Reform Rabbi, Unorthodox Soldier (Extract)

By RICH KIRSCHEN
Extract from Issue 15, November 10, 2008 of The Jerusalem Report. To subscribe to The Jerusalem Report click here. For most of my life I subscribed to Groucho Marx's philosophy that I would never join any club that would have me as a member. I've made three exceptions in my life: my wife, the rabbinate and the Israel Defense Forces. It all started after our family made aliya to Israel in August 2004. Our plane landed, we were taken to a hall designated for new immigrant arrivals, given forms to fill out and asked innumerable questions. One question was a no-brainer: "Because you are married with three children, we assume you would like to be exempted from military service in the Israel Defense Forces." I remember thinking, "Of course! What schmuck decides to get drafted when he's in his mid-40s?!" Two years later, I was slowly feeling part of the country, and by the time the Second Lebanon War ended, I had shifted identities. And then something clicked - or should I say, snapped? As a citizen, as a father who will have to send his children to serve, as a Reform rabbi, and as an educator who teaches about Israel, I realized that I had to serve in the Israeli Army. I was about to do something that would have made Yossarian from the World War II novel "Catch 22" completely lose his mind. Getting drafted when you're over 40 isn't easy. I was going to have to resort to a time-honored tradition - protektzia (influence) - in the reverse. I knew the commander of an army base, who happens to be studying to become a Reform rabbi. So the conversation went something like this: "Shai, do you want to be a Reform rabbi?" "Yes." "Good, because I want to serve in the army." The ensuing silence was long and uncomfortable. I waited for weeks for a letter or an e-mail or even a telegram (do telegrams still exist?). Nothing. The day that I finally said, out loud, that this would never happen, I received official notice to report to the draft board in Jerusalem. To this day, I have no idea why they agreed, but my first thought was that I had somehow betrayed Phil Ochs and his "Draft-Dodger Blues." So there I was with hundreds of pimply-faced boys - most of whom still had all their hair. When they called my name, the department commander looked at me and said, "How old are you?" With a gray-bearded straight face I replied, "Eighteen. Why?" I got a terrific laugh from the kids and was a hit with the troops. But the department commander was 19 and he wasn't laughing. I was told to report back in a few weeks. So I did. Seasoned in the way of the draft board, veteran of line-waiting, master of sitting in limbo for days on end, I was fully prepared when I went to see the army doctor. Fully prepared, that was, until he asked me, "And where is your son?" We were landsman - he was from Long Island, too. He thought I was crazy, but it wasn't his responsibility for assessing my mental capacities, only to decide whether or not I might die in basic training. So with my trusty high cholesterol-fighting Lipitor by my side, I was to head off to basic training. Then even more luck or divine intervention appeared. A few months earlier, I had performed a wedding for a very sweet couple who had made aliya from the Ukraine. And there was Sergei the groom. "Rabbi Rich, what are you doing here?" Sergei, it turns out, was the one who decided how draftees should be classified in the computer and when their army service should commence. And so I moved magically to the head of the line and received my call-up papers for November through January. When the big day arrived, my family gave me their collective are-you-sure-you-know-what-you're-doing look and wished me well. Soon, I found myself on a bus to the IDF's central processing base with a horde of 18-year-olds, blasting music and honing their ability to annoy. But I knew what was really going on here. These boys were saying goodbye to their childhood. On the way to the base, they had no real idea where they were going, but were on a path to adulthood and responsibility. At the induction base, I went through a door and came out the other side, changed. Before: hair, no uniform. After: no hair, uniform. We all look very much alike now. That hippy kid with the nose ring and the dreadlocks? One of us. The yeshiva bocher? One of us. The sports jock - yeah, one of us, too. Upon arriving at my base in the north, I was thrown into Squad Seven - a group of highly motivated new immigrants who, because of their advanced age (up to 27 years old, I was the exception) were undergoing a modified form of basic training. We hailed from France, Switzerland, Turkey, Ethiopia, Ukraine, Azerbaijan, Staten Island and Long Island (me). I got stuck with the top bunk, so fear of falling out of my bed was easily one of the least pleasant parts of my army service. For the past 18 years, I had been sharing the same queen-sized bed with a cute redhead (yes, my wife). That night, I found myself sleeping next to a snoring Azerbaijani on a flimsy metal bed six feet above the floor. Crushed like a sardine in the barracks with 15 other strangers - and I don't even like sharing a room at Reform Judaism's Biennial Conference. Extract from Issue 15, November 10, 2008 of The Jerusalem Report. To subscribe to The Jerusalem Report click here.