Archives
The ICJS Israel Study Tour
An Evaluation: 27 November - 6 December 1995
Julie Tammivaara, Ph.D.
Scopus Consulting
October 1996
III. The Meaning
--Invitations and Expectations
--Creating a Space for Dialogue
--Communal Formation
--The Pledge ExtendedList of Participants
Leaders
Staff
Travel Coordinators
I. Introduction In thinking about the ICJS 1995 Study Tour in Israel, the strongest image is that of a space. A space is a place apart; it is recognizable in that it is defined location. It has edges that mark it from other spaces or from a void. A collective trip to Israel by a group representing different religious traditions can be conceptualized as entering a space on multiple levels.
--Israel is a physical, geographic space that is separated from the United States by lands and waters.
--Israel is a political space that is separated from the rest of the world by borders across which treaties are made, wars are fought, power is exerted and citizens are defined.
--Israel is a spiritual space within which practitioners of multiple faiths find strength and sorrow.
--Israel is a cultural space in which differences can be plumbed as a resource to enhance and enrich different groups.
The value of an interfaith journey to Israel by an interfaith American group rests in how the group defines, confronts and manages the space, in all its meanings, into which it enters.
There are at least two ways to think about a space. It can be thought of as defined by borders, in a traditionally political sense. When this is the case, uppermost in one's mind is protection and perpetuation of one's own orientation. Challenges lead to conflict and power is key. There may be moments of détente, but the ultimate organizer of one's thoughts is preservation. The assumption is usually that those on the other side of the border wish you only ill.
Another way of thinking about a space is to consider it defined by boundaries. A boundary denotes a point of difference, but does not imply intention for good or ill. A boundary demarcates presence or absence, not value. When spaces are thought about as bounded, differences become a resource for understanding one's own identity and thereby glimpsing the "other."
In light of the mission of the ICJS as an organization that "addresses the contemporary challenges of religious pluralism by helping to shape a new relationship between Christians and Jews," the success of an ICJS Israel Study Tour depends upon the extent to which Israel is seen as a bordered or a bounded experience. If it is seen as a bordered journey, it will be experienced as an isolated, if interesting, adventure with little or no meaning beyond its duration. If it is seen as a bounded experience, it will be experienced as something that sharpens one's identity, provides a lens into the lives of others, and forges relationships among those who in its absence would never even have met.
In the following pages, I will chronicle the 1995 ICJS Israel Study Tour. Both the day-to-day movements of the group and an analysis of the meaning of the trip derived from conversations with a handful of participants after the return will be presented.
Return to Contents
II. The Journey On November 27, 1995, 36 clergy, educators, artists, and other professionals departed Baltimore for a ten-day study tour to Israel. Christians and Jews, Orthodox and modern, Eastern and Western, male and female, old and young, married and single, we were a rich mix of humanity. We set off to learn about the Other; we did that, but we learned even more about ourselves. We risked tackling uncomfortable questions, both past and present. We cried together, we laughed together, we hurt together, we were healed together. We are not the same. In this section, you will read about our journey.
And on the following day they entered Caesarea.
Acts 10:24Tuesday, 28 November
Hugging the Mediterranean coast, the Via Mares snakes northward from Tel Aviv toward Caesarea. We are taking the "Way of the Sea" through the Plains of Sharon toward the first of many earthly monuments built by Herod the Great. David is driving, Lee Berlman, our Israeli tour guide, is teaching, and the remaining three dozen of us are shaking off the rigors of an eleven-hour flight from New York City. As we pass through strawberry fields and groves of avocado and citrus, Rabbi Danny Lehman, the Study Tour Co-Leader, offers the tefilah haderekh, a prayer for travelers. We are doubly pled for, as Beryl Gottesman, Director of the Resource Center at the Council for Jewish Education Services, distributed this prayer to us during the flight.
Like a flock of goslings trying to keep up with their mother goose, we follow Lee as she explains that the temple in Caesarea was built as a smaller version of the temple on the mount in Jerusalem. On the floor of the synagogue, we can see tiles indicating the 24 priestly families who were responsible for its upkeep, and learn that this is a an earlier version of a Daytimer: the order indicates when each family is responsible for temple duties. We learn what an ossuary is and that coffins were built to accommodate the length of the longest human bone, the femur. The hippodrome, so starkly beautiful today, was the scene of the grisly end of numerous Jews and later Christians. Caesarea is falling into the sea, the result of a tectonic shift in an earlier time.
Named for Augustus Caesar and the seat of Roman procurators, including Pontius Pilate, we remember it today as the place where Rabbi Akiva was raked with coals and Paul was imprisoned. Peter baptized Cornelius and his family in Caesarea, marking the first of the gentile converts. From this point onward, Christianity was a religion apart from Judaism.
Then the fire from the Lord descended and consumed the burnt offering.
I Kings 18:38Citrus groves are supplanted by banana bushes as we push north toward Haifa. We pass through the Salt Valley and ascend to Mt. Carmel where Elijah contested the worshippers of Baal and took refuge in a cave when things got dicey. Some believe the holy family also rested in this cave on their return from Egypt.
From the courtyard of a Carmelite monastery, we surveyed the Jezreel Valley: Har Megiddo, Nazareth, Mt. Tabor. The monastery is inscribed in two languages, Hebrew and Arabic. We had a sense we were in a different place. The Rev. Bobby Waddail, Baptist Campus Minister at Towson State University, wrote these words:
"In the late afternoon of our first day in Israel, after I had caught my second wind, we visited Mt. Carmel. As the passage from I Kings 18 was read, I realized how unfamiliar the story of Elijah and the prophets of Baal was to me. As we soaked in the breathtaking view, I realized how familiarly unfamiliar most of the sites were to me. I recognized most of the names, but remembered little about them. As Danny Lehman talked about the importance of Elijah to Judaism and how to him Elijah was more significant than Moses, I was shocked at my ignorance. I am a minister. I have a seminary degree. I have not been oblivious to Judaism. Yet, I became keenly aware of how ignorant I was of the Hebrew scriptures, Jewish traditions, and biblical sites. I want to know more."
Then he rose and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.
Matthew 8:23We enter Tiberias, another reminder of Herod the Great. This is the resting place of many great rabbis, including Rabbi Akiva, and was the seat of Jewish learning after the Second Temple. The Rambam died here. The Mishnah was compiled here, as was the Jerusalem Talmud. Nearby is the healing spa built by Herod's son in 18 C.E. The Rev. Kirk Kubicek, Rector of St. Peter's Church in Ellicott City, remarks on the chutzpah of Jesus to choose a center of healing to practice his own healing. As the sun sets, we behold the sea, smaller than we might have imagined, but traversed by boats that seem the right size and shape. We retire to our rooms in the lovely Moriah Plaza and try to imagine this place that is beyond imagination.
Seeing the crowds, he went upon the mountain and when he sat down his disciples came to him. And he opened his mouth and taught them.
Matthew 5:1-2Wednesday, 29 November
We begin the day learning of the 100 blessings Jews are obliged to recite each day. Thirty of these are incorporated into the morning shacharit service.
