Our Synagogue's Desert Outpost

In August, 2009, I spent 20 days in Israel; the most inspiring day was my last. On Sunday, August 31^st, I traveled with my family to an army base, deep in the Negev dessert, somewhere between Yerucham and Dimona. It was hot – very hot – that day. My jacket and tie lasted around 30 seconds. I was there representing the Fifth Avenue Synagogue Women’s Club at the dedication of a mobile synagogue and Torah scroll that our Women’s Club sponsored. The program began about 100 yards away from where the synagogue was situated. Around 80 soldiers – half with kipot, half without – danced and sang as the Torah, under a chupah, was carried across the base. The scene was remarkable – the dancing was so spirited, that we kicked up a cloud of dust around us. Soldiers, when given the chance to hold the Torah, wrapped there arms around it, embracing the Torah as if they were being reunited with a long lost brother. Binyamin was quickly hoisted on a soldier’s shoulders.

The singing and dancing lasted for about 30 minutes, when the Torah was placed in the ark, and all the soldiers sat down under a sun-shielding tarp to hear me speak. For some reason, my lectern and microphone were just outside the shelter, leaving me to roast under the midday dessert sun (I guess that’s one way to keep a Rabbi’s remarks brief.) I told these defenders of Zion that from the army base, I would drive to Ben Gurion Airport, and that I would already be back at my synagogue in New York for services the next morning, on September 1.  The 1^st of September was also the 1^st of Elul, when we began blowing the shofar daily in the lead-up to Rosh Hashana.  And so I shared with these soldiers some thoughts about the shofar’s symbolism. The shofar, I explained, recalls the binding of Isaac, and the ram that replaced Isaac, at the last moment, on the altar. The shofar symbolizes the willingness to sacrifice. I told these young Israelis in uniform, “You, my brothers and sisters, sound this call of the shofar every day – you are willing to sacrifice yourself for Am Yisrael all year long.”  But I continued by noting that the shofar is also a symbol of humility. The Talmud emphasizes that a shofar should be bent, not straight, because we are bent over in the humble submission before the Almighty on Rosh Hashana.  And so I said to these soldiers, “when you sound your shofar of sacrifice, we diaspora Jews respond by sounding the shofar of humility. After all, you are making the supreme sacrifice for the Jewish people that we should be making as well.  You are shouldering the burden for the defense of Am Yisrael that we and our children should be sharing with you. But we are not, and so we are humbled in your presence.  We are further humbled because you are normal people, from ordinary backgrounds – like me, like my community – “but you,” I said to these young commandos, “are making extraordinary contributions to Am Yisrael.  You sound the shofar of the Akeida, and we in America respond with the shofar of humility.”

After my talk, a soldier approached me and introduced himself to me as “Mike.”  He said, in perfect English, “I wish my dad could have heard you today.  When I moved here from Florida, my family just couldn’t understand what I was doing.”  At the festive meal in the army mess hall, I sat across from a young female officer named Mor. I schmoozed with her in Hebrew about the rigors of army training and her plans post-army. After about five minutes, Mor took pity on me and switched to English. Her English too was fluent and unaccented.  She explained, “I’m American; I grew up in Tenafly, New Jersey and I made aliya at age 18 so that I could join the army and serve my people.” Like Mike, she is an ordinary kid who made her extraordinary move.

We should all be proud and inspired by our Synagogue’s association with these young heroes of Israel. May the newly dedicated IDF synagogue serve as a venue where G-d hears these fighter’s pleas for peace.