What I can be

I’ve never been much of a fan of the inclusion of a guitar in Jewish religious services. One can probably chalk it up to youthful experiences, often feeling like an ugly religious duckling amongst my traditionally more pious friends. In fact, I remember being taunted for my own synagogue’s use of an organ. What kind of church do you think you are, a form of childhood bullying completely foreign to those of you who grew up outside mainstream Jewish America.

And yet this past Friday night, for the first time, I was absolutely moved by a guitar in a Jewish religious service.

I had already attended synagogue twice in Kiev, both times at the city’s largest Orthodox synagogue. My father, however, had found out information abut the city’s Liberal congregation. There has always been within me an element of Orthodox inclination. To be honest, I love the traditionalist element, the men shuckling back and forth, the same words my grandfather and his grandfather before him emitting from my mouth, a brief transportation to the shtetl of my imagination.

This flirtation with Orthodoxy has been a roller coaster ride. When I was 14 years old, I almost decided to attend Ramaz, an Orthodox High School in New York City. My father was openly opposed to the idea. As he confided in my mother yet refused to confide in me at the time, he was afraid I wouldn’t be willing to pray in his synagogue anymore.

At his urging, I sent an email to Rabbi Alex Duchovny about a month ago, a note relegated to the back drawers of my mind until, ten days ago, I received a call from him in the middle of my language class. After profusely apologizing for not getting back to me earlier, he promptly invited me to stay at his house that Friday night. Or the next Friday night. Or, truly, any night whatsoever that I felt the urge to spend the night in Kiev. I was already struck by his welcoming nature and kindness. I was not to be disappointed.

The Liberal Congregation in Kiev has no Synagogue. Rather, it rents a few small rooms in a rather touristy area of the city, tucked into a courtyard that can only be accessed by a confusing set of twists and turns. Luckily I was about a half hour early to services, which afforded me plenty of time to get lost trying to interpret the chicken scratch I had scrawled in a notebook that were purportedly to serve as my directions for the evening.

As soon as I arrived, the Rabbi introduced me to everyone who walked in, explained my story, who I was, why I was here. There were a few students there, ranging in age from 16-19, all of whom spoke some english. They’ll sit next to you, he said. They’ll make sure you understand. I felt like a bit of a celebrity. I also felt important, and cared for, and in a strange way, loved.

At the beginning of the service, the Rabbi announced that he would be conducting the service in Ukranian. Usually he conducts it in Russian, he says, but for my sake he will change it, for my sake, to help me feel welcome, to help me pray, to help me connect.

His cantor begins the service with an original tune of Mah Tovu, a traditional opening hymn. Strumming his guitar, I expect to be put off, but I am not. Rather I am enthralled, I am engaged. Often times, cantors or Rabbis with guitars in tow try to turn the service into a rock concert, try to make it just a little too hip and cool and fun. But this cantor, whose name I alter found out was Michael, had beautifully woven the strings of the guitar to suit the millenia-old utterance of praise. This was not an anomaly but the beginning of a trend. The man understood Judaism, and he understood music. He took his bilingual capabilities and transformed it into something awesome, and meaningful.

Rabbi Duchovny also had his own leadership style, interspersing his week’s Torah commentary during brief intermissions in the night’s prayers. Every week, the Jews read a portion of the Torah, the five books of Moses. This week’s Parasha, as it is called in Hebrew, comes from Numbers 13-15, and is called “Shlach Lecha.” Here we read the story of the twelve spies who are sent by Moses into Israel, to scout out the terrain on this so-called promised land. When they return, all the spies report this to be a land that truly is flowing with Milk and Honey. And yet ten of the twelve deem the land unattainable, cities to large to overcome and nations to powerful to destroy. Only two of the twelve refuse to call the promise a pipe dream; only two of the twelve, Caleb and Joshua, say, “the road before us is arduous, but with some faith, we can overcome all obstacles.”