On the Mount of the Beatitudes, near Capernaum, the fields are wild with grasses and small shrubs. We can picture people gathering here two millennia ago. We are snapped back into the modern era, however, by the sight of a lovely but very modern church, built, we are told, under the auspices of Benito Mussolini. (Why is it, one wonders, that the most beautiful buildings are constructed by maniacs?) In this restful place, Father Mark Odell, Pastor of Holy Trinity Russian Orthodox Church in Baltimore, reads the Beatitudes in Old Slavonic, the language of his church. We do not understand a word he is speaking, but we are moved anyway. In a reversal of custom, our teachers stand and we sit.
But in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.
Isaiah 9:1In Tabgha (now En Sheva), we visit the Church of the Primacy of Peter, where Peter was named the rock of the church. This shrine, as so many of the Christian shrines in Israel, is tended by the Franciscans, who have assumed the obligation to care for such sites. Pilgrims from all over the world have lit candles and placed them on the rock, inside a simple structure.
Near this place, we next view the spot where the multiplication of the loaves and fishes occurred. A small service of fewer than a dozen people is concluding, and so we tread carefully. Protected by wooden barriers, we can see exquisite patches of tiled flooring, recounting the miracle that took place here.
Safed (or Tzfat) does not have a biblical reference, even though it dates from the Second Temple period. It gained prominence when refugees from the Inquisition settled here in the 15th century. The flower of Sephardic Jewry was planted here. The colors strike us: the gray of the stone, the blue of the inscriptions and interior decor. We enter the extraordinary Bet Ha-Ari, Isaac Luria's shul. Danny Lehman teaches us about the creation according to Kabbalistic thought. We lingered in the synagogue, drinking in its strange beauty. But all was not spiritual in this center that gave us the Kabbalat Shabbat service, among so many other things. We yielded to the wares of the artisans who live and work here, and to the temptations of the many falafel and schwarma stands that line the main streets. Some of us visited other synagogues, such as Joseph Caro's, a stone's throw from Bet Ha-Ari. Simpler in design, we could feel the presence of the author of the Shulchan Arukh, a tome detailing Jewish daily ritual.
Shall we continue on to Nazareth? Lee tells us there isn't much there, the point of interest being a modern church. We take a vote and decide to return to Capernaum. There are some among us who are disappointed.
In Capernaum, we observe what is putatively Peter's house. Someone with extra change has constructed a large church that squats over the site, nearly obscuring it entirely. Maybe he or she was a nice person, because it is truly an ugly building.
While David drives the bus along the perimeter of Yam Kinneret, we board a boat (the "Jesus" boat!) for a sunset voyage back to Tiberius. Gulls flock around us, seeking bits of bread. The ambiance is breathtaking. Our cameras try to capture what our souls are feeling. After dinner, Dr. Chris Leighton and Rabbi Danny Lehman, co-leaders of the Study Tour, challenge us to consider how our religious lives are shaped, especially how rhetoric influences our identity. Must we define ourselves at the expense of the other? Do we have to denigrate others to exist? They note that religions are born out of conflict. We should ponder when polemical speech is helpful and when it becomes hurtful. What our group is charged to weigh is this: to examine how we are defined and how we relate to the other.
We go to bed disturbed. They have introduced a point that we must struggle with. We will debate this point in many side conversations in the days to come.
Then Jesus came from Galilee to the Jordan to John, to be baptized by him.
Matthew 4:13Thursday, 30 November
We began the day with a service on a 12th-floor deck of the Moriah Plaza, overlooking the Sea of Galilee. Spiritually refreshed, we posed for photographs, as if we needed a picture to remember this moment.
In the freshness of another sunny morning, we travel to the Jordan river to a place where people come to be baptized. We pretend this is the place where Jesus was baptized, but it was more likely further down the road, east of Jericho. We fill bottles with water, so that we or our clergy friends back home can have Jordan river water to baptize others. It is a pretty place, but somehow the well-tended rose gardens and the Eucalyptus overhanging the banks (a gift from Australians, we are told) do not square with home-grown images.
They placed his armor in the temple of Ashtaroth and they impaled his body on the wall of Bet She'an.
I Samuel 31:10Bet She'an, once a part of the decapolis, is a city in transition. Ignored for centuries, it is now trying to reclaim a former glory. Once a thriving crossroads community, it fell into disrepute, much as did its American sister city, Cleveland. Archeologists have discovered it, and in their digging have uncovered a stupendous amphitheater seating 8000 people. Peter Culman, Managing Director of Center Stage, among others, took the opportunity to declaim from its stage, and we were impressed. Ancient streets lined by commercial establishments have been revealed by the hands of worker-scholars. We are told the plan for this city matches those of the other nine in the decapolis, but the others are all located in the trans-Jordan. The hardier among us climbed the nearby mount and imagined the deaths of Saul and Jonathan.
The captain of the Lord's host answered Joshua, "Remove your sandals from your feet, for the place where you stand is holy." And Joshua did so.
Joshua 5:15From one ancient city we traveled to one even more ancient. Jericho, continuously inhabited for 8000 years, it is thought, is an oasis on the cusp of the Dead Sea. Amidst the taupes and grays of the Judean desert, Jericho glistens as a green and fruitful place. We can readily understand its appeal as a destination point for the affluent with leisure time.
Due to be administered by the Palestinian Authority soon, there is a flurry of activity in construction. Jericho has suffered since the onset of the Jihad, and it shows. We lunch at the Restaurant of the Temptation, a marble edifice fronted by an array of colorful fruit. We marvel at the Bedouin tent pitched adjacent to this modern building. This is the owner's home. We have a chance to touch the inch-thick goat hair roof of the tent, which, as is the case with all Bedouin tents, faces toward Mecca.
We stop next at a time-worn hotel to hear Sheik Rajai I. Abdo. Chris Leighton asks the Sheik to speak of pluralism in Israel and the Muslims' sense of relationship to the land. The sheik is a returnee to Islam, in that he led a secular life in his early years. He tries to connect to the group. He notes that he very much admires Moses because Moses submitted to the lord in the face of pharaoh, and submission to the Allah is important in Islam.
He spoke of the essential Muslim concept of duality: light and dark, male and female, night and day, right and wrong. He noted that loving life "causes rust" and one must receive Allah to be cleansed. Three tenets are especially important: (1) the more you love Allah, the less you will love material things; (2) the more you fear Allah, the less you will fear man; and, (3) hope is essential, for after the earthly life you will be with Allah. Islam, he said, is a religion of qualities and actions. Knowledge alone does not suffice; we must be careful not to generalize the other. We must negotiate worldly differences. To do so, we must remember that, unlike animals, man's head is above his stomach and genitals. This is a sign that we must use our minds to learn and understand and not be ruled by passion.
