‘You can’t go home again,” wrote famous American author Thomas Wolfe in 1934, and he may very well be right. But, after an absence of many years, I recently paid a short visit to my hometown, Chicago. I had the privilege of speaking to the city’s Mizrachi Religious Zionist organization, directed by my longtime friend Rabbi Jer Isenberg.
Now, I know that some of you get a bit agitated and think that you can’t be a Zionist – especially a religious one – if you live outside of Israel.
There is certainly some truth to that, I admit; watching the game from the stands and cheering your team on is not quite the same as actually being on the playing field. Yet I would maintain that while one’s Zionism has not been fully realized until one receives one’s Israeli identity card, it’s still possible to be an integral part of the bigger picture. After all, the team can’t function very well without coaches, equipment managers, or a supportive fan base, can it?
My “pitch” (yes, still stuck on the sports motif) was to point out to the assembled the miraculous time in which we live, and the living miracle that is Israel today.
I was buoyed by the enthusiastic support and love for the Jewish state I found there. Hundreds of people proudly proclaimed that they support Israel vocally as well as financially; they visit our country often, and many have a close family member living in Israel. Quite a few others have bought a second home here or plan to make aliyah.
While I concur that the proof is in the pudding, it’s still delicious in this time and age to hear superlatives rather than slander where Israel is concerned.
In this week’s Torah portion “Matot-Masei,” as Moses approaches the end of his life, he pauses to recall the many stops along his and our people’s march from Egypt to the Holy Land.
For anyone who has made aliyah, this reminiscence is a priceless sentimental journey well worth taking, recalling our own momentous decision to leave the lands of our birth and enter the unknown, unpredictable terrain of this ancient yet new nation.
As our family celebrates our 33rd “aliyanniversary” this week, I, too, wax nostalgic as I look back in wonder at our decisive decision and determination to start life anew.
Chicago, by all accounts, is a fabulous city. While New York is a go, go, nonstop flurry of activity, and California a laid-back golden glitter, the Midwest is (literally) a middle-of-the-road (and country) big shoulder that maintains a fairly calm pace of life at all times. People say “Hi” even if they don’t know you; the traffic is reasonably civilized.
Chicago offers you a placid, peaceful lake; magnificent Michigan Avenue; four distinct seasons; and, of course, the beloved Chicago Cubs, who taught us Windy Cityers valuable patience and positive thinking as we waited 108 years for a World Series victory (which, I must add, I was privileged to be a part of). Chi-town’s Jewish community – fourth-largest in the US – is vibrant and multifaceted.
While my Jewish education was wonderful and my rabbis exemplary men of conscience, there was little, if any, Zionist influence. That crucial element was provided by Bnei Akiva, which focused our young sights on an eventual future in Israel. We were blessed with caring, “mother-hen” madrichim (counselors) who instilled in us a love and longing for Israel, slowly turning our blood from red to blue and white. Our shevet (tribe), Moriah, remains active to this day –in Israel and the Diaspora – with dozens of haverim (members) living here.
Turning point
The turning point for my future came while I was in the yeshiva. One day, our venerable dean of students, Rabbi Dr. Joseph Babad, called for a meeting in the lecture hall for all students. Tears streaming down his face, he told us he would shortly be moving to Israel. His words still ring in my soul.
“Every year,” he said to us, “I come to the verse in the Torah [in this week’s portion, oft quoted these days] when Moses rebukes the two and a half tribes that wanted to live in Transjordan, apart [separated] from the rest of the nation: ‘Shall your brothers go out to war, and you will stay here?!’”
Some years would pass before my family and I boarded the El Al plane, but I knew at that moment [in the lecture hall] that this was our inevitable destination and our destiny.
It has been, to say the least, a tumultuous ride, with the severest ups and downs: outright miracles such as we witnessed in the past months on an almost daily basis, but no shortage of tragedies along the way – the most devastating of all, of course, the loss of our eldest son, Ari, in battle against the Hamas scourge.
On occasion, a brave – or perhaps a little too bold – person will ask us, “If you knew then what you know now, would you still have made aliyah?” We answer straightaway in the affirmative. God will have His way, and we must live with it.
Between the problems in the government and the religious turmoil that goes on here, every day is a challenge. I delved into both whirlwinds. I had the privilege of serving two terms on the Ra’anana City Council, as well as 10 years as rabbi in a local synagogue. It seems that I was preordained for that, as our home is situated at the crossroads of Keren Hayesod – the name of a primary arm of the state – and Ramhal, one of Judaism’s greatest sages. No regrets at all; they’re just a waste of energy. Bottom line: When you come here, you play the cards you’re dealt with.
Famous fable
The great Israeli author Shai Agnon related a famous fable about a little boy and his elderly father who tended a nanny goat together. Every day, the goat would wander off and return in the evening, its udders filled with the tastiest of milk. The boy wanted to know where the goat went and what grass it grazed on to give it such extraordinarily sweet milk. So he tied a string to the goat’s tail, and he followed it.
They went through hills and forests for a long time until they descended into a dark cave. The goat led the boy down a long, winding path, until finally they emerged into the light.
The boy was amazed. He had entered a new world with lush hillsides and warm sunshine, a veritable Garden of Eden. Mystified, he stopped a passerby to inquire where he was and was told, “You have arrived in the Land of Israel.”
Elated, the boy wrote a note to his father. “Follow the goat,” he instructed, “and join me here in Eretz Yisrael.” The boy tucked the note in the ear of the goat and sent it back to his father.
Meanwhile, the father had grown quite worried at the boy’s disappearance. When the goat returned without the boy, he grew distraught. He locked up the goat and, day after day, railed against it for taking his precious boy away.
Finally, angry at the animal and despondent at his loss, he took the goat to the butcher and had it slaughtered. Only then did the note drop out of the animal’s ear. The father cried bitterly. Ironically, he had destroyed the very messenger that had been sent to bring him home.
Life in Israel can be intense, infuriating, often incomprehensible. But don’t let it get your goat or wear you down. Follow the signs from above and your own instincts; they will surely lead you home where you belong. ■
The writer is director of the Jewish Outreach Center of Ra’anana. rabbistewart@gmail.com