The Timeless Rebbe

Each day in 18^th century Medzhybizh, Poland was an opportunity for you to be transformed. Every day held the potential to be spiritually rejuvenating, challenging, and nourishing. In a world without smart phones or social media, there was only one “attraction” that invited travelers from near and far. There was only one way to be uplifted by the most raw and pure form of enlightenment that was worth any distance. Each day in Poland was a chance to learn and realign life goals in the presence of Israel Baal Shem Tov, the rebbe of all rebbes.

Today, our image of a Chassidic “rebbe” is most likely limited to a bearded old man, hunched over a stack of dusty books. We instantly think of the picture of Rebbe Schneerson glued to Chabad Mitzvah trucks, parading up and down the streets of Manhattan. When we think of a rebbe, many of us cringe and assume that the face of an aging teacher implies orthodoxy and tradition that will remain forever stationary in time. While many of the rebbes today do in fact match the visual stereotype, the knowledge and spirit they carry are boundless. Today, Chassidism is no longer a denomination that remains in Borough Park; it’s a philosophy and path of faith that can be shared in communities of any size. The rebbes, then and now, are the leaders of the soulful Judaism that we yearn for at Romemu and beyond. Perhaps the concept of this Chassidic leader or the rebbe today can be explored and expanded to new faces.

The rebbes we hear and see all share some common ground. Firstly, they are all students and disciples of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Chassidism. Men in the 18^th century would travel through cities to learn from their leader, then would relay the information they gain back to their own communities, forming what is known today as different Chassidic dynasties, each varied by slight nuances in ideology. Despite the differences in learning or culture, however, every student, old and new alike, of the Baal Shem Tov would agree that a rebbe is viewed in an entirely different light than anyone else.

The rebbe, also known as “admor,” is not a function, but rather an integral role in the community. A Chassidic master must have sacred relationships with his students and be somehow affiliated to his first teacher, the Baal Shem Tov. Besides these standards, however, the rebbe is cherished for his unique ability to shape the lives of others. While a rabbi today teaches congregants blessings in order to educate them, the rebbe gives blessings and can change the course of people’s lives. A rabbi is conferred with his title from institutions, but a rebbe is given his title by other people. A rabbi teaches us about Judaism, while a rebbe teaches us about the soul and its journeys. A rabbi provides us with information, but a rebbe assists our encounters with transformation. Given the strong and personal impact a rebbe plays on a person’s life, it must seem sensible to some that there aren’t any new stereotypes of rebbes in other Jewish denominations, or even in other faiths. But not to me.

I believe that each of us, both inside and outside of the community, has the potential to provide people with transformation. There is nothing hindering us from blessing the people around us. There need not be anything restricting us from offering words from our hearts that may change the lives of our loved ones. While there are no self-proclaimed rabbinic figures, we each have the ability to constantly create and recreate our souls and grow together. We could all, in fact, be the rebbes of our generation.

In 18^th century Poland, the image of the rebbe is limited. In today’s world, the opportunities to impact the souls of others are endless.We could shed a light to American Jewry and strengthen our relationships with those that follow our lead; we could display the very essence of a charismatic rebbe in our every action. We need not grow beards or reside in the Chassidic neighborhoods of Europe; we simply must be the rebbes that can see through the defensive exteriors of others and rejuvenate our souls.

Each day in New York City, or anywhere you may find yourself in life, is an opportunity for you to be transformed. 

The Angels in Our Midst

         B'shem Hashem, elohei Yisrael
        B'ymini Michael u-smoli Gavriel
        U-milfanai Uriel, me'acharai Raphael
        V'al roshi, v'al roshi, Shechinat-El

This song, also known as Reb Shlomo Carlebach’s “Angel Song,” unifies Jews from every corner of the world. The simple words are chanted into a beautiful chorus of harmonies and melodies that invite the immanent presence of God into any room. Usually sung either during Shabbat or before sleeping, this prayer seeks protection as we complete our phases of creation and stress and transcend to a world of stillness and tranquility. Most importantly, however, this “Angel Song” serves as our global Jewish compass, steered by the various angels in our midst.