The sheik received mixed reviews. The more vocal members of the group did not like him or what he had to say; the less vocal saw his presentation as a kind of Rorschach test of our own biases. Kathleen Cahalan, professor at Rosary College in Illinois, summarized the thoughts of many:
"One of the most difficult parts of the trip for me was to come face-to-face with my deep prejudices against Moslems. I could study more, try to meet more Moslems, etc. In all honesty, I have never found it to be a deeply compelling religion, so when I have a chance to learn about other traditions, I usually explore Buddhism or Native American religions. On the other hand, I know how important Islam is in terms of world affairs and potential large scale conflicts with Christianity, and so I feel a great responsibility as a teacher to present Islam in a fair and compelling way. The trip reminded me of my need to do this."
Several incidents sparked my awareness of my prejudice. First, the conversation with the sheik in Jericho was very difficult for me. I felt cornered, unfairly represented, and greatly misunderstood. I felt forced to listen to a person who knew little about dialogue. A second experience was seeing the Dome of the Rock and hearing the Moslem call to worship over a loudspeaker during Shabbat services at the Western Wall. I recall the night we saw Jerusalem for the first time. I did not realize that the Dome of the Rock stood atop the Temple Mount; Danny told me. I was shocked. He said, "Yeah, it's kind of sad, isn't it?"
The irony of all this, of course, is that I found the Dome of the Rock to be the most beautiful religious place we visited. The Christian churches did not even come close to the way this shrine captured the holy and sacred mystery of the divine. I still think about the beautiful mosaics and perfect geometric patterns.
I rejoiced when they said to me, "We are going to the House of the Lord."
Psalms 122:1Jericho lies several hundred feet below sea level, while Jerusalem sits atop a small mountain. Our journey through Wadi Qelt, therefore, was an uphill climb. We passed the Mount of the Temptation or Mount of the Forty, as it is known in Arabic, where Jesus reportedly spent 40 days and nights contemplating his calling. We opted for the old road--a winding, steepish climb that is not a problem in an ordinary car, but a bit thrilling for an over-sized modern bus. We stopped across from the Monastery of St. George of Koziba, where fewer than a dozen monks still reside. The monastery is built into the side of the valley wall and access is difficult. Monks have resided in this valley throughout the common era, first in caves, then in edifices constructed by human hands. On the road, we passed the black tents of Bedouin encampments, somewhat more settled now than in times gone by. Each had a large water tank for sustenance. When the bus stopped at one, children ran to greet us, hoping for a few shekels. It reminded us that what we do or don't do ultimately affects the children.
We continued our rocky climb and Kirk Kubicek inscribed these words to share with his congregation:
"We read that all Jerusalem and Judea came out to hear John preach in the Judean hills and wilderness. There is no wilderness like the Judean hills. Steep, sheer cliffs of nothing but rock. A lunar landscape of rocks and more rocks.
"And in the Biblical environment, there is no straight highway to anywhere. There is always another hill to go around, switch backs, hair-pin curves, narrow, narrow hair-pin turns all the way from Jericho to Jerusalem, where, it is said, God built himself a city: the City of Peace."
We drove for miles up and down hills, back and forth, tottering over the edge of sheer cliffs in the land of John the Baptist. We stopped to look over the edge, and there, perched on the edge of the canyon walls, is a monastery. A bird flies by. Two boys come over the horizon with donkeys. One shekel to take a picture of the donkey; two shekels for a ride. In the middle of nowhere, entrepreneurial capitalism is alive and well. I chuckle.
The sun is setting over the Mediterranean as we make the ascent on the Mount of Olives. From the vantage point of the remains of two million souls who are waiting, feet pointed toward the Temple Mount, for the messiah, we see the ironically named City of Peace. "Salem" is Arabic for shalom. Some of us weep to see it again, others weep to see it for the first time. A shock wave goes through the group, and we stand transfixed. As the light fades, we remember the stories, the pictures, the invocations of this place according to our own traditions and feel connected in a way that does not acknowledge time. Danny has told us that the land is spiritualized to lessen the pain of distance for those in the Diaspora, and we understand this for the first time.
From the Mount of Olives to the Olive Room in the King David Hotel. Danny Rossling and Judy Marin from the Melitz Institute have come to share their take on Jerusalem. Echoing the duality introduced by the sheik, Danny talks about the tension of east and west, tradition and modernity, ideal and real. What makes things work here, he says, is that no one is always a dominant majority or a minority. For example, locally, Jews are dominant, but regionally and internationally, they are a small minority.
In the Middle East, he continues, dilemmas are rarely resolvable; one works toward discovering creative compromises. In one case he supervised, an ancient Romanian Christian church located near Mea She'arim, an ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighborhood, had just completed a major renovation. In the process, they had installed a large cross atop the church, and it was visible--and offensive--to many of its neighbors. The church insisted the cross stay; their neighbors insisted it come down. After hearing all sides and pondering options, a compromise was reached. The cross was turned 90 degrees, and everyone went home placated. In general, conclusions drawn from history create divisions. Our energy should be directed toward contemporary compromises.
Their remarks were followed by a lively discussion. Most of us were ready to retire for the evening, but a few had energy to spare and visited the nightclubs in the Russian compound.
Friday, 1 December
Today was a day of intense study. We went to the Shalom Hartman Institute, where we gathered to learn from David Hartman and Noam Zion. As we were in Israel during the shloshim or thirty-day mourning period prompted by the assassination of Yitzchak Rabin, David began with this crisis. He wanted us to understand modern Jews' responses to difficult times. He introduced us to the concept of a "traumatized consciousness," and explained how this influenced how Jews do both theology and politics.
Jews have been traumatized by modernity. Modernity caused Jews to re-direct and re-define who they are in the world. After the Second Temple, Jews had to turn from thinking of themselves as warriors of God in a literal sense and begin thinking of themselves as warriors for God in a metaphoric sense. The beit midrash replaced the battlefield as a source of identity. As long as Jews in the Diaspora were ghettoized, their identities remained intact. With the emancipation in 19th-century Europe, the world called to the Jews to join them. This created a problem, because how do you be in the world and still maintain your tradition?
The Jewish response to this threat was Zionism. Zionism recognized that the Jews could not make it as a minority in the larger world. The Jews needed a nation to be able to control their destiny. While everyone agrees Israel should exist, Jews do not agree on what will ensure Israel's survival. Yigdal Amir, Rabin's assassin, came from a warm and supportive family. He is a sabra. How could he do such a thing? He truly–-if wrongly–-believed he was saving his country from certain destruction by removing Rabin. David calls Amir's understanding the result of "tradition uninterpreted." When one acts on the basis of the Bible or the Talmud without interpreting them in the light of the modern world, then moral barbarism results.
After a short break, we studied with Noam Zion. As it was December, we focused on Hanukkah. David having set the stage for the importance of interpretation, we spent part of our time with Noam considering a Hanukkah text and how it would be read by different Jewish sects: the ultra-Orthodox, the modern Orthodox, the Reform movement, and secular Jews. We tried to get underneath the ideology of each to understand how a single celebration could be meaningful in so many different ways, but also how it could not have all these meanings for a single person. We studied text and we studied songs and we glimpsed where Noam was pointing.
We spent the afternoon in small groups. Some went to Machane Yehuda, others to the Midrahov, still others to the Old City. We convened again at the Wall around 4:00 to welcome Shabbat.
