I've passed Torah many times but never like this before.

I've passed Torah many times but never like this before.

We had a lovely weekend (shabbaton) with our friends at Beit Tefila Yisraeli from Tel Aviv. During the Shabbat of February 10/11, we went as a group to a retreat center in Kesariya to welcome Shabbat and spend an overnight together – singing, studying, eating, celebrating, and reflecting on Shabbat, the parasha, and what it means to create a community that is a home (bayit). There are many unanswered questions which they are trying to answer and we had the privilege to engage in some of the conversations related to what is most meaningful in creating community.

During the Shabbat morning service, something happened which is every Jew's fear: the Torah fell. The ark was opened, we were singing some of the opening prayers (Ki Mitziyon Teitzei Torah – from out of Zion will come Torah) and the Torah slid out…evidently anxious to actualize those words. The Torah, technically, did not fall onto the ground. First off, we were two stories above ground. Secondly, the Torah never fell over, it stood up on the wooden poles and leaned against the table. Lastly, it was grabbed before anything dangerous could really happen. BUT…it did come out of the ark, not in anyone's hands, and it was not handled with kavod (honor).

So what to do? Fast? Give tzedakah? Cry? Mourn? Study? All of those are possibilities but Esteban Gottfried and Rani Jaeger, the community's service leaders, were brilliant in what they created immediately for us – as a community – to do.

After the Torah reading, when we went to return the Torah to the (no longer trustworthy) ark, we stood in a large circle. There were about 50 of us. We began singing a niggun (melody) together, and every passed the Torah around. Everyone had a chance to hold it. Esteban started the passing. It journeyed from person to person. I saw it coming, as I was about 10^th in line. Everyone took their time to embrace fully, hold gently, and pass carefully to the next person. Eitan took the Torah before me. He then passed it to me, which was a pretty powerful turn on Marsha's and my passing Torah to him last year for his bar mitzvah. I took the Torah and closed my eyes. So what if it fell? What matters is that we hold it now and that we embrace this heritage, this history, this potential and make something out of the lessons and moral instruction. I was ready to pass the Torah to Marsha, who was standing to my right and I did so. And I was moved by the experience but then as I let go of the Torah, something happened that led me to tears that simply did not stop until the Torah had completed the circuit and was back in the ark.

I passed the Torah to Marsha and then felt a hand on my back. Eitan was reaching out to hold me as those before him had him arm-in-arm. A thousand generations back to Sinai were holding me. My son was holding me. I had Torah and Torah has me – no matter where I am…Kesariya or Tel Aviv, California or Carolina, Prussia or Roumania. The Torah may fall because of an accident, but I, if I claim to be a responsible Jew, must not falter in working to uphold Torah.

After Marsha had passed the Torah on, then I stretched my arm out to her and she did the same to her neighbor and so forth around the circle. I saw how everyone was being so careful with the Torah, holding her, crying, smiling… I tried to imagine the myriad of stories everyone in that circle could tell about their own lives, their own families, their own journeys to that moment. We stood – not as Americans or Israelis – but as Jews, in search of meaning, with a desire to protect, and a sense of mission. The Torah may have fallen that morning in our ritual but it was brought to the highest heights in our actions.

I cried that morning because I stood on the ground where Hannah Senesh penned her famous poem, "A Walk to Kesariya" ("Eili, eili – Oh Lord, my God"). I cried because my son passed me Torah. I cried because I could imagine the many women in the circle who held Torah who may have never had a chance to do so – or certainly could not do so – in so many communities of Israel. I cried that morning because I am at once very optimistic for the future of progressive Judaism in Israel but at the same time fearful that it will forever remain on the margins. I cried that morning because I felt honored to be a part of special circle of Jews here in Israel.

Beit Tefila Yisraeli is working to define itself as an Israeli House (Home) of Prayer…and in that circle, on that Shabbat morning, we created what a home that was caring, nurturing, supportive and protective. If Torah can give us all that – then we will long survive.