Imagine a plaza packed with hundreds of Orthodox Jews. Men are dressed in black and white, some have Indiana Jones type hats and long slick suit coats, others wear big circular furry Russian style hats and long black robes. Single locks of curled hair bounce up and down in place of sideburns. Everyone is davening—moving back and forth, rolling from heel to toe, toe to heel as an outward expression of an intense inward meditation.
The chanting, davening men remind me of the loose kernels of grain that shake their way towards the edge of mom’s wheat grinder. Everyone faces a wall towering 65 feet up and built of ancient stones weighing 500 tons. It is The Western Wall (the original fortifying wall from the temple during Christ’s time—you know, the place where Christ got all mad; the story we refer to in justifying when we get mad).
Now imagine that in the middle of this pulsing wave of black and white stands a lurpy white guy in jeans, t-shirt, and a blue baseball cap. That’s me. I wedge a folded piece of paper into one of the wall’s crevices. They say that a prayer at the Western Wall is worth a thousand regular prayers.
The party begins at sundown (the beginning of Sabbath). Have you ever seen a Jew get down? Of course you haven’t—but trust me, they certainly do. Small circles formed on the outskirts of the platform. Chris (another student) and I immediately joined the most intense circle. We spent the next 45 minutes dancing around and around in circles with our arms linked over shoulders, kicking our legs, singing Hebrew songs at the top of our lungs, and embracing Jewish strangers with big smiles. At one point I was in the middle of the circle doing my version of Jewish break dance moves; at another point I had hoisted Chris on my shoulders and jumped up and down linked with 3 other shoulder riders. I’ve never felt so much brotherly joy, so much union.
Can a place like this be sacred, even though it lacks priesthood and pure truth? This place was and is sacred because the people and their attitude make it so. There had always been a wall between me and the Jewish people. Orthodox Jews were funny Amish looking people that avoided eye contact. But that night I stood on their side of the wall...looking eastward as brothers.
The chanting, davening men remind me of the loose kernels of grain that shake their way towards the edge of mom’s wheat grinder. Everyone faces a wall towering 65 feet up and built of ancient stones weighing 500 tons. It is The Western Wall (the original fortifying wall from the temple during Christ’s time—you know, the place where Christ got all mad; the story we refer to in justifying when we get mad).
Now imagine that in the middle of this pulsing wave of black and white stands a lurpy white guy in jeans, t-shirt, and a blue baseball cap. That’s me. I wedge a folded piece of paper into one of the wall’s crevices. They say that a prayer at the Western Wall is worth a thousand regular prayers.
The party begins at sundown (the beginning of Sabbath). Have you ever seen a Jew get down? Of course you haven’t—but trust me, they certainly do. Small circles formed on the outskirts of the platform. Chris (another student) and I immediately joined the most intense circle. We spent the next 45 minutes dancing around and around in circles with our arms linked over shoulders, kicking our legs, singing Hebrew songs at the top of our lungs, and embracing Jewish strangers with big smiles. At one point I was in the middle of the circle doing my version of Jewish break dance moves; at another point I had hoisted Chris on my shoulders and jumped up and down linked with 3 other shoulder riders. I’ve never felt so much brotherly joy, so much union.
Can a place like this be sacred, even though it lacks priesthood and pure truth? This place was and is sacred because the people and their attitude make it so. There had always been a wall between me and the Jewish people. Orthodox Jews were funny Amish looking people that avoided eye contact. But that night I stood on their side of the wall...looking eastward as brothers.
And as you are swirling through the black sweaty suits and flying dirty strings, you might ask yourself... where are the women? On the other side. But if I remember right, they don't dance?- are they allowed? I can't remember exactly. But I do remember that stepping the hava-na-gee-lah (sp?) is supremely entertaining.
ReplyDeleteOK- so asking for your email was a little ridiculous as you sent me this post through your email. It must have been late at night.
And to add to your blogs: check out *Todd's* blog of our family: kickinkaleidoscope.com He does a great job.
Be careful!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Bro, reading this gave me the chills and brought back incredible memories. I hope you're keeping an excellent journal bro.
ReplyDeletelove ya man