As the sun dropped into the west, the area around the Kotel began to stir, and with each additional degree of darkness, the stirring increased. A whistle blew, announcing the beginning of Shabbat. We gathered apart from the Wall, men separated from women. We began the responsive prayers that comprise the Kabbablat Shabbat service. In the midst of the service, the young men and their teachers from a nearby yeshiva snaked their way toward the wall singing and dancing. The men in our group joined the students in the men's section of the Wall. The women waited. The Rev. Tom Speers, senior minister of Dickey Memorial Church, wrote this to his wife:
"Today has been very powerful. The most amazing so far in many ways. We began with study sessions with two rabbis, very good. We then visited the market for lunch
--very crowded--everyone buying before the Sabbath. We had a service together and then went down to the Wall with a group of students, dancing and singing to welcome the Sabbath. It was very moving. Then we had our Sabbath dinner."The only problem was that men and women are separated and while the men were dancing and singing, the women were very quietly singing, but not dancing. Our women, not surprisingly, felt left out and felt for the women who are so obviously ostracized."
Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy. Exodus 20:8
Saturday, 2 December
We woke to a very cool morning. About half of us chose to go on a walking tour of synagogues in Jerusalem. We began with the Great Synagogue on King George street and then continued a route that took us to the lovely old neighborhood of Nachlaot. A young man and his wife were our guides, gently helping us both get a glimpse of synagogue life and observe the proprieties. The young man would accompany the men into the sanctuary, and his wife would climb with the women up into the curtained balconies. We saw large synagogues and very tiny ones. In one living-room-sized synagogue, we arrived as the service was concluding and were invited to partake of some very powerful liquor. On such a cool day, it was a treat. Later that morning, Danny led a kiddush and study session.
Close by the King David Hotel is Mea She'arim, an enclave of Chassidim with Polish roots. The group divided into two and toured the neighborhood with guides. We could not miss some parallels--for example, the explicit sign that a young woman is marriageable is the wearing of a single braid rather than two in Mea She'arim. In the Bedouin encampments, tents with a white flag signal the presence of a nubile young woman. Much, however, remains a mystery for many of us.
We marked the separation between the sacred and the mundane with a Havdalah service at the conclusion of our Saturday evening meal. We smelled the spices, drank the wine, lit the candle, prayed the prayers, and were once again renewed.
This evening we anticipated a conversation with Jonathan Kuttab, a Palestinian Christian. As chance would have it, Shimon Peres was meeting in our hotel, and our dining area was separated from the hotel entrance by a phalanx of military guards. Our speaker could not cross the line to get to us and we could not cross it to get to him. We were disappointed to miss his perspective and what he might have taught us.
Instead, we listened to Mark Odell reveal to us the meaning of the icons we see in Eastern Orthodox churches. He explained that the idea is to be "visually assaulted by beauty" wherever one looks. The icons are "windows into heaven." Our lives have been given to us by God; through prayer, which includes bowing and kissing and seeing the icons, we give ourselves back to God.
Saturday at midnight is the beginning of the Sabbath in the Eastern church. Mark led a small group to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to participate in a mass there. Alma Bell, supervisor in the Office of Public Information of the Baltimore City Department of Recreation and Parks, remembers it this way:
"The people who are native to the Middle East do not tend to look like the depictions of the Holy Family so often seen from the European perspective. That fact is important to me, as I believe that He came into the world for all people; therefore, it is logical that He came into an area that all people can identify with and into a group which looked like a blend of many people. Others may not have seen this, but I did."
Several of us took the opportunity to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre very late at night to see an Orthodox Christian service. It was obvious to the worship leaders that the Roman Catholic clergy and lay person, the Presbyterian clergy, and I were not Orthodox, but we were with a Russian Orthodox priest, appropriately attired, who was a part of our group. The busyness of the service--nuns and priest moving about constantly--was a contrast to the be-still-and-know-that-I-am-God that is more familiar to me. It struck me that if we believe that the Messiah is coming quickly, perhaps we should hope that He will find us busy and not just sitting. I had the same feeling in the Old City, as people took such care to appear different than those in the world.
Mark reported to us that most of the worshippers were poor, unwashed Russian immigrants whose simple appearance could not mask the pure and intense piety that they felt. Another visitor, however, was grateful not to have been born Orthodox.
Sunday, 2 December
We entered the Old City through the Dung Gate, which is much more attractive than its name would imply, and climbed the Temple Mount. This is a disturbing place, at once so beautiful and yet also very highly guarded and fraught with pain for the two traditions represented in our group. There were many rules that we did not understand, and more than once we were cautioned to move to another place. We marveled at how exquisitely Moslem architects had captured a sense of the divine and unity of the cosmos in the structure we know as the Dome of the Rock. It is a stunning monument. El Aksa, the mosque on the Temple Mount, is less impressive and earthier. For many of us, it was the first time we had been inside a Moslem place of worship. We took a lot of photographs and tried to imagine the space as it was when the Second Temple stood there.
We stopped for lunch in the Jewish quarter; more of the delicious falafel and schwarma.
And they brought him to a place called Golgotha [which means the place of the skull].
Mark 15:22We followed the Via Dolorosa, which winds through the Christian and Arab quarters of the Old City. There are points along the way that mark events important to Christians as Jesus made his way to the place of his crucifixion. These events are a little hard to imagine in the press of the Old City today.
Thus Rachel died. She was buried on the road to Ephrat–now Bethlehem. Over her grave Jacob set up a pillar; it is the pillar at Rachel's grave to this day.
Genesis 35:19-20Having enjoyed our liberation from bus travel, we returned to it to go to Bethlehem. We passed Rachel's grave, which is now--since the latest troubles--enclosed by concrete walls and guarded by young men from the army. Rachel, who watched over so many for so long, must now be watched over herself.
And they went with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.
Luke 2:16Bethlehem is on the A list, meaning that in two weeks it will be turned over to the Palestinian Authority. Outside the Church of the Nativity, there are many soldiers, all with weapons. It seems a little odd. We enter the church and join Father Michael Callaghan, Parochial Vicar at St. Jane Frances Church, as he celebrates mass in a small chapel. He has donned appropriate garb, laid out by someone before we arrive. It is a moving service for all of us, whatever our tradition. The Rev. Kirk Kubicek remembers Bethlehem this way:
"To get to the church, one has to pass through a small but determined group of vendors selling olive wood camels, olive wood nativity sets, in fact, olive wood just-about-anything. The doorway is less than five feet high. We had to stoop to enter into the great Church of the Nativity, conceived and built by Constantine's ambitious mother, the Empress Helena.
"You pass through the low outer door into a short passageway, and through another equally low doorway into a vast and tall open space. In the darkness you can make out the elaborate markings of an Orthodox icon screen at the far end of the room, votive candles, and strings of what appear to be Christmas tree lights, but are some kind of electrified sanctuary lights on strings draped all over the place. The doorway is said to be so low and small to prevent the Crusaders from riding in on horseback.
"But leaving behind the bustle of the armed guards and vendors into that tiny doorway, the passageway and emerging into the vast, quiet darkness of the church is akin to a kind of birth. Rebirth."