With four angels leading us in each direction, we encounter four unique qualities that embody God. The first two angels, Michael and Gabriel, sit at our right and left respectively and are Biblical; the last two angels, Uriel and Raphael, sit before and behind us respectively and are derived from the early foundation of Rabbinic Judaism. All together, these four angels provide the blanket of security over our fears, the protective layer over our faith that allows us to store away our doubts.

On our right sits Michael, known in Biblical history as the “archangel” who defeated evil and acts of injustice. Today, we refer to Michael as the angel of mercy, the one who constantly improves our right hand and advocates on our behalf. According to a Midrash, Michael, meaning “Who is like God” was the angel that prevented Abraham from sacrificing his only son and stood beside Moshe after his death, unwilling to take his soul and accept the death of a leader. Powerful and determined, Michael is the right hand we need when we cannot fight injustice alone. Michael is the right arm of Moshe, Miriam, Dr. King, and Mother Theresa. Michael is perhaps our wake up call when our arms are not being used to make this world a safer and more just place.

Lingering on our left side is Gabriel, whose name means “God is my strength.” Gabriel is considered the defender of the Jewish people, the executer of all judgments. Perhaps it is through Gabriel that we learn the pivotal value of resistance that we need during the times we feel spiritually threatened. Represented by fire, this angel is the force of strength and judgment that destroyed a city tainted by its sins and corruption in order to defend the world. Gabriel is the inner fire that enables us to defend the defenseless, to uphold the weak. Gabriel is the fire that complements Michael, the angel of mercy, motivating us to resist injustice for the sake of others and for a better world. Without fire, there would be no change. Without resistance, we would live a life of indifference, which is and forever would be the greatest tragedy of all. Gabriel is the fire within us that serves as constant reminder that we, Jews and non-Jews alike, are responsible for creating a different world, not a world of indifference.

In front of us lies Uriel, the angel of light. While the Bible, Talmud, and all other Jewish sources could surely explain every meaning behind the purpose of light, I only see it as serving one purpose: the illuminate the darkness that envelopes us. Darkness and lightness, both Divinely created, are somehow the two most humanly controlled concepts that exist today. We are so quick to leave a room of darkness for the next person instead of lighting even the dimmest candle of hope. Not only are we obligated to be “Or LaGoyim,” or the light to the other nations, but we must also be the light for another. The phases of darkness that enter our lives will only amplify and overpower us if we allow them to do so; with the guidance of Uriel, we can look in front of us to see darkness defeated by the light we create together during the most challenging of times.

Behind us is Raphael, the angel of healing, the angel that absorbs our deepest pains, diseases, and despair. Raphael, like most medications today, is not the cure for our pain but rather the guarantee that we are not alone in the healing process. Moreover, perhaps as Raphael isolates our illnesses and weaknesses behind us, he allows our gradual healing to surround our every direction and eventually provide us with a new light before our eyes, or Uriel. It takes the deepest pain to recognize the unremitting power of healing, no matter how long it may take. It is the healing guidance of Raphael that will allow us to eventually leave the pain and sorrow of the tragedies in Newtown, Connecticut and Colorado behind us and slowly begin to heal until we see the light once again. The shock of death will remain behind us in the arms of an angel, but the warmth of healing is in the arms and legs of our community

Trough the words of one Shlomo Carlebach prayer, we can point our actions toward distinct directions. We can create a moral Jewish compass that inspires us to follow in the footsteps of our angels. And of course, in between those four pathways and above our heads, the presence of God [Shechinat-El] will dwell

Prayer: A Process Grounded in Community

Three steps forward, three steps back. Bow to the left, right, center. Raise heels three times.

These seemingly simply instructions have guided the way I pray since I was nine years old. My Israeli teachers distributed our oversized and unfamiliar red Siddurim to my third grade class and called out the motions with the turn of each page. Our forty-five minute tefillah services every Monday enabled my nine-year old friends and I to hear the constant directions of where our feet must go and regurgitate the actions blindly. This process repeated until I turned fifteen.

