By David Ogul
TZVAT, Israel –I had been gone from Jerusalem for less than 48 hours, but I was not the same when I returned. I suppose that’s what happens to a person when he experiences the holy spirit – the ruach – grabbing you, enveloping you, speaking to you, making you one with him.
I didn’t really know what to expect on my journey to Tzvat, described to me as one of the holiest cities in Israel. It was a town, I was told, that represents the wind. Jerusalem, I later learned, represents fire. Hebron represents the land, Tiberias the water. Tzvat has become the center of Kabbalah, and it’s magnetic religious aura, it has been written, continues to
attract Jews from every walk of life
I took a bus from the central Jerusalem depot with my friend Jesse, an American-Israeli who lives in Arizona, will soon be enrolled in
rabbinical school in Los Angeles and who once served in the Israeli military. It was a scenic ride north of more than three hours into the mountains just a few miles south of the Lebanon border, but I ended up in another world. It was clear when I stepped off the bus that I was no longer mired in the intensity of Jerusalem. Instead I found myself in the calm, laid back environs of a mountain hamlet.
We checked into our room at a Chabad hostel program called A0scend (hey, it was cheap – and this was supposed to be a religious experience)
and went out for a walk around the Old City for some food and exploration. It didn’t take long to discover the personality of the area, from the relaxed air about the young woman who made our vegetarian sandwiches to our new buddy Rowen, an Israeli of Yemeni descent who sold me an authentic turban identical to the one he proudly wore on his head. We sauntered about the artists’ colony before heading back to the hostel and a guided trip to one of Israel’s holiest Mikvahs.
It was my first immersion in a Mikvah, and it changed my life. When I came out of the frigid waters fed by a stream in a remote cave, I
felt the transformation begin. I walked to a bridge overlooking a cemetery housing the graves of Kabbalah’s founders – including the author of Kabbalah Shabbat’s “Lecha Dodi,” when I was stopped by the wind. I held up my palms, closed my eyes, and let it carry me away. This was nothing less than the Holy One rushing through my body and turning it into the wind as a vehicle to speak to me. There was nothing I could do but pray. And cry.
Friday night was a bit different. My buddy Jesse has a friend who was in the Israeli army with him and who now studies at a Lubavitcher
yeshiva in Tzvat. We were to go there for Friday night, Kabbalah services, have something to eat and head back to the hostel. Or so I thought. Instead, we spent almost seven hours studying, praying, singing, dancing, parading around town, singing, eating, singing, praying, eating…
Very intense. Not my cup of tea, but, hey, these people were down-to-earth, friendly, welcoming Jews who invited me with open arms even
though I wasn’t wearing black pants, a white shirt, black hat and black jacket. (They did, however, love my Yemeni turban).
We finally got back to the hostel around 1 a.m., went to the rooftop patio and talked with a couple folks for about an hour before calling it
a night.
After waking up the next morning, I headed to the deck to pray and ended up talking to Rabbi Shlomo Schwartz, the resident rabbi for the
past 16 years at Ascend – a rabbi who hails from Santa Monica and looks a lot like Jerry Garcia. Very cool, down-to-earth dude. It was a long conversation in which he patiently answered everything I wanted to know about Chabad, Tzvat, Kabbalah and more. Later in the day, an electronics broker from Bet Shemesh who I dubbed Kiddush Mark, because his choice of synagogues is entirely dependent on the Kiddush lunch that is served, wanted to go looking for a rebbe to give him a blessing. I walked through town with him, passing on several Shabbat Shalom greetings and meeting many wonderful people before the ruach came rushing through me again. Kiddush Mark watched with wonder before I told him what was
going on. Here was his take
The Shema, the standard prayer in Judaism, says to always keep G-d on your heart. It doesn’t say “in” your heart, Mark said, “it says on
your heart.” What happens is you end up having all these prayers, all this mitzvot on your heart when suddenly, Hashem will come about, wink at you, open up your heart and let it all in. He can’t keep your heart open all the time, because something might get in that isn’t supposed to be there. But when Hashem gives you that wink, says, “Hey, here I am, you’re OK,” it isn’t something you can forget.
It’s a bit Kabbalistic, but it made sense to me.
Shabbat ended with another glorious meal, more davening and then the most rocking Havdallah I’ve ever experienced. Standing in the corner of
the dance hall with a big smile on his face was Jerry Garcia, er, I mean Rabbi Schwartz. I asked him if I could take a picture of him. When I was done snapping some photos and gave him a warm embrace, I felt an energy I had never felt before rushing through me. It was then that I was convinced that Shlomo Schwartz, who was a close friend of the late Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerseon, was a Tzadik – a righteous, spiritual master.
Jesse and I ran down to the bus stop for the last ride out for the night to Jerusalem. I thought long and hard about what I had experienced. Then I
cried like a baby. I did not see G-d, but I felt His embrace. He grabbed me, he transformed me, he talked to me, and he comforted me.
Funny thing: On Sunday, when telling the story to a friend at the yeshiva where I study, the ruach suddenly greeted me yet again. Just another
wink, Kiddush Mark would say, from the Holy One.
May you all be as blessed as I have been.
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Ogul is a San Diego based freelance writer