Torah - From Houston to Holy Land: An Oleh's Journeys

My Conversion Story/סיפור הגיור שלי

It’s a question I literally get asked by almost everyone I meet

For those of you that don’t know, I converted to Judaism. I know, shocking; Hutchison is such a Jewish-sounding last name (and really easy to spell and pronounce in Hebrew – הוטשיסון). I think being half-Filipino and not looking like your stereotypical Jew has something to do with it ( although I have been called Roma before by some guy at a convenience store, with a kippah and tzitzit on). Even though I’ve written a lot about being Jewish, this guy used to be a good Catholic young man.

This was the first regular photo of a Jewish guy in a stock images site. We don’t all look like this nice-looking man.

People are always trying to place one another, so when they learn that I converted, it’s immediately fascinating to them. Even though honestly it’s something very personal, it’s something I am constantly interrogated about. I used to mind it when people asked the question, but then I just started saying it’s because I’m crazy (that answer is a lot funnier when people know you actually have mental health problems). Really, it’s like asking someone why do they love their spouse, or what do they think is wrong with their children, or have they ever committed a crime. It’s a deeply personal question that I get asked at bars, at cafes, sitting on a bench by a random person next to me, and today in my meeting with my case manager.

I gave him the answer, so I thought, maybe I should actually write it down in case I forget one day.

It all started with a nice Catholic boy…

I grew up in a blended household. No, I don’t mean that I grew up with step-siblings (I did though and they know a lot more about Judaism than your average Gentile); I mean that my mother was a more-spiritual-than-traditional Catholic Filipina and my dad was a white not-very-religious Protestant. I remember my mother always telling me when I was growing up that her and my father had to go in front of a priest and sign some kind of document to get married in the Church that required them to raise any future children in the Catholic faith (went well for sixteen years mom).

“Put this around your kid’s neck or this isn’t official…”

So I grew up Catholic, which can mean a lot of things, so I’ll be specific. We had pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary in our house, we went to church every Sunday (my mom always complained that the church by our house was too modern because it had seats instead of pews), we observed Advent (Christian Hanukkah), we didn’t eat meat on Fridays during Lent, and I had my first communion and went to confirmation classes when I was old enough.

In fact, one of my earliest memories takes place in a church, or at least in a church parking lot. This was back when my parents were married, so I was a pretty young kid, and we were attending Christmas Eve mass. I remember the church where we lived at the time had this big golden sculpture that held everything for the sacraments, real awe-inspiring stuff. When we left the service, we went to the parking lot and found that our van had been broken into and the TV and the mobile phone from the console (yes, a mobile phone as in a literal corded phone that was also wireless in the console) had been stolen. We went back to the church to call the police, and I swear to this day that when the priest answered the door, he was wearing basketball shorts and eating Cheeto puffs.

Cheetos aside, I really was a religious kid growing up. I think that part of how easy it was for me to transition to Judaism, and why I never had an angry-angsty-atheist teenager phase, was because I’ve always had a very strong belief in G-d and His presence in my life. I went to Brazil when I was fourteen with my mom to visit family in São Paulo, and when I was there my mom was buying souvenirs from one of those shops that sell things carved from wood. One thing that really sparked my interest, besides the wooden ninja katana, was a rosary. When I got back, I started carrying it with me wherever I went. I learned the extra prayers for it that I didn’t already know. It really bumped up my faith level.

Before *tzitzit*, I was still literally wearing my religion on me

Losing my religion…or at least changing it

So, at around sixteen I started confirmation classes. They were fine enough, although as a teenager I definitely did not appreciate having to spend extra time in Church when I could have been hanging out with my friends. The priest leading the classes was nice enough from what I remember, and he always answered my questions.

There was just a certain point though where I stopped feeling it; I lost the vibe. Something about all of it just felt unreal and unlike me, even though it was all I had ever known. I started having my first doubts. I researched other religions, just out of curiosity. When I started reading about Judaism, something just clicked. I don’t know if it was the traditions, the peoplehood aspect, the emphasis on actions as opposed to just beliefs, or my own theological doubts about whether or not Jesus was really the Messiah; but something about Judaism just fascinated me.

Now, as an aside, there is this idea in chassidut that a convert is someone who was born with a Jewish soul, but it just happened to get placed in a non-Jewish body. The whole time, this Jewish soul is thirsting for Torah and Judaism, and that’s what eventually leads to conversion. I don’t know if I really believe all of that, but honestly, that’s what it felt like. When I was researching Judaism and reading Jewish texts, something just felt right.