As ever evolving Jewish people, we somehow feel that it is acceptable to undergo drastic changes in order to remain relevant in today’s world. Many synagogues have considered and pursued egalitarianism and ordain female clergy. Others serve cheeseburgers at Kiddush luncheons and do away with yarmulkes and tefillin. Some communities endorse the revolutionaries of our time by wearing rainbow and intertwining the Beatles music into every holiday that promotes freedom. Yet, somehow, in spite of all the radical changes and ideas that rabbinic Judaism has encountered since its formation, prayer is the one prevalent concept that may never be eradicated.

Prayer, derived from the Latin term “to beg,” is a fundamental value of our faith today. For hundreds of years, Jews across the globe have congregated to recognize, praise and communicate with a higher theological being. Depending on the denomination and synagogue, some congregations of Jews sit separately by gender, vehemently uttering every word in their siddurim. Other communities take more liberal approaches, beating tambourines and dancing in circles while wearing a multitude of colors. While the styles and structures may differ, prayer unties congregations as they grow together. One cannot help but watch in awe as a room filled with faithful people, regardless of background or religion, springs into life. For an outsider looking into a community, prayer is truly beautiful. For the nine-year old who is handed a book of foreign words and given bizarre body movements to emulate, prayer is perhaps a work in progress.

By the age of fifteen, I began to glimpse at the English words to which I was bouncing my heels. I realized that already in the first prayer, Birkot HaShachar, I was praising a God who “gives sight to the blind,” “clothes the naked,” and “makes me in His image,” yet just outside my own front door lies blindness to others, or intolerance, homelessness, and despair. This prayer compelled introspection, too, as I looked at myself and questioned if I was really living in the image that was created for me, or if that was even a good thing. As time progressed, prayer became more of a double standard: I would praise God when I accomplished a goal that I prayed for, and blamed myself when it failed miserably. While the motions I learned since I was nine years old remained consistent—I knew when to click my heels and bow—the liturgy and meaning left me confused and alone, grappling with my faith at large.

It was during my Gesher summer at Camp Ramah Darom when I learned the core values of prayer that I will pursue for the rest of my life. One of our teachers, Rabbi Hillel Nuri, stressed the importance of praying with others, constantly staying connected to others through each prayer. Through all tragedies or joys in life, we must preserve the communities we create by the words of our prayers; “faith cannot be separated from community.” The words, whether translated in English or read in its original Hebrew form, in our siddur must not leave us feeling isolated but rather united. Our feelings toward liturgy, no matter what they are, are perfectly normal and acceptable; it is our actions that follow that define our path in Judaism. We can either remain hidden beneath our anger and confusion, or share our struggle with those around us. Perhaps that is why we are required to pray in minyan or quorum of ten people; no one should ever experience faith alone.

While Judaism may constantly evolve, prayer is everlasting. Looking back, I’ve come to realize that in order to struggle and grapple with the liturgy of the prayers we recite as a nation, I needed to learn the basic motions. While we may not have all the answers to the questions that accompany our quests for understanding, we have something more powerful and indestructible: the warmth and support of our community.

So until I master the work in progress that is Jewish prayer, I will continue with the cycle that began with my oversized red siddur.

Three steps forward, three steps back. 

Embracing Pluralism

Here I am, sitting silently amongst the tension. I watch in awe, somewhere in the middle or off center-left, as my new friends defend their various Jewish backgrounds on a casual Saturday night in Tzfat, Israel. 

“My father, an Orthodox rabbi, would never officiate at a wedding for an intermarried couple, unless, of course, the spouse had converted. Halacha, or Jewish law, must always come first,” says a modern Orthodox girl on my left.

“But my mother, a Catholic, never converted,” argues a liberal Reform Jew to my right. “In my Reform community, I am still considered Jewish despite the intermarriage between my parents! In fact, without an intermarriage, I would not even be here today.”