Taking an hour or so to shop for souvenirs at a market owned by Syrian Christians--who, we learn, speak Aramaic still--we return to Jerusalem in the rush-hour traffic. Time for a quick shower and then another spectacular meal at the King David.
Our after-dinner speaker is Danny Levine of the Melitz Instiute, who delights us with a unique and serious and humorous treatise on "What is a Jewish state?" The timing is right, as it has been for every event on this tour. We have enough experience to appreciate the issues he raises about the birth of modern Israel. We retire a little early, as tomorrow is a full day.
Your south side shall be from the wilderness of Zin along the side of Edom, and your southern boundary shall be from the end of the Salt Sea on the east.
Numbers 34:3Monday, 4 December
We begin our penultimate day in Israel with a brisk walk up the snake path to the summit of Masada--well, some of us do. We are now familiar with the desert and can spot caves everywhere, but we are not prepared for the majesty of yet another of Herod's wonders of construction. We are awed and appalled and moved. Before the tour gets under way, Danny needs time to pray his morning service, as the hotel failed to give him his wake-up call. This catches the attention of Judy Mohraz who shared this memory:
"Two pictures are juxtaposed in my mind's eye. The first is early on the morning we were to arrive in Israel. I watched several elderly men, figures reminiscent of 18th-century Minsk, make their way to the back of the plane, where they proceed to turn toward what appears to be the cabin door and pray, each adorned with a prayer shawl and curious objects strapped to his head and left forearm. All bow in short, mystifying motions. For me, who prides herself on tolerance of different faiths and practices, the symbols nevertheless struck me as curious, archaic, in short, 'The Other.' This was not the Judaism I knew."
"Days later, a group of pilgrims, now bound together by shared experiences and the sharing of our faiths, rested at Masada on the top of that towering outcropping in the desert: the site of ancient Jews' martyrdom. Here, then is the second picture: Rabbi Danny Lehman moving away to turn toward Jerusalem, donning the religious symbols that had seemed so alien a few days earlier. Now these symbols are associated with someone I know and respect, someone who has carefully and lucidly explained his Orthodox faith. Now what I see is my friend Danny, who had received no wake-up call, rushing to offer belated morning prayers. The symbols he wears seem natural in my mind's eye, the symbols of a faith and discipline that had withstood not only persecution and decimation, but modernity. I watch him respectfully. There was no 'Other' that morning at Masada."
From Masada, we stop at the shore of the Dead Sea and enjoy a simple lunch. A half dozen or so of us take the opportunity to float in the sea, a truly marvelous experience. We rejoin our driver and proceed back to Jerusalem.
Our next stop is the Yad Vashem Memorial to those who died in the Holocaust and to those who tried to save them. We walk down the Avenue of the Righteous Gentiles, lined with trees dedicated to those who took a chance to do some good. Steve Shapiro, artist and architect, stoops to lay a stone at the marker for Oskar Schindler. Solemnly, we enter the museum and retrace the path of this horrible period in our history. We emerge from the Hall of Mirrors, where we have heard the names of an infinitesimal number of the children who died called out. We are weeping. We listen as Danny reads from Isaiah about the suffering servant. We cry some more. Dr. Brooks Schramm, professor at the Lutheran Theological Seminary, remembers this:
"Being German and Lutheran, the Holocaust causes me no little existential angst. I have read and studied and pondered and looked at pictures and asked questions and, and, and. We were in the museum, and it was just about time for us to rendezvous, when I saw a sign pointing to the Hall of Names. I ran up the stairs quickly to have a look. The Hall of Names has very little light in it. I guess I didn't know what to expect. What it is is a series of bookshelves, just like you would see in any library. On these bookshelves, however, there are nothing but files. When I realized what it was, I couldn't breathe. On those shelves reside the documented evidence of the murder of each of the 6,000,000 Jews. Not just names, but the evidence, the stories. It's all there. Neatly and inconspicuously.
"On the wall above the shelves, there is an inscription in Hebrew. The room is so dark, it's hard to make out what the inscription says. I've wrestled many times as a pastor with trying to find something to say at the funeral of a parishioner of mine, trying to find something to say that does justice to the life of the person. I thought about exactly this when I was standing in the Hall of Names. What in the hell do you say in the presence of the documented evidence of the murder of each of 6,000,000 people? It therefore became very important for me to squint as hard as I could to find out what the creators of this museum had decided to say in this place. What words get chosen? What words are there to commemorate what this is? The words are from Ezekiel 37, the story of Ezekiel's vision of the valley of dry bones. In part, the inscription reads: 'I will cause spirit to enter you and you will live, and I will bring you back to your land.'
"Those shelves, those words, in that place; the most haunting experience of my life."
We continued from the main part of the museum to the sculpture made of truncated stone pillars representing the foreshortened lives of those the Holocaust claimed. We spent time in the Valley of Destroyed Communities, following the outline of Europe as we read the names of the Jewish communities that no longer exist. We were heavy laden, but we had one more stop.
Connie Caplan, Chair of the Baltimore Museum of Art, had contacted her counterpart at the Israel Museum, and we were afforded a special visit to an art space conceived by James Terrell. We sat in a white one-room space that had seating carved around its edge. As we sat back, our eyes were drawn to the "roof" of the structure: an open square of emptiness. It was dusk. As we sat there staring upward, the light changed in an eerie, otherworldly fashion. It seemed for awhile that there was a glass in the open square, but there wasn't. Just air. The artist had connected with the world--or the heavens--to form an aesthetic partnership that took our breath away. We weren't forgetting the 6,000,000; maybe we were connecting with them.
After dinner, we met as a group to consider the day and the tour. Chris began the discussion by asking: what do we do with the experience of Yad Vashem? What does Yad Vashem mean when considered together with Masada? The responses of the group were varied; a sampling follows:
--We often do not want to take the time to learn, and in failing to learn, we are less involved in similar situations close to home.
--The Hall of Mirrors reminds us that we haven't learned much. Today there are several mini-Holocausts happening, despite our having learned about the Holocaust.
--Perhaps we have learned something. We do know about Bosnia, and there is some intervention.
--For me, I am beginning to understand that the way of Christ means standing with people who suffer, and working for them and with them, and suffering with them. To work against oppression and for justice.
--I can't see any redemptive ideas or redemption in the suffering of the people in the Holocaust. It's a question of where was God, where was the church, where were we?
--One problem is there is no such thing as "the church" that is of one mind to re-think anything.
--Does connecting Isaiah 53 with the plight of modern Jews shake your fundamental sense of that text? What happens if, instead of thinking of Jesus when Isaiah 53 is read, Christians think of all Jews?
--There is a difference between redemption meaning an act by which we are placed in a different circumstance because of something, and what Isaiah is about, which is to reflect on the kind of depth of human experience.
--My congregation doesn't immediately think of Jesus as the suffering servant. When I talk about the suffering servant in terms of an individual, a community of God's people, the church in Nicaragua, or whatever, they relate to that.
--Maybe the Holocaust is redemptive in that Israel exists.