So, one day I just told my mom that I wanted to stop going to confirmation classes. I told her that I didn’t know if I really believed in all of it, and that I didn’t think it was for me. She was disappointed but supportive, and I’ll always be grateful for her reaction. In general, she took all of my transition to Judaism pretty well, minus the whole not eventually being able to eat in her house thing.

Fast Forward through a lot of cringe stuff

When you come from an area with almost no Jews and want to convert to Judaism, you do a lot of dumb stuff. You do things like eat at your school’s cafeteria (not even kosher-style), while wearing a kippah and tzitzit. You get written about in your school paper because who the hell converts to Judaism in a school of thousands with like less than a dozen Jews? In college, the Chabad house rabbi immediately knows you’re not Jewish because you bike up to him in a kippah and tzitzit and he has no idea who you are beforehand. Eventually, I learned to take that stuff off until I was ready, but man I must have looked like a real idiot.

Not how someone should look while eating a cheeseburger at their college cafeteria

Eventually by my senior year of college, I started taking stuff seriously. I kept Shabbat and kosher, and I usually stayed at a friend’s house who was within walking distance of the Chabad house on Shabbat. The rabbi gave me the code to the building, and I would go before my morning bus driving shift to pray shacharit. After I graduated, I went to a summer yeshiva program in Morristown, New Jersey and really learned about Judaism and how to learn about Judaism. I stayed in the dorms, went to shiurim, attended fabrengens, and I even spent Gimmel Tammuz by the Ohel.

The Rebbe and his teachings have changed my life more than almost anyone else in the world.
Photo Credit: By Mordecai baron; cropped by Beyond My Ken (talk) 03:35, 1 January 2012 (UTC) – scanning photograph taken by Mordecai baron, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17867973

Eventually, I ended up back in Houston and moved to where the Chabad community was. My studying consisted of my continued individual learning as well as from a reading list that my beit din sent me, but it was also important just to live a Jewish life in a Jewish community. Seeing how daily life flowed, keeping a kosher kitchen, going to shul for davening during the week and Shabbat, and eventually dating in a kosher way. What I needed was just time to prove to them and to myself that I could do this, that this demanding lifestyle was for me. On the second of Kislev in the year 5774, I officially became Aryeh Leib ben Avraham, and it’s been a continued adventure ever since.

The More Important Question (I Think)

So, people ask me all of the time why I converted to Judaism. I’ll admit, it’s different and unique. There’s a lot of converts out there, each with their own individual story, and I could never speak for them, but I can tell my own story. However, I think that the more important question never gets asked.

Why am I still Jewish?

I mean, conversion is permanent, and if I was to fall to the lax side I’d still be Jewish; but I mean why stay observant? After everything I’ve been through, all of the mental health problems, all of the pain and trauma I’ve endured, how can I still remain a believing and practicing Orthodox Jew? How can I believe in a G-d that has let me suffer so much? Now that nearly a decade has passed since my mother passed away, my eyes have been opened up to all of the sadness and suffering around me. I worked closely with trauma victims for years, and I’m still paying the consequences for it. I’ve been hospitalized, days away from killing myself. So how am I still a believer?

I think it all goes back to that simple faith that I have in G-d. Even when I was in the hospital, and I didn’t feel His presence like I once did, I still knew He was there. Prayer eventually saved me in that place, it kept me going through all of the horrors that come along with being in a psych ward. I still believe in the beauty of Judaism, and how it allows us to elevate every physical object in this world to a new spiritual height and imbue our actions with holiness. I still have faith regardless of what has happened to me because I have seen the power of belief and persistence, and the wonderfully amazing things that happen in this world because of G-d’s continued involvement. I love being part of the Jewish people, and being a part of this huge shared history and tradition. I love how I am now helping to build a State for our people, and it feels like I’m living with miracles here.

I love being Jewish, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Sure, sometimes it makes my life a little more difficult, but it’s those tests that make me feel like I’m really trying at something meaningful in life. It would be easy to abandon everything, but I get more out of life now than I ever did before. I get asked the conversion question all the time, and I’ll never get tired of answering it. I’m proud that I chose this, and that I get to live my life with purpose and meaning. I think anyone can find their own way in life, and that’s what I did. It’s one decision I will never regret, and one I will always cherish for the rest of my life. May we all increase in our connection to G-d and one another, even if it means answering personal questions all the time.

Living with Tekhelet/חי בתכלת

Last Shabbat I actually went to the synagogue for morning prayers. I was up, and I couldn’t deny the need within me to connect with G-d in one of His dwellings here in the holy land. I had a dilemma in front of me however, and one that reached deeper than the simple color it embodied.

