placed so that it turns directly toward the heart, just like the paramedic checks for pulse after resuscitation. Failing to find pulse, he will massage the heart, which is the center of the blood vessels.
In medicine, a person is not declared dead when their heart stops pumping, as long as the brain still functions. Only when all electric activity in the brain stops, a patient will be declared dead. The Jew turns to the center of the nervous system and places the head-tefillin. Just as there are four kinds of brainwaves, the head-tefillin is divided into four parshiyot. God's name also comprises four letters - each for one type of brainwave and one parshiya.
Questions came pouring from all directions. “What is the meaning of the knot on the back of the head?” This one was a question I was not ready for… "Let's think together…” I said, “What is there?" The answer came in a second: the brainstem, or, the "fifth brain" is right there, under the tefillin knot. The brainstem is the instinctive brain, which orders the heart to pump blood and the lungs to draw air in and push it out in a constant pattern. This is the nervous center of the cardio-vascular system and of the respiratory system.
A woman in her 70's, at the far end of the church, asked: "How did they explain the tefillin to you when you were a child?" I told her that one thing I clearly remembered was that a Jew is a son of the king of kings, and therefore a prince. As such, he needs to wear a crown, which is the head-tefillin. The box on the forehead is the diamond fixed in the spiritual crown. The son of the king also has a ring with the royal seal, which is the arm-tefillin, wrapped around the arm to symbolize his authority. The shawl is the royal cape of the son of the king of kings, but it is not an earthly kingdom like all others. This is the eternal kingdom of heaven.
With tears in her eyes, she approached me and said: "In the name of the church, I am asking for your permission to hold on to the hem of your robe." She held the hem, raised it, and cried: "Hallelujah!" The crowd echoed: "Hallelujah!" She opened the Bible and said: "All of you, who want the Old Testament prophecy to come true, raise your hands!" The churchgoers raised their hands, and she said: "May this come true: ‘In those days, ten men from all languages and nations will take firm hold of one Jew by the hem of his robe and say, 'Let us go with you because we have heard that God is with you.’ (Zecharia 8: 23)”.
Until next time, be well my dear readers.
Lost roots…
Dear Readers,
In the previous issue I told you about the time I lectured at the church on the famous Jewish ritual of laying the phylacteries. I left off with the elderly woman who came on stage and held the edge of my Tallit. She quoted:
“Thus saith the Lord: It shall come to pass that ten men shall take hold out of the languages of the nation; take hold of the skirt of him that is a Jew, saying we will go with you: for we have heard God is with you” (Zachariah 8:23).
Turning to descend the stage, she said, “Rabbi, go to synagogue! Pray for me and my sons, so when the Jewish messiah comes, he’ll save us with the people of Israel.”
I stood there, wrapped in Tefillin, shocked… I turned to descend the stage too, when the church members bombarded me with questions, all, astonishingly, calling me “Rabbi.” It felt weird, being called a Rabbi, yet, from some reason I couldn’t say to myself I didn’t like it…
A university lecturer on Christianity approached me, inviting me over for coffee. Driving along in his car, he told me that he wanted to show me the Jewish corner of his life.
“His name is Michael, maybe he’s Jewish?” I wondered. When I asked, he explained that to Jews he’s a ‘goy’ because his mother was non-Jewish, but to Christians he’s Jewish because his father was.
I entered his house and stood in shock… The living room had no normal furniture but a large table with an incredible model of the Temple.
“This replica is precise and built to scale,” Michael said. “I’ve been building it for over three years…” He put a videotape into the VCR, that showed him explaining about the Temple, its instruments, and the work of the High Priest on Yom Kippur.
I asked him to explain, of course... From his explanation I understood he was searching for his lost Jewish roots.
During our long talk, I realized there were many like him. He told me about a priest I met every Sunday for a course on Christianity who closes his carpentry shop on Saturdays and keeps the Sabbath as best he can. I will reveal to you, my readers, that ten years later, that same priest converted, changed his name to Yochanan, made aliya and today lives in Haifa…
Michael told me he frequently visits Jerusalem. He said, “I believe the Jews are fulfilling the prophecy of returning to Zion. I feel included, and want to feel included.”