Just six months ago, I never would have imagined that I’d somehow be struggling with the question of interfaith and its impact on Judaism with all different kinds of Jews surrounding me. In a pluralistic setting that we, twenty-six American Jewish teenagers, had created over the summer in Israel, it suddenly felt acceptable to cross the sensitive boundaries that divided us in our individual walks of faith. Will we allow our separate denominations, I wonder, to expunge our newly formed friendships? Will our different community affiliations destroy the sacred space we’ve created for spiritual growth?

One year earlier, the world of Jewish pluralism had barely entered my realm of thinking. Growing up in a Conservative Jewish sheltered bubble through both synagogue and Camp Ramah, I never considered the idea that the “other” Jews who existed around the world particularly cared about what I believed. I simply believed, like many American Jews today, that sects of Judaism were structured into a scale with Orthodoxy titled as the “most religious” and Reform as the “least Jewish” of them all, for reasons that I can no longer understand today. For years, I secured my place on this scale of American Judaism with the ignorant awareness that some denominations were placed at higher and lower levels, but I refused to ever explore these other communities. Besides, if non-Conservative Jews distanced themselves from my lifestyle, then what could I possibly learn from them?

It was during my last summer at Camp Ramah Darom in Clayton, GA, when I learned about the Bronfman Youth Fellowships in Israel, a Jewish high school program that would later open my eyes to the perspectives of other Jewish denominations and shape my pluralistic view of Judaism. In early June 2011, a friend in my age group had drowned while we were rafting down the Ocoee River in Southern Tennessee. He was rushed to a local hospital where he passed away that afternoon, leaving my entire camp and community in a shock and utter grief. This tragedy inspired me to question theology and Conservative ideologies beyond the mandatory lectures throughout the week. Unsettled by the limited opportunities for spiritual introspection during the day, I attempted to explore my faith at night alongside my friends, who, understandably, wanted no involvement. It seemed sensible that, after overcoming a ten-day mourning period at camp, my friends did not need to hear phrases such as “How could God let this happen?” or “the Conservative movement has struggled with death and dying for years” anymore. My curiosity toward Judaism, text studying, and spiritual growth only burgeoned as the summer continued, but my social circle was taking a faith break. As a result, I was nicknamed “little rabbi” and “super Jew,” names that seemed to justify my constant desire to debate God’s omniscience with the first person I saw. I wondered if I would ever be fortunate enough to find a community of Jewish seekers with whom I could explore my own Jewish path. Throughout the emotional whirlwind of a summer, I simply wanted to unravel the rudiments of my Judaism and analyze their every aspect.

During my last week of camp, a counselor pulled me aside and provided me with information that marked a new direction to my post-Ramah junior year. She simply looked at me and said, “There are people out there who are like you. They’re applying to a program called the Bronfman Youth Fellowship, a five-week program in Israel next summer. You really should check it out.”

Weeks later, the Bronfman website became my most frequently visited computer page. Unfamiliar terms such as “Jewish pluralism,” “Ma’aseh,” and “Edgar Bronfman” entered my daily realm of thinking. As the days progressed, I continued to learn more about this once nebulous yet intriguing Jewish program. This organization could somehow amalgamate twenty-six high school students from across the Jewish spectrum to learn together? Five weeks in Israel will be spent learning from some non-Conservative teachers? Fascinated by the idea of exploring Judaism through new perspectives, I felt motivated to expand my sheltered Jewish bubble. Three months into my academic year, I opened the summer application, realizing that I had found my future community.

Seven months, five essays, and two interviews later, I packed my suitcase and joined the twenty-sixth Bronfman class for five life-changing weeks in Israel. Would these random people be interested in starting vehement theological discussions at any hour of the night? Will any of them enjoy being challenged and passionate about their beliefs this summer? I anxiously (and perhaps creepily, too) eyed the circle of unique thinkers from across the country. Little did I know, these twenty-five other individuals would inspire nights of deep, endless conversations, reconstruct my view of Jewish denominationalism, and sharpen my faith with the experiences of their own.