Some background explanation is needed. In Judaism, it is a positive mitzvah, a commandment, to wear tzitzit, ritual fringes on a piece of clothing. Many religious Jews accomplish this by wearing a four-cornered garment beneath their shirts with the tzitzit attached to them, either showing outside of their clothing or tucked into their pants, depending on their specific tradition.

In addition to tzitzit, there is a separate mitzvah mentioned in the same paragraph in the Torah, the mitzvah of tekhelet, a blue string amongst the other white strings. For centuries, the source of tekhelet was lost, with various scholars debating its source. In recent history, one organization rediscovered the source of tekhelet. Not everyone agrees on the subject, but this post is not the place to go into the debate on it. [Here is a great article on the debate if you’re interested]

I say this because for years following my “falling out” with Chabad, I started wearing tekhelet. I believed that it was real, and it also helped me identify more with the dati leumi/Modern Orthodox world that more readily accepts tekhelet as authentic. However, in the past few months, I reverted back to wearing Chabad tzitzit, without tekhelet. I did it out of a longing to be back in the Chabad velt, and my increasing desire to get back to my roots when I first became Jewish.

As I’ve written about, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about where I fall in the bigger Jewish world here in Israel. Tekhelet, that little bit of blue string, believe it or not, plays a big part of it. I came to Israel wearing tekhelet; it made me feel more connected here. I saw other guys in knit kippot wearing tekhelet and it reaffirmed to me that I was part of their world. I saw it on guys who looked like the me I wanted to be, settling the land and being the pioneers I dreamed about being. That’s the whole reason I’m really here, because I too want to be writing Jewish history instead of just experiencing it.

So, last Shabbat, I took out my old tzitzit and tallit with tekhelet and brought them with me to the synagogue. I didn’t know a single person there. I only understood a few words of the sermon in Hebrew. I had to move several times so that the regulars could have their seats, making me feel even more like an interloper. But, when I saw the blue fringes between my fingers before I recited the Shema, something just felt right. I felt like I had given up all of the battles I was waging within myself about who I was and was just doing what felt like it was right. It felt right to be there. It felt right to be there with my tekhelet (even if I was the only guy there with it). It felt right to feel like I was fulfilling a rediscovered mitzvah in a land renewed.

So, today I bought a new pair of tzitzit with tekhelet. My old pair is too small and worn, but I felt completely different this time buying them when I bought the Chabad pairs. When I was buying the Chabad pairs, I felt like I was buying them out of a sense of obligation, and I even felt a little bit silly since my halachic observance is no where to the level that the average Lubavitcher in Israel is up to. When I was in the checkout today, it just felt right, like I was going back to who I chose to be.

I came into the Chabad world because it’s all I ever really knew, I never really had much of a choice. I fell into it, and I’m grateful for everything it gave me. I still have so much love for the Rebbe and his teachings, I learn Tanya, and I still default in my mind to the chassidic teachings I’ve learned over the years. My view of Jewish life, of Yiddishkeit, is fundamentally Chabad; but I know what I am and where I want to be.

The Chabad life isn’t for me anymore. The people that I really look up to now that I live in Israel aren’t the rabbis who struggled in Russia to preserve Judaism. I still have immense for the Rebbe’s shluchim; but I know that deep down I would trade everything I have now to be one of those first dati leumi settlers setting up religious kibbutzim. I believe in the holiness of the State of Israel, and in the sanctity of building up this land. My heroes built the settlements on the borders, they taught the Torah of Eretz Yisrael, they set up yeshivot in Judea and Samaria after the Six Day War, they were the men and women who combined service to Hashem with labor on the land. That is who I want to be like, even if I live comfortably in a Netanya suburb.

To me tekhelet symbolizes all of this. It symbolizes the idea that something so immensely holy can be found again with hard work and science, and not abandoned to messianic times. It stands for the idea that we can change reality now, that we can change the future now. Tekhelet is a mitzvah that serves to remind Jews not only of the mitzvot, which all white tzitzit do as well, they also serve to remind us to perform those commandments. They remind us that we are a people of action, not simply of remembrance and observance. I want to be a Jewish man of action, I want to change the world for the better with my actions. If that string of blue does it for me, I’m going to cling to it, and everything it stands for.

Caught Between Worlds/תקוע בין עולמות

I feel caught between worlds.

In Israel, Jewish life is not segmented into convenient boxes, dominated by one synagogue over another. Your yiddishkeit, your Jewishness, is not bound to one place, to one rabbi, or to one way of life. Things blend together here, religious life exists on a spectrum of expression. In America, my orthodoxy was so visible; here, I am just another man with a kippah in the crowd. Religious people are everywhere. They are not hidden, shuttling back and forth between the synagogue, the office, the kosher supermarket, and back home. Here, the janitor is a religious Jew, and so is the soldier, the beggar, the artist, the woman at the checkout lane, as well as the doctor and the lawyer.