He said, adding: “I don’t know why you are here. You left your family across the ocean and came here to seek what?”
“Some feel their history started a few years ago and come here to learn from us,” he said. “But you, a man who studied religion, engrossed in the enigmas of faith, who absorbed Judaism as a child, you know your history started 4,000 years ago. Why did you come here? What do you seek? What did you come to learn?!”
The rest, I’ll tell you, my dear readers, next time…
Dear Readers,
In the previous issue I told you about the time I lectured at the church on the famous Jewish ritual of laying the phylacteries. I left off with the elderly woman who came on stage and held the edge of my Tallit. She quoted:
“Thus saith the Lord: It shall come to pass that ten men shall take hold out of the languages of the nation; take hold of the skirt of him that is a Jew, saying we will go with you: for we have heard God is with you” (Zachariah 8:23).
Turning to descend the stage, she said, “Rabbi, go to synagogue! Pray for me and my sons, so when the Jewish messiah comes, he’ll save us with the people of Israel.”
I stood there, wrapped in Tefillin, shocked… I turned to descend the stage too, when the church members bombarded me with questions, all, astonishingly, calling me “Rabbi.” It felt weird, being called a Rabbi, yet, from some reason I couldn’t say to myself I didn’t like it…
A university lecturer on Christianity approached me, inviting me over for coffee. Driving along in his car, he told me that he wanted to show me the Jewish corner of his life.
“His name is Michael, maybe he’s Jewish?” I wondered. When I asked, he explained that to Jews he’s a ‘goy’ because his mother was non-Jewish, but to Christians he’s Jewish because his father was.
I entered his house and stood in shock… The living room had no normal furniture but a large table with an incredible model of the Temple.
“This replica is precise and built to scale,” Michael said. “I’ve been building it for over three years…” He put a videotape into the VCR, that showed him explaining about the Temple, its instruments, and the work of the High Priest on Yom Kippur.
I asked him to explain, of course... From his explanation I understood he was searching for his lost Jewish roots.
During our long talk, I realized there were many like him. He told me about a priest I met every Sunday for a course on Christianity who closes his carpentry shop on Saturdays and keeps the Sabbath as best he can. I will reveal to you, my readers, that ten years later, that same priest converted, changed his name to Yochanan, made aliya and today lives in Haifa…
Michael told me he frequently visits Jerusalem. He said, “I believe the Jews are fulfilling the prophecy of returning to Zion. I feel included, and want to feel included.”
He said, adding: “I don’t know why you are here. You left your family across the ocean and came here to seek what?”
“Some feel their history started a few years ago and come here to learn from us,” he said. “But you, a man who studied religion, engrossed in the enigmas of faith, who absorbed Judaism as a child, you know your history started 4,000 years ago. Why did you come here? What do you seek? What did you come to learn?!”
The rest, I’ll tell you, my dear readers, next time…
“Give Me a Sign!”
…I left Michael's house with much to consider. Driving home, memories and longing overcame me. I hadn't seen my family for years. I wasn't sure I could even clearly remember my mother's face. I had only pictures reminding me of the loving family I left behind...
My confusion didn't abate. I wavered between Judaism and Christianity, between longing for Israel and my life in America.
Had I lost my identity? I yearned for a clear sign, I was so confused… these thoughts plagued me for weeks.
One day, on my way home, the radio reported a solar eclipse was expected momentarily. As usual, I switched on a Rod Stewart tape.
Driving along, I watched the eclipse. Emotions flooded me. In the mirror I saw a man with damp cheeks, on the verge of tears. I experienced such pain only twice before: In the army when I lost a dear friend, and when my father died when I was nine.
I started praying, or rather, personally addressing G-d:
"I'm in the middle of life," I said "and I have no strength… I see no point in continuing in such confusion. I'd like to ask a small favor: I can't live with this conflict anymore. I'm torn. My whole life I sought you, so maybe, could you help me find you? I've tried so many ways and I'm lost – I don't know which is right. Please help me!"
I stopped at a church and went in. Paintings and statues adorned the walls.
"Lord," I whispered, "I don't know if you have a beard and sidelocks, if you're a Tibetan monk or if you wear a cross. Please be clearer… If you want contact, tell me – prove it!" My tears flowed. "Give me a sign! How should I live? What do you want of me?"