--Israel is not the prize for the Holocaust; it just isn't and never will be.
--We all know the name of Anne Frank. How many people know the name of the man who saved her? We have an enormous amount to learn from the ordinary individuals who risked everything to rescue Jews. These were individuals and I am left with confidence in individuals.
--The problem is that individuals do not spring up sui generis. They are made by institutions: family, school, religion.
--Maybe we ought to let go of that text belonging to Jesus or belonging to the Jews and see it as belonging to the children.
--It has to be every suffering person.
--The thing that connects all of Israel is risk, vulnerability. To do any kind of redemptive work requires incredible risk.
--One thing we must remember is that the Nuremburg Laws that were passed in 1935 and stripped Jews of every conceivable human right came directly from church doctrine. There were over 30 of them. They didn't come out of thin air.
--This is a problem we have as Israelis: how do we think about ourselves as other than victims?
Tuesday, 5 December
We drove back into the Judean desert to visit Efrat, a sort of new Bethlehem. Founded by Shlomo Riskin and one of his congregants from Lincoln Square Synagogue in New York City, Efrat is a thriving community on the West Bank. They live cheek by jowl with an Arab community. As part of the settler movement, the people of Efrat, particularly their leader, was in a ticklish position vis-à-vis his guests as, for this community, Peres is seen as a stronger P.M. than Rabin. He made this clear, but the tension in the room was palpable. It was a short session, lasting a fraction of the time it took us to get there and return.
We returned to Jerusalem by way of the Mount of Olives. We visited the lovely Church of All Nations, but bypassed the even lovelier White Russian Church of Mary Magdalene. We paused in the Garden of Gethsemene, where Jesus spent his last night. It was peaceful.
We spent the afternoon pursuing our own interests--whether it was tracking down "Shalom, Chaver" T-shirts for the folks back home, finding scholarly books not readily available in the States, or having a cup of tea in the hotel lobby with new best friends. Our tour was winding down and already becoming bittersweet. We missed our friends and spouses and children, but we really did not want to leave, most of us anyway. At our farewell dinner, we shared our impressions. We spoke about how opened up we felt to new traditions, that this could not have happened in our own communities, under ordinary circumstances. We promised to write. We honored one another, acknowledging our mutual generosity and warmth and acceptance. Cathy Kelly found a metaphor for the experience:
"You [those who took the tram] were standing at Masada. There were four of us who were staggering along together up the Snake Path. One was a nurse, one was a minister, one was an educator, one was an artist. We figured if anything happened to any one of us, there would be somebody there to take care of whatever it was that went wrong. It occurs to me that there is some wisdom from that trudging and ascending, which is there is a lot of talent in this room. There is work to be done."
Return to Contents
III. The Meaning In section one, the 1995 Israel Study Tour--the fifth led by the ICJS--was conceptualized as entering a space. By implication, this entailed leaving the quotidian demands of one's usual context to experience "something completely different," as the Monty Python troop would put it. How did the participants come to agree to this experience and what did they expect? What images stayed with them after re-entering their home routines? What difference did engaging in this journey make in their spiritual lives? In sum, what did it all mean?
The 1995 ICJS Israel Study Tour consisted of 36 participants representing clergy, educators, and community leaders. Of the 36, most were not intimately associated with the Institute, and this represented their first journey to Israel. Nineteen Protestants, seven Roman Catholics, nine Jews, and one Russian Orthodox participated. This group included two travel agents, who made arrangements for the group as a whole, and the author, who documented the trip. Six married couples partook of the experience. Seven of the group had been on previous ICJS-sponsored trips to Israel, including the two spiritual leaders, Dr. Christopher Leighton and Rabbi Daniel Lehman.
New recruits were contacted by ICJS leadership and invited to come. Among those with whom I talked, most were attracted because of these invitations in that they held those who invited them in great esteem. In the words of one of the participants:
"I knew enough about Charlie [Obrecht] and his interests and Peggy [Obrecht] and her interests to have a sense that anything they were involved in was clearly something that had the kind of sensibility and quality that I would be interested in. Nobody had to convince me, because issues of faith, issues of interfaith communication have always been of interest to me."
Some had personal reasons for joining the group, others had professional reasons. Several in the group have been touched by interfaith marriages, and so having a space to explicitly engage in dialogue between Christians and Jews was compelling. Others had more theological or cultural reasons for joining the study tour. Among many Christians, the tour represented an opportunity to wrestle with the apparent anti-Jewish bias in parts of the Christian testament, but there were other reasons as well. The church of at least one pastor is located in a transitional neighborhood, one that is becoming less populated by Christians and more populated by Jews. For him, the trip provided an opportunity to learn about his new neighbors, among other things. Another cleric belongs to a tradition that has long held itself separate from other sects and religions. For him, the trip represented an opportunity to broaden his perspective. Speaking for clergy in general he said:
"We are raised in or adopt a particular faith. We are trained in that theology. We are in constant association with people of similar beliefs. We become terribly isolated within our own group, and to a certain extent we believe that God has given us the franchise on truth. I don't think that is a deliberate thought, but it comes from a good deal of isolation."
Others had similar perspectives, although they may have been different in the details. The motivation for joining the tour entailed a combination of being asked by someone the potential recruit admired and having at least a nascent interest in interfaith dialogue. The study tour provided a space for this dialogue to be realized.
What did participants expect before their departure? Several found this difficult to articulate, either because their expectations were vague or because they had never voiced these feelings. Many would agree with one person who said, "Before I left, I would say [my expectations were] visiting the holy sites and just getting the typical tour. Having never been there, I don't know what the typical tour was, but this church, this synagogue, this mosque, etc. That was basically it." As we have seen, however, this was not whatever this person had in mind as "getting the typical tour."
The space created by the ICJS for Christian-Jewish dialogue, exemplified in this instance by the journey to Israel, is a necessary but not a sufficient condition for realization of the ICJS mission. It matters greatly what transpires in that space. Journeys away from home-- whether across city, state or national lines--provide an opportunity for a powerful experience. Why? Because one is plucked out of one's everyday routines and obligations–-most of them at least–-and thus one is free to engage intensely with the unfamiliar. This is not automatic, however. To be able to express and hear intensely requires a context that is hospitable to one's efforts, while also challenging one's cherished beliefs. Setting this kind of context, I would argue, is the essence of good educational practice but is too seldom actually practiced. What are the essentials in creating this context?
First, as noted earlier, there must be a space, and that space must have boundaries. During the Israel experience, we experienced several physical boundaries: the home of Charles and Peggy Obrecht during the two preparatory meetings, the fuselages of the airplanes that carried us to and from Israel, the tour bus that took us from city to city in Israel, and so on. While in private conversations there were few boundaries on subject matter, in our public conversations there was always a leader to set the scope of the discussion, whether it was one of our own leaders or someone resident in Israel. In leading discussions involving people not only intellectually but also emotionally and spiritually, there is a temptation among leaders in some cultures to guide too much. There is also a temptation to aim at "closure," which often involves a leader's attempt to sway the group to his or her own already-worked-out conclusions. These twin temptations are all too evident in too many educational settings, whether secular or religious. When one indulges in these temptations, one is establishing not boundaries but borders across which one steps at one's own peril.