While I had traveled to Israel with Jewish groups in the past, this journey was unique in infinite ways. I never imagined that I would find the opportunity to debate God’s omniscience while overlooking Jerusalem’s Old City, learn Torah from acclaimed professors and rabbis while wearing Bedouin pants and a T-shirt, and become more comfortable with the idea of pluralism, a phrase that I had begun introducing to my Jewish vocabulary---all within the first week there. Once the first Shabbat as a community approached, I couldn’t help wondering if there was any scientific force on earth that could even attempt to drag me down back to reality.

As the weeks progressed, however, I faced some of the religious issues that our faculty had warned us to expect. Shabbat observances, levels of kashrut, and forms of modesty were tense topics that inspired hours of heated debate. A term like “more religious,” originally so common in my pre-Bronfman life, suddenly made me cringe when it was used to categorize the twenty-six of us rather than unite us. We defended our separate denominations in an attempt to secure the only Judaism we each knew, rather than looking at the incredible Jewish influences that surrounded us: each other. Striving to create a pluralistic community, we, in a sense, embodied both the strengths and flaws of our own denominations, allowing these titles to box us into different categories. Ultimately, that is how most Jews identify themselves today—through the offered boxes left for us to “check.” I learned over the course of five weeks in Israel, however, that the boxes themselves have become the issue in American Judaism today.

Unlike the radical thinkers who endorse the concept of post-denominational Judaism or “Judaism with no prefix,” I have come to value different Jewish denominations, the communities that ensue from them, and the traditions that make each one unique. Since post-denominational Judaism has evolved into a denomination of its own, I believe in the idea of “experimental” Judaism instead, a Judaism that encourages others to explore all denominations and integrate themselves into different communities.  People, myself once included, have the tendency to commit to one community both physically and mentally, almost entirely for security. This association, however, prevents us from exploring and experimenting with our individual walks of Jewish life and ultimately creating pluralism. This summer, our pluralism was not a reflection of our agreements and shared conclusions, but rather our willingness to grow from every perspective and opinion we encountered. Our pluralism was defined by our ability to unite, talk, struggle, and laugh together despite our different walks of life that diverge Jewish communities on a daily basis. Most importantly, however, our pluralism marked an incredible feat in our generation of American Judaism: we, teens, jettisoned the walls of ignorance and fear that our ancestors built to insulate us. We embraced our differences and discovered beautiful commonalities through our experiments with the faith that divides so many people. to We live in a world where too many focus on the direct destinations of their Jewish life, rather than on the journeys themselves. There is myriad knowledge and warmth we can gain by visiting the synagogues or communities that emphasize different ways of being Jewish than what we’re accustomed to practicing.

From my one summer in Israel, I learned that it is truly impossible to experiment with faith unless you are willing to step outside of your comfort zone. Denominations are necessary in order to strengthen communities; however, tolerance and the ability to explore these denominations, is the most vital step to creating Jewish pluralism. From the countless conversations I witnessed among my Bronfman friends, I realized that pluralistic Judaism could exist. And through the friendships we created based on understanding and faith exploration, I realized something more: pluralism can thrive.

Reoccupy Judaism

In the midst of the various “Occupy” movements that emerge and disappear even more rapidly than Shabbatot in the winter, I tend to wonder if we as a global Jewish community are speaking as loudly and defiantly as we think we are.

Younger generations of Jews are propelling a “post-denominational” identity as a statement against organized religious denominations, synagogue obligations, and membership dues. They seek what Rabbi Elie Kaunfer calls “Empowered Judaism,” or the idea that they can create and strengthen a communal, meaningful, and sacred space bereft of any formidable membership related obligations. This movement of young Jewish independent thinkers intimidates their parents, grandparents, rabbis, and ritual committee chairs across the country that are rooted in the traditions and comforts of a formal synagogue experience. I think that there can be a middle ground between these two loud attempts to secure a meaningful Judaism in contemporary society. I think Judaism can be “reoccupied.”