I reached home, exhausted. I washed my face, trying not to think. ‘I won't fidget with the TV remote - I'll watch whatever comes on,’ I thought.
I turned on the TV, and what do I see? A rabbi! I was shocked. I knew of no Jewish programming. He pointed an accusing finger and said: “You, the Jew sitting at home! Don't think G-d didn't hear your prayers…G-d hears all Jews' prayers!"
Frightened, I turned off the TV. After a long shower, I got in bed but couldn't sleep. At 2 am, tired of tossing and turning, I decided to take a flight along the beach. I drove to the airplane lot.
Heading home, I stopped at a pizza place. A homeless man was poking through the trash. From the car, I signaled he get in, inviting him for pizza. It occured to me that the proof I demanded of G-d depended on me proving I was really asking. I'll show him I have mercy for his sake, and maybe he will for mine… I wanted spiritual mercy, but I had to give mercy as I could.
The poor man looked astonished, then got in.
The rest, my dear readers - next time.
…I left Michael's house with much to consider. Driving home, memories and longing overcame me. I hadn't seen my family for years. I wasn't sure I could even clearly remember my mother's face. I had only pictures reminding me of the loving family I left behind...
My confusion didn't abate. I wavered between Judaism and Christianity, between longing for Israel and my life in America.
Had I lost my identity? I yearned for a clear sign, I was so confused… these thoughts plagued me for weeks.
One day, on my way home, the radio reported a solar eclipse was expected momentarily. As usual, I switched on a Rod Stewart tape.
Driving along, I watched the eclipse. Emotions flooded me. In the mirror I saw a man with damp cheeks, on the verge of tears. I experienced such pain only twice before: In the army when I lost a dear friend, and when my father died when I was nine.
I started praying, or rather, personally addressing G-d:
"I'm in the middle of life," I said "and I have no strength… I see no point in continuing in such confusion. I'd like to ask a small favor: I can't live with this conflict anymore. I'm torn. My whole life I sought you, so maybe, could you help me find you? I've tried so many ways and I'm lost – I don't know which is right. Please help me!"
I stopped at a church and went in. Paintings and statues adorned the walls.
"Lord," I whispered, "I don't know if you have a beard and sidelocks, if you're a Tibetan monk or if you wear a cross. Please be clearer… If you want contact, tell me – prove it!" My tears flowed. "Give me a sign! How should I live? What do you want of me?"
I reached home, exhausted. I washed my face, trying not to think. ‘I won't fidget with the TV remote - I'll watch whatever comes on,’ I thought.
I turned on the TV, and what do I see? A rabbi! I was shocked. I knew of no Jewish programming. He pointed an accusing finger and said: “You, the Jew sitting at home! Don't think G-d didn't hear your prayers…G-d hears all Jews' prayers!"
Frightened, I turned off the TV. After a long shower, I got in bed but couldn't sleep. At 2 am, tired of tossing and turning, I decided to take a flight along the beach. I drove to the airplane lot.
Heading home, I stopped at a pizza place. A homeless man was poking through the trash. From the car, I signaled he get in, inviting him for pizza. It occured to me that the proof I demanded of G-d depended on me proving I was really asking. I'll show him I have mercy for his sake, and maybe he will for mine… I wanted spiritual mercy, but I had to give mercy as I could.
The poor man looked astonished, then got in.
The rest, my dear readers - next time.
I was sitting in a Fuga, an acrobatic plane in the Israeli Air Force. Ze’ev, the commanding officer, was already in the pilot's seat. It was to be the first time I had ever left the ground. This was my reward for having led a battalion of Air Force cadet for three months, training them in fighting tactics suitable to the main streets of Gaza.
We started flying in the direction of Gaza. I was terrified. All I wanted was to feel firm, solid earth beneath my feet. We were descending in the middle of the desert, it was surrounded by a long, high fence, which was broken periodically by watchtowers. At once I had a very strange feeling - a flash of déjà vu: I had been down there once before…
Memories came alive, flashing across my sub consciousness. It had happened years ago, the summer that I was fifteen. Here, below, in the heart of the Negev, on the path that wound alongside the Air force base, I had barely escaped with my life…
I was studying in the city of Be'er Sheva and was looking forward to going home on the weekend. I had no money for the bus, so I decided to jog home, as the distance was fifteen miles or so. I took a shortcut, angled off the road into the desert and soon lost my way and eventually ended up at the boundaries of a large, fenced in area, the Air Force base, which was now sprawled out below.
