A Very Jewcy Christmas - Part 1 of 3(ish)

While my family was brewing the first pot of coffee, warming a Christmas quiche and setting a crackling fire in annual yuletide custom (or, maybe they were still dancing around with sugar plums and whatnot given the time difference, but this is where poetic license comes in), I was rising from a fitful sleep of defending myself against an 8-year-old with a machine gun like the soldiers carry. I stirred the dehydrated granules of coffee into my mug and returning to my sleeping bag to celebrate Christmas in my own way. The rest of Israel, with the exception of Palestinians and the Christian Quarter of the Old City, is business as usual. Donning kippas and black skirts (but not usually at the same time) instead of bulky sweaters and flannel PJs, the Jews in Israel go about December 25^th as they would June 3^rd or November 14^th. I found myself thinking of the few Jewish and Muslim classmates I knew in college and what they must go through during Ramadan or Yom Kippur – dancing a lonely jig through their holiest holidays, isolated from mainstream society in their sacred merriment.

I admit I’m being a bit melodramatic, though. While I hadn’t any roast beast or yams on Christmas Eve, I am in the holiest city on the planet according to much of the civilized world. So even though Christians only make up 2% of Jerusalem, and a pretty good chunk of that 2% celebrates Christmas on January 7^th, there were still a great many revelers making their joy known to the world last night. With the exception of the Russian Orthodox Church, every bell around the city was ringing with open doors and services in multiple languages. I elected not to join the masses of pilgrims waiting for hours at the Palestinian checkpoints to go to Bethlehem. I’ll go see the nativity when there aren’t thousands of visitors trying to cram into one church along with Mahmoud Abbas, who was making security all the more challenging for the rest of the tourists. Instead, I made edible Christmas cookies (success!), spiced rice, veggies, and hummus ~ a Christmas feast for my Dutch friend and myself. He and I wandered the unusually bustling nighttime scene of the Old City, scavenging for carols and mulled wine.

Like no other time in my life, living here during Christmas has called my faith into question. In Asheville, it is perfectly acceptable to call myself spiritual – a response met with a knowing look of “Ah, you left institutional religion to seek the Divine within, too, huh?” The question of what religion you are is as common as what is your major, what is your profession, or what sport do you play. I often get asked if I’m Jewish and I don’t know how to respond. Well, my whole family on my dad’s side is in accounting, and we sometimes lit the menorah…Once, I said yes – that my father was Jewish, so I was here to explore my Jewish heritage. The guy retorted that I’m not Jewish then, because lineage is only traced through the mother (a law that has more recently been brought under formal dispute). The answer each inquirer seeks is based on a grading system I don’t fully understand, so depending on whom I’m talking to, I base my response on what they want to hear. “I like some of your ideologies, but I really don’t know all that much yet.” Or, “I was raised Christian and now I’m exploring my Jewish roots.” “Or, I pull some philosophies from both my Christian and now my Jewish upbringing, with a little Buddhist and pagan ideologies thrown in; but to be honest I’m pretty over the whole lot of institutionalized patriarchal theology…” that one really freaks them out.

As I wandered the streets with my Christian friend on Christmas Eve, we started talking about faith. I had a hard time grasping how he could be so open and compassionate to other faiths when his beliefs were so firmly absolute. He had a hard time understanding how I could call myself religious when I pull from so many divergent traditions. And truth be told, as firm as I have always been in my belief in an Infinite higher power, I have no clue how to explain my tangible beliefs. Where does Jesus come into play in all this? I wondered this during a round of Hark the Herald (one of my favorites) at Christ Church. At that moment, a Jewish girl I work with popped into the church to snap a photo – observing the festivities and capitalizing on the free cookies and hot wine. She spotted me and mouthed, “What are you doing here?” Uh…This should not be a hard question. Tradition? Jesus? I love singing and cookies? I was not sure at all how to answer, so I simply shrugged and said, “Hugo is here too.” As if that in itself was explanation enough for my presence.

Continuing the celebration the following morning, I spent a few hours volunteering at a soup kitchen – an anti-capitalist approach I’ve always wanted to take for the holiday but had never done so. I started peeling potatoes with Jack, who was definitely an odd bird. He immediately informed me that he was a recovering alcoholic – a habit he started at age 2. But, he informed me, he was working hard at meditation – a practice that proves the human body can overcome anything. “For example, I’m currently growing back my teeth!” he flashed his seemingly perfect chompers at me. “Uh, they look great!” I backed up a little. “Thanks. It’s taken me about a year.” Luckily, I escaped Jack’s crash course in Zen dentistry to help expat and master chef Zev chop onions and prepare fried fish. I will take a moment to mention that I had to dig little plastic bits out of the fillets – I’m not sure if they got there through the fishes’ diets or packaging, but it definitely gave me pause to take in the expansiveness of our waste –our trash is in every nook, cranny and crappie. I worked with two guys, neither of whom spoke very clear English – one secular Jew who bailed on the army by getting a note for insanity and the other who is studying to be a rabbi. We packed lunches while they tried to wrap their brains around my religion and explain to me that all Arabs hate all Jews. I think it will take another session or two to understand one another.

I took my computer to get it fixed and wandered the neighborhood until I found a small coffee shop with outdoor seating. Pulling from my Buddhist influences (or maybe Hasidic Judaism?), I found reason to celebrate in the way that my brown sugar slowly rotated and sunk into the foam of my absolutely delicious cup of coffee. When Johnny, an American who was seeking to unlock the key to peace in the Middle East and the truths of Judaism by extending his Birthright trip indefinitely, sat down at my table, I closed my journal and braced myself for a slight shift in fate. ( Sorry to disappoint all of you who are rooting for my love life, but it was more of an adventurous twist of fate than a romantic one. Please don’t give up, though – my dad sat through 25 hurricane seasons in Tampa waiting for the Bucs to win the Super Bowl. Faith and determination of a strong support network are very powerful indeed.) Johnny informed me of this social network around volunteering that he is helping to implement, and we dove into conversations about peace work; the more mystical sects of Judaism; imperial complexes of volunteer tourism; and eventually he mentioned a weekend working retreat he was headed to at EcoME (Eco – Middle East) the next evening. EcoME is a community in the desert ~ an area in a zone that is accessible to both Israelis and Palestinians as well as internationals, offering a unique common space for coexistence. While many call me adventurous, I am a huge fan of a plan and a safety net. So the fact that I was headed for a weekend trip to a remote eco-village with a seemingly sincere, albeit squirrely stranger, was seriously popping my comfort bubble. Nevertheless, I was excited for some dirty fingernails and peace talks, so we planned to meet at the bus station the next night…