Second, the space must be open. By open, I mean that barriers to dialogue are removed as much as possible. In groups of accomplished and socially-recognized people, as were all of those who made this journey, there are many barriers to dialogue. Clergy can claim theological expertise, educators can claim pedagogical expertise, community leaders can claim expertise in their own particular bailiwicks. Expertise can be construed as a resource for or as a shield against one's search for truth. It is the challenge of the leaders of a group such as this one to define expertise as a resource rather than an impediment to learning. The particular success of our leaders is conveyed in a conversation I had with one of the participants. The conversant is Jewish, but less observant than many. Rabbi Lehman is Jewish and strongly observant. To what extent, my conversational partner wondered, would this difference interfere with the experience?
"I don't come from an Orthodox tradition. This idea that he [Rabbi Lehman] asked us to separate ourselves as men and women at the Western Wall was an unusual thing for me to be experiencing at that moment. It was something very unique about that trip, especially for people like me who are not religious professionals, to be able to go to a place like Israel and celebrate Shabbat in a service filled with religious leaders. I changed my perception of Danny. He went from being a sort of reigning intellect and sort of philosophical commentator to being really a human being. He showed a tremendous amount of love and joy and empathy that night. He was very gentle with us. He didn't expect more out of us as a group than we were capable of doing. It was really wonderful that he, as an Orthodox rabbi, could ask us to separate so gently. I felt the delicacy of his wanting to observe the traditional order of things, but at the same time he knew that he was asking a group who were not really familiar with that order to participate in it. That made me see him differently; that was very beautiful."
This same moment elicited quite different feelings amongst, particularly, some women in the group. Being asked, however gently, to separate in the group and seeing those at the Wall separated by gender aroused feelings of illegitimate patriarchal power. Women from the Christian tradition expressed freely the power of this moment as bringing them to the realization that the hegemony they experienced in their own churches was shared by women in synagogues. This point was brought home to them particularly strongly when the men left our little group to join a batch of yeshiva students dancing and singing their way down to the Wall, while the women among us were left to observe. That one moment could produce (at least) two very different insights is testimony to the openness of the context.
Third, the space must be hospitable. A space that is hospitable allows people to receive one another and thereby receive themselves and the possibility of truth. In this country, where so many wear the badge of religious commitment publicly, it is ironic that so little cross-denominational dialogue occurs. We learn early to avoid discussions of politics and religion in social settings lest we offend another. At the same time, this country is inalterably religiously plural. The radical step taken by the ICJS is to create a space where interfaith dialogue can occur. For this to happen, the ICJS has to convey an air of hospitality to the new ideas, the struggles, the transformations that are inherent in plain talk about religion. The Israel trip provided such a context for its participants. This is an aspect nurtured by the leaders and eventually owned by the participants. One participant tested the hospitality of the group early in the journey. On the first morning following an evening discussion that grew heated at moments, one participant was filled with anxiety:
"I was upset right away about something that had been said in the group discussion the night before. I voiced my distress over it. I felt like one individual had tried to steer the conversation too strongly and was not letting the conversation find its way. I said something to [my breakfast partner]. I kind of tested the waters. I said to myself, 'Well, I'll just voice my opinion and see what happens.' I was pleasantly surprised that he turned his head and said, 'That's interesting. Let's talk about that.' I learned that it would have been a very difficult task to have alienated yourself from that group. You would have had to work hard, because they weren't going to let you. That is one of the wonderful things about it: people were so ready to listen to what the other person had to say and take it seriously, even if it offended them. It was almost as if we had agreed to put offense aside and said, 'Let's not be offended by one another for awhile.'"
In this journey, then, the leaders succeeded in creating a space where people could open themselves to discussing matters of importance to them and receive one another freely. Collectively we tacitly made a pledge to one another that we would engage in a shared and, we hoped, transformative relationship based on trust in the face of unknowable risks.
Jews and Christians alike share the Genesis text. In it we are told that humans were formed in the image of God. As we traverse our lives we are assaulted by people and events that would shape us differently and by our own selves who choose shapes less than divine. To find the space and to take the opportunity to engage with others about spiritual matters provides us with a way to affirm what we take to be God's intent in making us in the first place. Our texts, both Hebrew and Christian, present us with a God that is anything but static, at least that is my understanding. Central to the God of the Scriptures is movement and engagement and contemplation. In electing to engage with one another, we are mirroring God's historical engagement with humans.
A theme that predominated throughout the journey related to coming to know the Other. For some, the Other was Christian, for others the Other was Jewish. As the trip proceeded, most of us became aware that even that division was too simple. From a Christian point of view, we learned that there are many ways of being Jewish and from a Jewish point of view there are many ways of being Christian. Perhaps oddly, this realization brought us to a closer understanding of one another. Christians know that there are many kinds of Christians and Jews know that there are many varieties of Jews, but each tradition did not necessarily know this of the other tradition. In coming to know one another in this way, we are less able to speak of the other as a monolithic, intractable entity. In acquiring a more nuanced perspective, we are less able to both demonize the other and privilege ourselves. This realization occurred at different points and in different ways for each participant. For one traveler, a Christian, the moment came after a visit to Mea She'arim, a Chasidic community in Jerusalem. This individual had grown up amongst Christian fundamentalists and was familiar with their ways. Meeting the people of Mea She'arim struck a chord:
"I have to say that I had the same sort of unease about the role of women there that I have seen in other fundamentalist communities: women who shave their heads and girls who walk down the street with one braid instead of two, showing that their parents have judged them eligible for marriage. Among the Bedouin, the tents with white flags indicating the presence of marriageable young women. That sounds very negative, but it is simply so powerful. It was extremely powerful."
This person, who had rejected a fundamentalist perspective within Christianity, saw that certain elements of that tradition--the place of women--were repeated in other traditions and that realization widened her circle of understanding.
While the emphasis of the trip seemed to be on better grasping the Other, for many, the journey allowed them the opportunity to better grasp themselves. In coming to grips with the exotic and unknown, one's own self is thrown into clearer relief:
"The experience awakened a sense of spirituality in me that has been dormant. I have always been reaching for God. There are times when I feel very close to God, but at other times, my religious experience is more intellectual with God in the background. Being in Israel this time with a group who also is looking for a spiritual component awakened in me a feeling for that part of Judaism and the beauty of it. It made me even happier that I was Jewish and more comfortable. It made me feel the specialness of Judaism and that it had such an important contribution to other religions. We all came to see ourselves differently because it wasn't a Catholic trip and it wasn't a Baptist trip, it wasn't Episcopalian. We were all approaching from different roads. There was commonality in the fact that we could meet and discuss, and we were all so respectful of one another. It was just wonderful."