While I do think that successful pluralism cannot be created when denominations define Jews, I do think that those labels are the stepping-stones that inspire us to form communities. It is when we become so consumed by those titles and statuses that we isolate ourselves from other movements and tear down all walls of tolerance. We defend our separate denominations as an attempt to secure the only Judaism we each know, rather than looking at the incredible Jewish influences that surround us. As an aspiring pluralistic Jewish world, we, in a sense, embody both the strengths and flaws of our own denominations, allowing these titles to box us into different categories. Ultimately, that is how most Jews associate themselves today—through the offered boxes left for us to “check.” I, however, feel the boxes themselves have become the issue in American Judaism today, for they limit us into thinking that there can only be one way to practice faith.

Unlike this new generation of post-denominationalists, or “Jews without prefixes,” I value different Jewish denominations, the communities that ensue from them and the traditions that make each one unique. Since post-denominational Judaism has evolved into a denomination of its own, I believe in the idea of “experimental” Judaism instead, a Judaism that encourages people to explore all denominations and integrate themselves into different communities.  People, myself once included, have the tendency to commit to one community both physically and mentally, almost by means of security. This association, however, prevents us from exploring and experimenting with our individual walks of Jewish life and ultimately creating pluralism. We live in a world where too many focus on the direct destinations of their Jewish life, rather than on the journeys themselves. There is myriad knowledge and warmth we can gain by visiting the synagogues or communities that emphasize different aspects of Judaism than what we’re accustomed to.

With these two existing Jewish movements today—one that maintains the traditional synagogue movement structure and another that strives to destruct it—we may never reach unity between generations. While denominations are what can ultimately unify us, it is our inability to broaden our view of community that makes them detrimental to Judaism today.  It is truly impossible to experiment with our Jewish identities unless we are willing to step outside of our comfort zones. Denominations are necessary in order to strengthen communities, however, tolerance and the ability to explore these movements are the most vital steps toward creating Jewish pluralism.

So rather than being independent Jews and avoiding the commitments of being members of our own faith, let’s simply expand the definition of membership. Let’s appreciate denominations that have helped Judaism thrive for all these years, but eradicate all our exclusivity and explore every community. Let’s experiment with the denominations of Judaism that we try to jettison and allow ourselves to grow and be inspired. Let’s, if we may, reoccupy Judaism.

The Blessings and Curses of the Full Time Jewish Student

At 6:30 a.m., my eyes open and search for the tantalizing snooze button. As I struggle between gaining a few more minutes of sleep and reading online sermons, the clock ticks away—I eventually lose the opportunity to do both. This pattern repeats every morning.

Is it easy to be a full-time Jewish student? In New York City’s Upper West Side, one would most likely think it is. I, however, cannot agree whole-heartedly. Throughout my eleven years of Jewish day school, I have witnessed some of its most severe challenges and reaped some of its greatest benefits.

While in many schools, both public and secular private, students my age become numbers, my Jewish day schools have nurtured my formulating Jewish identity. My high school teachers, some with double PhD’s and published books, are addressed only by their first names, generating a culture of both amiability and constant accessibility that my peers and I use gratefully. They have set the foundation of Jewish and academic knowledge that enables me to pursue my passions. Most importantly, however, they’re full-time educators, parents, and members of their own communities, and like Marc Kramer mentioned, they are expected to be committed to their personal lives, too. Perhaps it is through their unremitting commitment to their own values that strengthen the learning environment that my friends and I experience each day. Each day, along with the dual curriculum, I learn values of klal Israel that teach me how to become a member of the greater Jewish community.

My unique “job” of being a Jewish student is accompanied with many compromises. Unlike most full-time working people, my day exceeds the 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.  time frame. There is no separation between school and work for me; with nine different classes ranging from math to Talmud, my workload by no means relaxed. I accepted the fact that I may never be cheering for my school at a Friday night football games, but there are times where the copious number of assignments interfere with my involvement in the Jewish community; this I find tragic.

 Too many mornings have passed where I am unable to read, contact, and learn from the greater Jewish world. If I, a product of Jewish day school education, cannot visit the sick, feed the hungry, and be active in a synagogue, then who will? If my growing pile of Talmud homework is preventing me from pursuing tikkun olam and pluralism, then to what value is my education? I am so fortunate to learn Jewish values from my wise teachers, yet am given no time to apply them.

