Cracks & Leaks

Over the past weeks, since returning from my recent trip to Israel, I’ve been thinking about how often it is that things are different from how they seem.

Last week I was away for a conference of Jewish Renewal clergy, first time in three years, since my ordination. The closer it got, the more I began to dread it; maybe it was a mistake to go. Did I really want to see all those people? How many of them did I actually like anyway?

Shakily I walked into the hotel, holding my friend’s arm for emotional support.

But immediately I saw many people I was so very happy and excited to see that had left my consciousness. And there were many beautiful surprises over the next three days: enlivening and enlightening conversations, wonderful learning, intimate singing circles with old friends…It felt a little like the protected bubble I’d been in while in Israel: safe in a nice hotel among old friends and teachers, feeling a sense of belonging as a full-fledged rabbi.

Yet the “fancy” hotel with its good name and luxurious beds had problems with its infrastructure; for all three days, my roommate and I had no hot showers! At first we thought they were gaslighting us about working on the problem, but an honest conversation with an employee revealed this to be a deeper, longterm, problem quite mysterious in origin.

Reflecting on my experience at the conference and Israel brought to light some interesting similarities. I realized that they kind of mirrored each other: how afraid I’d been, resisting going, and then how full of wonders it was, feeling like I was in a protected bubble—and then finding the cracks.

It wasn’t hard to leave the conference (I was really tired by the end), but leaving Israel had been an entirely different thing; I was leaving my daughter behind, yes reassured that she was “safe” (always relative, and especially now), but still leaving a bubble that had felt so protective, a place where random strangers told me I “belonged” there. Having to return to the deeply flawed place I live, my own reality, with everything going on in the States made it harder.

So a part of me needed to see the cracks in Israeli society, or experience a little leakage from the bubble I was in to make it easier to leave. That didn’t happen until the last three days, and believe me, I’d been searching.

On one of those days, a gorgeous, sunny day, I finally had time to sit and breathe. My daughter had gone back to classes after her Hannukah break, and I went to enjoy the weather and a little treat at a sidewalk cafe near her house.

As I sat writing in my journal, reflecting on the awe I felt around this trip, a woman passed who seemed to recognize me (a common occurrence during my stay—part of the “belonging” thing). We actually didn’t know each other (like the other times), but we struck up a conversation and she sat down to talk.

As an American-Israeli, I was curious about her opinions and experiences since October 7th and the Gaza war, and she was open to talking. She told me she’d gone more to the “right” since October 7th.

Though on the surface we seemed of the same ilk, I soon learned that we had pretty different views when she stated with conviction (and maybe a little too much pride) that she was “racist”—but in a “practical, smart way,” or some such language. I was disappointed but shouldn’t have been surprised.

The next day, as I made my way back from the Old City on a bus, I noticed a teenage girl sprawled over several seats on the almost-empty bus, unable to keep her eyes open as she gazed at me, some food wrappers strewn around her. It didn’t take long to realize she was strung out on drugs.

On my last morning, I took a taxi to the airport. My daughter told me that most likely the taxi driver wouldn’t speak much English, that most are Palestinian, and she was right on both counts. But we made it work with the few common phrases between us, and he made every effort to make sure I was comfortable.

What I didn’t expect was to drive through the West Bank.

This meant passing through two checkpoints. My taxi driver knew exactly what to do as he stopped for the masked soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders, held tightly in their hands, ready to shoot if necessary.

As we came to a stop, the driver rolled down his window, nonchalantly said hello and how are you in a sing-song voice I could tell was forced, and as the soldier peered in, immediately rolled down the back window so I was clearly visible, at which point the soldier looked at me pointedly, asked me how I was, and waited for a verbal answer before waiving us on.

This all happened like it was a normal part of any day (because it is). For me, it was extremely unnerving. But I guess you could call it “racist in a smart, practical way.” Because when a society is set up this way, you have to make sure “your people” are safe. It totally makes sense—in the context.

So I had looked, and it hadn’t been hard to find the cracks and leaks.

Over the past weeks, we’ve transitioned from the Book of Genesis to Exodus, to enslavement and a path toward freedom.

Joseph and his family are long dead, a new Pharaoh who doesn't know Joseph’s people rises to power. Pharaoh is afraid they will overtake the Egyptians in number and power, so he enslaves them. He decrees that the midwives are to kill every newborn Hebrew baby boy. The midwives pretend they have no power over the birthing women, Moses is born, saved, and raised in the palace by Pharaoh’s daughter.

Like his ancestor Joseph, Moses seems like an Egyptian to the world. He could choose to continue living in his comfortable bubble, but he doesn’t. He sees the oppression of his people and intervenes. After killing an Egyptian overseer, Moses flees for his life, finds a new community that welcomes him, marries, has children. Again, it’s a good life.

But one day while pasturing his animals in the desert, he sees a bush on fire, which might be normal except that the bush won’t be consumed by the fire. Something that is not as it seems on surface.

And Moses almost chooses to look away, but he doesn’t. Or isn’t allowed to.

That’s because an angel, and then God, are inside the bush and they’ve come to give Moses a message and a task: to return to Egypt and liberate his people. Moses seems unqualified as a leader or public speaker, described as having “uncircumcised lips.”

Yet, again, he leaves a comfortable life to go out and do something difficult and scary. And unlike what seems true on the surface, he somehow becomes a great leader, speaking directly and clearly to Pharaoh on more than one occasion.

Then come the many wonders and miracles God shows Moses, who then shows Pharaoh, who then summons his personal sorcerers to do the same, making a staff into a snake, turning water into blood…But the sorcerers’ powers are limited; they cannot remove plagues or create hail, locusts, or darkness. Beneath the surface, there is another reality.

On one level, the story of the Exodus could be seen as a cautionary tale to look deeper, because things are not as they seem on the surface.

And Purim is coming, a time when we pretend to be someone we are not, dressing like someone else, showing a different reality to the world, turning everything on its head.

But what do we do when we are living in an everyday world where so much is hidden beneath the surface, when we are lied to on a regular basis? How do we keep our clarity when media is manipulated and we don't know what’s up and what’s down? When we’re taught to only trust our own “tribe?” When oppressive measures are increasingly being taken, and lies abound?

I think the first step is to remember that racism is racism and oppression is oppression, no matter how it’s spun, no matter what country you’re in. We are responsible for investigating deeply, asking more questions before arriving at conclusions, resisting believing we know and understand, and most of all be vigilant.

There is good and bad, beauty and ugliness, everywhere we go, and it’s confusing and difficult that it’s often mixed together. This is what nuance is. And it’s way too easy and comfortable, and also dangerous, to be drawn into or stay inside a bubble.

And way too easy to vilify the other.

We cannot afford to idealize, vilify, or to look away. We must speak directly and clearly, even if we feel unqualified, and search in order to reveal deeper, hidden, longterm problems.

Only then can we begin to fix the problems. Only then.

May we search deeply, even if it challenges our world view, and be courageous on all counts. And may we be like Moses, and leave our places of comfort and our easily made assumptions.

May it be so.

(You can just say Amen.)