The Rabbi then began alluding to Dr. Martin Luther King and his “I have a Dream” speech. The Rabbi remarked that in this biblical story, as well as in Dr Kings life, a dream of a better tomorrow lurked over the horizon. And no matter how far off the goal seemed and no matter how long it may take for tomorrow to come, Dr. King and Caleb and Joshua all believed they could do it. Dr. King and Caleb and Joshua all felt the very same stubborness and will and faith: Just tell me what I can’t do.

The truth is, in many ways I empathize with the ten spies in the story, the ones who came back and said, “the task before us is to great.” Living here in Ukraine, I have seen firsthand the obstacles I must overcome to really accomplish something, to really try and make this country even just a little bit better. Alcoholism is a way of life, litter fills the streets, and kids start smoking by 14 only if they are late bloomers. Add to that the country’s growing narcotics problem and its rising number of HIV/AIDS victims, and the picture is grim. But in the end, my inner Jewishness, and my inner stubbornness, echoes that of Caleb and Joshua and Dr. King. Just tell me what I can’t do.

For those of you who know me best, it may not surprise you to hear that I have put off some of my fellow Peace Corps volunteers with my stubbornness. If I believe something is right or wrong, especially in moral terms, I am not easily persuaded otherwise. I often times have trouble listening to other opinions when my mind is made up. I can be frustrating to work with. I can piss people off. I can push away friends.

And yet, it is these same qualities that push me, my refusal to quit and my courage to stand by my convictions, even if I stand alone. How do I balance my greatest strength and my greatest weakness? Can I learn to be both strong and open minded?
There is a Ukranian word, Vidpochivatee, which has no direct translation into English vernacular. It purports to mean “to relax,” but a more literal translation is “to get away from ones feelings.” It is a word that hovers in between Zen and Pain, a unique linguistic twist that speaks volumes about Ukranian culture and priorities.

After returning from services Friday night, I decided to turn off my phone, and do my best, for the third week in a row, to live a modified Shomer Shabbat existence. This meant not using electricity, not doing work, not washing my clothes. I simply had to relax, vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings.

I spent much of the day alone, because, to be honest, its hard for the other Americans, let alone the Ukranians, to understand why I wouldn’t want to do work, won’t spend money, and refuse to turn on my cellular phone. Yet whenever the loneliness started to creep in, I just began vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings. I decided to go for a walk, hoping the fresh air and the scenic landscapes would clear my head.

While strolling through the Ukranian village, I recalled a brief conversation I had with Rabbi Duchovny the night before. He was only ordained a Rabbi eleven years ago, after a prior life as a tour guide, and, as he let on, a less pious existence. And yet now here he is, Rabbi of all Liberal Congregations in Ukraine (47, scattered throughout the country) and a deeply spiritual man. He is a man who feels the existence of God everywhere he goes. When I asked him if he has any regrets, he replied, “everything in my life has made me better prepared for this moment.”

In another week, I will be leaving my training village, leaving Natalia and my newfound friends behind. I will be leaving, and my ability vidpocheevatee, to get away from my feelings, will be all the more important. Some days I will feel lonely. Some days the tasks before me will seem to grand. What will the next two years bring?

Will I be able to change the lives of those in my future village? Will I, myself, be able to change? Are they too entrenched in their lives? Am I too stubborn, to entrenched in the man I have become? Questions abound, answers unclear, and yet here I am, attempting to get away from feelings, to be an unbiased observer of my own existence.

And yet, this past Friday night I found myself enjoying a guitar in a religious service, for the first time in a long time, possibly of any time. I found myself uplifted by a whole new set of circumstances, I found spiritual nourishment in a place I did not expect. Perhaps I will learn how to better accept others. Perhaps I will learn how to teach others how to better themselves. And perhaps I will learn nothing, perhaps all my fellow volunteers and detractors are right in assuming what I can and cannot do.

Then again, I have a dream. Im not sure what it is, Im not sure how to attain it. But whatever I am doing is proper preparation. Wherever I am going is where I am meant to go. And like Joshua and Caleb and Martin Luther King and Rabbi Duchovny and like anyone who has ever stubbornly stood their ground in the face of adversity, I say this: I dare you to tell me what I cannot do.