The Statue and the Synagogue

AMST wmns view one bigThis is what the women saw.  There are few sanctuaries more beautiful and moving than this 1675 Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue in Amsterdam, and here the women, while separated, were still able to share its beauty.  In fact, in many ways, they saw more.

AMST windows1The service, certainly, but also the outside world for which they prayed.  It was a hike to get there, of course, but the dignity and faith that infuses the place was more available to them than in many other observant synagogues.  It’s difficult to describe the peace and beauty of this place, even with a photo.  Or two.  The black and white one is a wedding photo taken in the synagogue.

Amsterdam stairway to wmns sec Portuguese

AMST syn

AMST wedding pic

Amsterdam Spinoza

 

 

So where you ask is the statue?  Well, he’s right here.  Baruch Spinoza, whose ideas wreaked havoc in religious communities of Europe.  Here’s what Wikipedia says:

Philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel said of all contemporary philosophers, “You are either a Spinozist or not a philosopher at all.”[8]

Spinoza’s given name in different languages is Hebrew: ברוך שפינוזה‎ Baruch Spinoza, Portuguese: Benedito or Bento de Espinosa and Latin: Benedictus de Spinoza; in all these languages, the given name means “the Blessed”. Spinoza was raised in the Portuguese Jewish community in Amsterdam. He developed highly controversial ideas regarding the authenticity of the Hebrew Bible and the nature of the Divine. The Jewish religious authorities issued a cherem (Hebrew: חרם, a kind of ban, shunning, ostracism, expulsion, or excommunication) against him, effectively excluding him from Jewish society at age 23. His books were also later put on the Catholic Church’s Index of Forbidden Books.

A powerful figure in Jewish history and history in general, he stands just steps from the Synagogue, there – and not there; a compelling figure of faith — and doubt.

We are currently sailing through the Kiel Canal, an engineering feat that cut northern Europe in half and created a pathway that reduced isolation for many.  Tonight we stop in Helsingborg, Sweden and Friday night, in Copenhagen.

JERUSALEM DIARY 2.0 – DAY FOUR – THE SOTAH AND MEA SHEARIM

2_mea_sharimThursday morning I sent myself an email that said this:  We are just leaving Mea Shearim, the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood and I am so freaked out. Maybe the SOTAH story had more impact than I realized.   I told my husband that I was close to tears, that my chest was tight and I was someplace between scared and angry and he said – "You mean you felt like the Sotah, huh?"  Well. 

She does haunt me.  Even now, when I have learned so much that mitigates the horrors of her treatment, I can see her, standing there, as they pull off her hair covering and stand her before God (and the priests), forced to drink the waters full of dirt and ashes.  And what does that have to do with Mea Shearim?  I’m the intruder there; the very Orthodox residents who choose to remain largely on the outskirts of the rest of the world and  live a highly structured and mostly literal interpretation of every law and passage in the Torah – didn’t invite me to go wandering around looking at them while my husband bought a new Tallit (prayer shawl.)  Even so, for some reason every time I go there I get so sad.

At_the_bus_stop_mea_sharim_3My husband once accused me of "overidentification with the oppressed."  Maybe that’s it.  The men are so clearly the ones with the power here, walking by in 2’s and 3’s while harried mothers and kids run errands and see to 3 or 4 children under 5.  I have no right to consider them opressed.  Or unhappy. Or anything else.  What happens is that I imagine myself – stubborn, curious, eager to see and know everything – growing up here and wonder what would have become of me.  Maybe I would have had a peaceful and loving life, but my projections won’t let me think about that.  I just struggle with the stories I write in my mind about these families (these women) and their lives.

I have always loved The Chosen, and I have great respect for Chassidic Jews, for the most part.  But there is something about this infinitely old, infinitely tired part of Jerusalem that just breaks my heart.  As I write this, I suddenly wonder if perhaps it has more to do with me and my issues — that their lives are their own and I’m not sure that’s true of mine.

I’m writing this Thursday night in case I can’t finish it before Shabbat tomorrow — so Shabbat Shalom.