Many others experienced this new understanding of themselves resulting from coming to know others. The next voice captures this sense particularly well:
"The trip has sensitized me to the complexity of my own tradition and the need for tolerance even within our own religions, let alone between traditions. I'm finding the experience very helpful back here in Baltimore. I feel more confident that what I have to offer is meaningful and that I am not alone. I have a right to be here. The trip helps you build up a tremendous amount of spiritual confidence. I have made contact with a broader community here in Baltimore who share my concerns. I have forged a friendship with people who I never would have had any reason to have any contact with. Our paths never would have crossed."
The formation that began (or, for some, was continued) on this trip is a kind of truthful knowing that involves a continuous interplay of self-knowing and other-knowing, and the confidence to engage in this risky endeavor.
Earlier I asserted that space removed from one's daily encumbrances can be an opportunity for taking risks one might not otherwise take, for growth, for acquiring a broader and richer perspective. What happens, then, when one returns? However successful a journey to Israel might be, it does not follow that continued dialogue will necessarily occur. To make a meaningful difference, the formation that began on the journey must be translated into local terms. The conversation must find a way to be continued.
Since the return, the ICJS has held three reunions specifically for the 1995 participants. These extremely well-attended gatherings were a mix of catching up with one another, delightful socializing, and serious study. Participants exchanged stories about how they were translating the wonder of the trip into their daily lives. Christians have invited Jews to share in their study groups; cross-denominational relationships have deepened; homilies have benefited from new theological understandings:
"We think we have the market cornered on the truth: my way is the right way. For the first time, I listened to somebody else's theology, weighed it against my own, asked myself if it would fit in my own. Would there be anything wrong in adopting certain things? When Michael celebrated the mass overlooking the Sea of Galilee, I stood on the side and did not participate because my faith won't permit me to. Here were people who in just a few days I was getting close to and had a strong feeling for and they were participating. Yet, the laws that govern my particular church say that I can't do this. I really felt at a loss. I felt sad, so sad. I asked myself, 'Why?' See, before the trip, I wouldn't have done that. I would have answered, 'Well, because the rule says so and so.' Now, I say, 'But why?' Just because I am of a certain tradition doesn't mean I can't think about it."
Another participant shared these changes with me:
"I have been preaching a lot differently. From the day I came back until now, virtually every sermon somehow reflected back on the trip. I am weaving my insights into my sermons. I can get people to kind of see what really was going on, what still is going on. I've got a couple of women in the parish who want to start a Jewish/Christian study group and they want me to help locate people. Before too long, we will have it up and running. Going to Israel gave me added courage. I launched a pretty incredible Yom HaShoah observance. You have to understand that my predecessors declared publicly that there should be no interfaith dialogue; that we should convert the Jews and be done with it."
And another:
"I believe that more than anything else, this trip set challenges before me that I had never before dreamed of. So many times I have seen my fellows go off to some "exotic" place for a few weeks only to return as experts. This trip has made me keenly aware of just how little I do know and how much I have to learn. It has made me want to break free of traditional thinking and parochial bonds so that I might get into an arena where men and women of good will and open minds can share their thoughts and dreams with one another and truly begin a process of becoming one people of the Heavenly Father."
The last voice affirms that the trip is not an end that should result in immutable transformation, but is rather a point of renewal within an ongoing process. If the only contribution of the ICJS were trips to Israel, then the impact would be much diminished. It is the powerful experience of Israel with the expert and sensitive guidance of its leadership that sets the stage for many to continue on their journey of knowing. The participants are attracted to events in the community where Jewish and Christian issues intersect. They turned out in force for Noam Zion's study of Jacob and Isaac, for the series of lectures celebrating the 75th anniversary of the Chizuk Amuno Congregation, and for Bill Moyers' talk regarding his most recent television series on Genesis. After a period of nearly one year, the group remains bonded to one another and is reaching out to the wider community.
Julie Tammivaara
October 1996Return to Contents
Appendix Participants
The Rev. William P. Baxter, Jr.: Rector, St. Thomas' Episcopal Church, Garrison Forest
Alma Bell: Supervisor, Office of Public Information, Baltimore City Department of Recreation & Parks
The Rev. Christa Fuller Burns: Co-Pastor Second Presbyterian Church, Baltimore
Kathleen A. Cahalan: Professor, Religious Studies Department, Rosary College, River Forest IL
The Rev. Michael J. Callaghan: Parochial Vicar, St. Jane Frances Church, Riviera Beach
Deborah W. Callard: Fund Raising Consultant; ICJS Board Member
Constance Caplan: President, Time Group; Chair, Baltimore Museum of Art
Peter W. Culman: Managing Director, Center Stage; Adjunct Professor of Homiletics, St. Mary's Seminary & University; ICJS Board Member
Donna Lee Frisch: Community Volunteer; ICJS Board Member; Study Tour Coordinator
Richard W. Frisch: Business Consultant, McCormick & Co.
Beryl Gottesman: Director of Resource Center, Council on Jewish Education Services
Nancy Holder: Educator; Community Volunteer
Catherine Kelly: Director of Community Outreach, Mercy Medical Center
The Rev. Kirk Kubicek: Rector, St. Peter's Church, Ellicott City
Dr. Judy Jolley Mohraz: President, Goucher College
Charles F. Obrecht: Partner, P. Fred'k Obrecht & Sons; ICJS Board Co-Chair
The Rev. Mark Odell: Pastor, Holy Trinity Russian Orthodox Church, Baltimore
Marilyn K. Powel: Development Director, Center Stage
Mary Ellen Reno: Community volunteer
Ronnie Reno: Senior Partner, Venable, Baetjer & Howard
The Rev. Lynn Rhoades: Associate Pastor, Wake Forest Baptist Church; President, North Carolina Chapter of the Alliance of Baptists
Terry Saunders: Attorney, Saunders & Associates
Dr. Brooks Schramm: Professor of Hebrew Scripture, Lutheran Theological Seminary, Gettysburg
Steven M. Shapiro: Artist and Architect
The Rev. Thomas G. Speers: Senior Minister, Dickey Memorial Church, Baltimore
C. Van Leuven Stewart: Attorney, Stewart, Plant & Blumenthal
Clare H. Stewart: Floral Designer
Dr. Julie Tammivaara: Consultant, Scopus Consulting; Study Tour Ethnographer
The Rev. Robert A. Waddail: Baptist Campus Minister, Towson State University and The University of Maryland
Judy Wereley: School-Business Partnership Coordinator, Baltimore City Public Schools
The Rev. Richard Wereley: Senior Minister, Faith Presbyterian ChurchLeaders
Rabbi Daniel L. Lehman: Assistant Rabbi, Beth Tifiloh Congregation and Principal, Beth Tifiloh High School
The Rev. Dr. Christopher M. Leighton: Executive Director, Institute for Christian & Jewish Studies, Adjunct Professor, St. Mary's Seminary & UniversityStaff
Sr. Joan Marie Stief, OSB
ICJS Staff; Israel Trip CoordinatorTravel Coordinators
Lila B. Abrams: Vice President and operational manager, Foundations of Faith Travel Agency
Rabbi Mendel Abrams: President, Foundations of Faith Travel Agency; Spiritual Leader, Beth Torah Congregation, Hyattsville
Lee Berlman: Israeli Tour Guide
David: Israeli Bus DriverReturn to Contents
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