Oh, how these Jews express themselves! They are trendy, they are hippies, they are classic, and they are so very fresh. They wear black suits and hats, skinny jeans, short sleeves and slacks, shorts and tee shirts, and biker jackets and boots. They are infinite in their variety, and conspicuous in how much they belong. It is impossible to define them, and impossible to contain their world to a ghetto.

It’s honestly beautiful, how something so holy and different can be so immersed and meshed with daily life here. Jewish holidays are my days off, I would be hard pressed to find a situation where I couldn’t get kosher food at almost anytime, and there are literally four synagogues within a ten minute walk of where I live (I really should go more often). The fact is, it is impossibly easy to live a religious life here, but that is where my dilemma lies.

In America, my observance defined me, it marked me as different, it stood me out on its own. Here, I must struggle to define myself within the melange of life here. With Judaism so wild and unrestricted, I’m struggling to find my true north. When I was back in the states, I shed many of the things that made me Chabad, although I always stayed sheltered in its world and never gave up the halachic restrictions that world gave me. One of the first things my wife and I did when we got to this new country was go before the beit din, a Jewish court headed by our local rav, and performed hatarat nedarim, the annulment of vows and restrictions, to free ourselves so that we could start fresh in our new community. Gone were the welcoming chains of the old world, and all that was that left was the uncertainty of freedom and free will. We chose customs and standards that fit our community, wanting to blend in and bind ourselves to some kind of shared social base. I went to a new synagogue, built on its variety of parishioners, and I stuck to what my fellow Anglos did. In my desperate attempt to navigate my new Jewish Israeli identity, I clung to whatever was around me.

But it left me feeling incomplete.

When I was with Chabad, and it still happens whenever I go back to a Chabad synagogue, I knew who and what I was. I may have taken off my kapota and shaved my beard, but I was still Chabad in my head. I am still a Lubavitcher in my mind, the rebbe is never far away, and his teachings and lessons are like a warm blanket on this cold journey.

When I was in the mental health hospital, I was in a really low place, lost in my mind and my soul. For the first couple of weeks, I couldn’t pray, I couldn’t hear the calling within me, I couldn’t feel G-d’s presence like I once did. When my wife brought me my tallit and tefillin, she brought me my Chabad siddur, my prayer book, as well. This prayer book was special because it was given to me by my rabbi on the day of my conversion, and the pages are stained by my fingertips from years of repeated prayer. In the recreation room of the hospital, I found my faith again, the one life raft I could cling to in the sea of mental anguish. I found myself rediscovering the words with new eyes, the longing and calling for healing found bee resonance in my heart. When King David cried I cried along with him, my tears staining the pages. The tightness of the tefillin straps kept me bound to reality, the weight of my tallit on my shoulders grounded me to this world while connecting me to the hidden world around me. So much of my life was dominated by confusion, prayer and meditation kept me tied to the truth.

Now, I am out again in the free world, but I don’t know where to turn to. Even with so many synagogues within my grasp, I pray at home rather than deal with my spiritual identity crisis. Am I Chabad? Am I Modern Orthodox? Am I dati leumi? Do I check the “other” box? Who do I turn to when I have questions beyond whether I just made a spoon not kosher? Where do I look to for inspiration? There is so much more to observance than mitzvot, there is an entire culture wrapped up in every label; and I often do not understand or feel comfortable with any of the labels?

Maybe that is the solution, to live between the lines. I had a meeting with the rabbi of one of the local synagogues, one that caters to Anglos, and he told me that I don’t have to limit myself. That I can take from each of these worlds the beautiful, the meaningful, what works for me. Maybe that’s the real test, to see how I swim in this vast ocean, building myself an edifice from the mass of materials around me. Each of us here is such a unique soul, maybe this whole place only works if it all blends together.

Part of what makes galut, exile, so harsh is the regimentation. While we were initially put into ghettoes, we internalized them and put ourselves into boxes. We had to act this way, or look this way, pray this way, eat this level of kosher, do what this rabbi said. The beauty of this new state, of this new plane of existence for Jewish consciousness is that we are building it ourselves, sometimes making up the plan as we go along. That’s why we live for today, that’s why say that it will be ok, and to take things slowly. It is a marvelous thing to build a new Jew here, combining elements from Jewish practice and tradition from around the world and through centuries of different experiences.

