As my wife and two daughters were sleeping in the back of the taxi on our way to Ben Gurion Airport this week, and as the ever-complicated landscape of Route 443 and the Jewish and Arab villages of the West Bank rolled by, and in between the charismatic musings of Eli, our Israeli driver - I couldn’t help but ask myself a familiar existential question: Where exactly do I belong?
On the one hand, I am American as apple pie. I live, love and breathe alongside the rhythms of my American life. I love Thanksgiving, I refer to vacation time in late December as ‘Christmas Break’, and I am particularly attuned to the rhythms of the Philadelphia Phillies (pitchers and catchers report on February 19th by the way). I think, speak and write poetry in English as my mother tongue. And professionally and spiritually as a Conservative Rabbi, I benefit greatly from the long-standing American tradition of championing progressive causes and religious tolerance. In short, I am utterly at home in America, except for the fact that I know better.
You see, I know of a different place too. A place where the mountains drip with Jewish history, where prayers have direction, where this past Saturday night I recited a blessing over the waxing moon, offered a Shalom Aleichem, (a peace be upon you), to my neighbors, and was greeted with a chorus of Shavua Tov (may it be a good week). I know of this place too. This place we call the State of Israel. The place where every taxi ride is an opportunity to talk about politics, music and modern Jewish theology with your driver, all while speaking the eternal language of the Jewish people. Yes, as a Jew, one who cares deeply about the Jewish people, our tradition, our religion, and our language - Israel is most certainly my home, except for the fact that I know better.
Despite my serious studies and my passionate love for the Hebrew language, it will never be my s’fat em, my mother tongue. I have not served in the Israeli army, nor do I understand what it means to feel truly responsible for the safety of my country at all times and in every place. I do not have the sharpness of tongue (nor the sharpness of elbows) to truly survive in Israel. And unfortunately for me, the Judaism I have grown up with, the Judaism I have espoused, taught and encouraged for my entire life; a Judaism which embraces tradition and progressiveness, men and women, religion and science, is not embraced by Israel today. Increasingly Israel has become a place of religious all or nothing: of Haredi or Hiloni, of ultra-orthodox or ultra-secular. So where is my home in this land?
The truth is - I could make it work. After all, many more before me have made the decision to make aliyah, to become an active participant in the unfolding Jewish drama of our lifetimes. I applaud those who have sought to plant a life for themselves in the Land of Israel, and I am particularly proud that so many of my closest friends have made this very decision. The question is: could I join them?
Nearly a thousand years ago the Hebrew poet Yehudah Halevi living in the Golden Age of Spain wrote the famous words: “Libi ba-mizrach, va-anochi b’sof ma‘arav,” “My heart is in the East, but I am at the very edge of the West.” He knew what it meant to wander, at once at home in the language and culture of Spain, and yet longing to belong in the land of his ancestors. As the story goes he died just weeks after making it to the shores of the Promised Land.
It occurs to me that though I am further west than he, I completely understand his sentiment. Despite the laws of physics, it is indeed possible to exist in two different places at the same time. It is indeed possible to feel completely at home in one country, and yet, to long for another. There is some comfort in knowing how many people feel the same way. How many Jews wonder what their life could look like living in Israel, and yet at the same time, fully embrace their life in the Diaspora. After all, isn’t life always about competing values, opposing desires, and learning to live with doubt, confusion, and even regret? And so as the taxi approached Ben Gurion, and as I said goodbye to my friend Eli, our cab driver, and as I picked up my sleeping daughters - I knew it was time to continue my wandering.
Rabbi Joel Seltzer is a rabbi at Temple Emanu-El in Providence, Rhode Island.