As my graduation date rapidly approaches and my future plans will soon unfold, I look back on my years spent inside classrooms. I have been shaped by both the advantages and hardships of the Jewish educational world, and I cannot imagine discovering my passion for spiritual leadership in any other way.

Will I one day become a non-profit Jewish educator? Will I lead congregations, Hebrew schools, summer camps, and youth groups? I have no idea. I do know, however, that my alarm clock will continue to ring each morning, presenting me with the opportunity to balance both my mandatory and personal Judaism.  Perhaps, I will someday learn to accept that struggle while feeling less guilty about the compromises. But who knows? My life in the Jewish workplace is only beginning. 

Sharpening for a Pluralistic World

“…Just as in the case of iron, when one implement sharpens another, so too do two [Torah] scholars sharpen each other when they discuss questions [of Halahkah] together..” -Talmud Bavli Ta'anit 7a

Can pluralism truly exist? This question is the topic of Jewish debate on a daily basis. Is there a way a group of people from different denominations can learn from one another without igniting another war? Can we find a way to be united somehow? These questions commonly linger in the mind of an interfaith-driven teenager like myself.

Only three months ago, I didn’t think that achieving such a goal was remotely possible. This past summer, however, my rather pessimistic expectations were exceeded. Only three months ago, I boarded an El-Al flight to Israel alongside twenty-five Jewish incoming seniors from across the country. Among the group, our beliefs and practices varied, but all of mindsets created a constant for the program: we wanted to learn from one another this summer.

Throughout the first few days after our arrival, we all attempted to be friendly, forcefully proposing casual cocktail chatter in order to “test the waters.” However, by the first weekend, controversial conversation topics began to seep out from mouths that could no longer conceal them. For the duration of the summer, we spent countless hours stargazing and debating issues that impact both the American Jewish community and the future of the state of Israel. People did not hesitate before vehemently sharing their beliefs with others, and they rocked my Jewish identity in ways that I never realized I needed.

Perhaps the most significant lesson I gained from these thought-provoking discussions was that my faith, like that of many other teens I learned, needed sharpening. Surrounded by a tolerant and pluralistic community, I felt compelled to strengthen and reexamine the beliefs that once blindly carved a path for my life. Repeatedly this summer, we were all taught that one must sharpen a knife with other knives, rather than with pillows, for a tool of any kind would never be useful otherwise. This seemingly literal concept gradually evolved into the foundation of our faith-based dialogue: while sensitivity is pivotal for communication, we were a community driven to grow. We were motivated to use the knives of our own faith to sharpen those of our peers, even if that entailed crossing the borders and boundaries we never fathomed to discover ourselves. Through the exhausting summer of spiritual growth that ignited both laughter and tears, we became friends. Today, I now have twenty-five new friends from different walks of Jewish life; we thrived in the pluralistic sanctuary we’ve created for ourselves and are prepared to expand it to our own homes.

As different as a group of Jewish teens may be, we all associated ourselves to the broad umbrella of the same faith and could easily have been united by title alone. However, in our respective communities which aren’t structured like those in Jerusalem, no one faith is the majority—making the need to create pluralism that much stronger.

Now more than ever we must face the irreligious intolerance that amplifies on a daily basis. We are living in a world where our own tribalism prevents us from seeing the faces of our neighbors. The stereotypes of other faiths that exist in our minds reflect our fear in pursuing justice. Even among parents and grandparents, thoughts of intermarriage traumatize them, immediately inhibiting any support of interfaith friendships because of the enigmatic future to which they could lead.

I, however, continue to remain hopeful, despite the many obstacles that lay before a perfect world. For little had I known, the walls of intolerance can be broken down over a circle of chairs and a breezy, star-lit Jerusalem night sky. The sense of hope that glowed among the optimists sitting in those seats, however, can travel to any zip code.

So can we achieve the same pluralism among different faiths? Absolutely. We simply need to create the dialogue that allows us to learn from one another. And perhaps, once we’ve created a safe circle of hope, we can challenge and sharpen our faiths together.