Club Med in Israel

Rabbi Melanie Aron

Friday, March 17, 2006

There's a Club Med in Israel, in Achziv, north of Haifa, off the road to the cable car and grottos at Rosh Hanikrah, but to me there is something internally inconsistent, oxymoronic, about the idea of an Israeli Club Med.

Club Med, at least according to the ads, seems to me a place to get away from it all, to vegetate. It's Hakuna Mutata as we sang in our Lion King, Purim shpiel, the ultimate in being laid back, while not doing much of anything. If you do venture off the beach and into whatever town, it is to be a tourist, a spectator, to stand at a distance and take pictures of other people. This is a vacation true to its Latin root, "vacare," which means simply "to be empty, void, or free."

A trip to Israel is a very different experience, not just because the typical day's activities begin with an early breakfast and end only after traveling through 4,000 years of history. It's not just that one doesn't usually spend too much time relaxing at the beach. Visiting Israel is different also, because of what that visit is about.

Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman, whose book Israel, A Companion for the Modern Jewish Pilgrim, was given to each of those who is traveling with us to Israel this weekend, talks about how a trip to Israel is not an empty space in our lives, vacare, a diversion, but instead touches something at our core. It is a story in which we are the central character. He writes about how those who were in Israel as teenagers talk about how Israel made them who they are. He observes about those who are middle aged or older and have never been to Israel and choose to make the trip: " its as if the chapters of our lives are being written faster and faster and we need to reserve a place for Israel before the plot gets completely written."

Tourists take pictures of people praying but those who go to Israel as modern pilgrims, rather than standing at the sidelines, will actually feel and reflect and pray themselves. Being in Israel is about intensity and personal connection. Several years ago, Diane Fisher wrote this poem, about her experience on a Shir Hadash trip:

The SENSE of Israel

I now know the FEEL
of the hot evening wind in Eilat.
The air that blows thickly across my face,
eases through my nostrils,
and passes only slowly through my lungs.
The sun is gone, but the heart persists
across the red mountains of Jordan
down the shore to Egypt's Taba.

I now know the SCENT
of the strong coffee served in Arab Saknin,
of the evening blooms along the kibbutz paths,
of the sizzling trout cooking around Tel Dan,
of the cardamom, the cumin, the unidentified spices
whose exotic scents loft through
the narrow stalls of the Old City.

I know the TASTE
of piquant olives at breakfast,
the endless crunch of tomatoes and cucumbers,
the refreshing eshkoliot whose juice quenches
the frequent thirst of travel.

I now know the SIGHT
of the sun setting on the beach in Tel Aviv.
The warm waves of the Mediterranean lap against my feet,
as the sun's glow descends into the water.
The image blurs briefly,
as a bit of salt water descends on my cheek,
for this golden, brilliant place
with so many flaws.

I now know the SOUND
of Shabbat morning in Jerusalem.
The wind gently rippling the leaves of the trees,
the large breath that eases its path through the day,
the occasional taxi;
the sound of momentary peace.

The coffee table books,
the travel guides,
the photo albums are on the shelf.
But the Israel of my senses
walks with me each day
and sings to me at night.

  —Diane Fisher, 9/25/97

What about those who aren't coming to Israel with us this year? I think Rabbi Hoffman, in drawing the distinction between tourists and pilgrims is also saying something important about our way of thinking about time and meaning in our everyday lives. Each of us has the opportunity to be a pilgrim, or as they are described in Hebrew, olei regel, those who ascend in holiness by foot, ie by their own hard earned efforts.

Just as we are sometimes spectators when we are tourists traveling the globe, we can be spectators to our own lives here in San Jose as well, watching time pass, filling time, with a sense of sliding through life, which though welcome for a few days at the beach, leaves us feeling empty as a general outlook.

The commentaries ask why the giving of the Torah took place three months after the Exodus and provide various answers relating to the Israelites needing some time to recuperate after the stresses of slavery and liberation before coming to that awesome moment. With regard to this week's Torah portion, Ki Tissa, we can also ask about the timing of the great apostasy, the worship of the Golden Calf. Was it just that Moses was a day late coming down the mountain? Clearly the unease had to be there beforehand, for it to lead to such a great revolt with just a day's delay. The well known popular book about mindfulness meditation is called: Wherever you go, there you are and I wondered if that wasn't the Israelites issue. Three months after the Exodus, the newness of liberation had worn off. The first blush of the excitement of freedom had begun to fade. Even the high of being at Mt Sinai, with the mountain ablaze with fire, the sounds of the lighting and sights of the thunder, didn't last that long. They woke up in the morning and they were still, Eli, or Sarah, with the same problems and challenges.

If travel is just shlepping your body to a different place, it will not be transformative. To be an oleh regel takes preparation and acknowledgement. It means being open and pausing long enough to appreciate what has been experienced. For many Israel is the prompt, but the practice of being a pilgrim can last for a lifetime.