Along the way I had run out of water. I continued to drag myself along the fence, but collapsed onto the path and blacked out…The next time my eyes opened, it was dark. "Help!" I weakly called out. My faint echo was all that answered me. "This is it. You're not coming out of this alive." I said to myself, moved my hand up to cover my eyes, and cried, "Shema Yisrael!"
Suddenly I heard what sounded like a number of jeeps. Flashlight beams arced through the darkness…a strange object had been detected on the path outside of the fence, and the jeeps had come to investigate. The soldiers cut away the bottom portion of the fence, and gently hoisted me onto one of the jeeps to be brought to the base to recover.
…Ze’ev and I landed safely. Upon our return, I asked him to accompany me. I found what I was looking for - the break in the fence. It had been mended years before, woven over with thick iron bars, and it now stood before me as a monument to my narrow escape.
At this moment I had an epiphany. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that I was not alone. Someone or Something, Somewhere was sending me a sign... Was it a coincidence that I ended up at the exact same spot where my life had been spared at the last possible moment? I sensed that this power was sending me a message. I didn't know if it had anything to do with any religion at all. I was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery and discover the eternal meaning of existence.
And so, a couple of months later, as I finished my tour of duty with the army, I was on my way to New York… While the rest of my graduating class of 1989 was pursuing their dreams of riches and worldly success, I was embarking on my search for the ultimate Truth. The long, winding road I traveled came to a close eight years later as I piloted a plane from Key West to Boca Raton, FL, as I will continue to relate in the following installments, with god’s will...
We started flying in the direction of Gaza. I was terrified. All I wanted was to feel firm, solid earth beneath my feet. We were descending in the middle of the desert, it was surrounded by a long, high fence, which was broken periodically by watchtowers. At once I had a very strange feeling - a flash of déjà vu: I had been down there once before…
Memories came alive, flashing across my sub consciousness. It had happened years ago, the summer that I was fifteen. Here, below, in the heart of the Negev, on the path that wound alongside the Air force base, I had barely escaped with my life…
I was studying in the city of Be'er Sheva and was looking forward to going home on the weekend. I had no money for the bus, so I decided to jog home, as the distance was fifteen miles or so. I took a shortcut, angled off the road into the desert and soon lost my way and eventually ended up at the boundaries of a large, fenced in area, the Air Force base, which was now sprawled out below.
Along the way I had run out of water. I continued to drag myself along the fence, but collapsed onto the path and blacked out…The next time my eyes opened, it was dark. "Help!" I weakly called out. My faint echo was all that answered me. "This is it. You're not coming out of this alive." I said to myself, moved my hand up to cover my eyes, and cried, "Shema Yisrael!"
Suddenly I heard what sounded like a number of jeeps. Flashlight beams arced through the darkness…a strange object had been detected on the path outside of the fence, and the jeeps had come to investigate. The soldiers cut away the bottom portion of the fence, and gently hoisted me onto one of the jeeps to be brought to the base to recover.
…Ze’ev and I landed safely. Upon our return, I asked him to accompany me. I found what I was looking for - the break in the fence. It had been mended years before, woven over with thick iron bars, and it now stood before me as a monument to my narrow escape.
At this moment I had an epiphany. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that I was not alone. Someone or Something, Somewhere was sending me a sign... Was it a coincidence that I ended up at the exact same spot where my life had been spared at the last possible moment? I sensed that this power was sending me a message. I didn't know if it had anything to do with any religion at all. I was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery and discover the eternal meaning of existence.
And so, a couple of months later, as I finished my tour of duty with the army, I was on my way to New York… While the rest of my graduating class of 1989 was pursuing their dreams of riches and worldly success, I was embarking on my search for the ultimate Truth. The long, winding road I traveled came to a close eight years later as I piloted a plane from Key West to Boca Raton, FL, as I will continue to relate in the following installments, with god’s will...
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