So maybe I can be ok in my jean shorts, tzitzit down past my knees, and a Rick and Morty tee shirt. Maybe I can still have 770 on my tallit bag even though I eat rabbanut. Maybe Hashem is just happy that I’m here trying my best, or at least maybe He’s happy that I’m happy that I’m trying my best. I always have room to grown, and thank G-d, there is so much holy space here to grow in and so much holiness to fertilize that growth. I can be me, and that’s enough. I may live between worlds, but all of the worlds are holy, so I can’t go wrong. It may be uneasy, but I will find my way here.

A Moment of Calm Before Shabbat

Sometimes even the holiest days of days can become routine, and sometimes you need a way to break out of it to really connect with Hashem. Let me give you an idea, a way, to break out of the mundane and really connect.

Even before candle lighting approaches, there is so much work that goes into getting prepared for Shabbat. The late night Thursday night shopping rush, pushing between people in the aisle to find the chili sauce, trying to find the perfectly ripe fruit to serve for dessert, trying to figure out how much chicken to get. Then theres’a the all-day Friday prep. Making sure all of my meat is properly defrosted. So much cutting and dicing. Counting down the minutes as a I fry another batch of schnitzel. So much effort for the day of rest before you can enjoy that moment of calm that eventually hits you sometime Friday night.

Even then, so much of the Sabbath follows the same routine. Eat a meal. Maybe with some guests. Probably eat too much. Hopefully there’s some Torah for the table, but sometimes it’s just a friendly meal between friends. Then there’s going to the synagogue, seeing the same people, making the same small talk and the same jokes. Prayer is almost always the same. Maybe you try to add some extra kavanah into it, or maybe you just try to get through everything. Saturday, it’s the same thing, but maybe with a nap, or maybe reading a book.

It’s all so routine.

If this year of our global pandemic, so much was interrupted in our lives, and this routine is no different. How many other people counted down the days until they could have guests again? Or waited until the synagogues reopened? Or worried about the dangers involved with going back to almost normal? Even now, I still wear a mask when praying inside, and some places want to see my green pass that shows I’m fully vaccinated.

Covid changed everything, but maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world.

One thing that I started to do after all of this happened, when I was barred from going too far from my home and we were forbidden from having guests, was to go outside and just sit. That’s it, just sit outside on the small bench in my landlord’s yard and really think.

It changed something for me.

I’ve been learning a lot of mindfulness exercises as part of my therapy program, and one of them focuses on just really becoming one with your surroundings. You go somewhere and sit (it doesn’t have to be outside but I prefer it), and get into a comfortable position. You practice controlled breathing, where you breathe in through your diaphragm for six seconds, hold for three, and then exhale for six seconds, ending with another three second hold. You do that a few times, and then you just get into a cycle of focused breathing without counting. Slowly, you feel the sensations around your body: what you’re sitting on, the smell in the air, the wind touching your skin, the warmth of the sun. Slowly, you expand your consciousness outwards, and hear the birds, people around you, and all if the movements in your area. Eventually, you try to phase as much of yourself out and let in as much of the world as possible.

Sometimes thoughts come up, and that’s ok. They can be annoying thoughts, thoughts of fear, or just distractions. Just acknowledge them for what they are and let them be. They have no control of you.

You are only in control of yourself and your mindset, and that you are becoming one with everything around you. You are becoming part of G-d through His creations, and you can feel the web that connects every bit of light in the world.

I challenge you this Shabbat or Sunday after church, or whatever day of rest you choose to have, to take a moment to just go outside and try the exercise I described. For me, it makes my Shabbat so much more enjoyable.

Often times, we can get so lost in the routine that is Shabbat or Chag. The meals, synagogue, napping, reading, or just spending time inside. Shabbat is a day of rest, but it’s also a day to connect to Hashem in a way that isn’t possible the rest of the week. Our soul is more revealed, and we are more receptive conduits for holiness on these days. Why spend all of that time cut off from the real world? You’re already cut off from the electronic, so focus on what’s really true and real in the world. Hashem isn’t found just in the synagogues or in our homes, He’s everywhere. Connecting to His creations through meditation and focusing on making yourself truly one with Him and the universe is so spiritually uplifting.

Thank G-d, I live in a land where the air I breathe and the earth I step on are imbued with holiness, so maybe it’s a little bit easier for me. When I feel the air on my skin, I know that this is the air I’m meant to breathe in and surround myself with. I know that when the sun shines on me here, it shines with all of G-d’s grace and compassion. I can truly empty my mind and make myself a vessel to fill with the sounds and presence of all of His creations around me.

Take some time and try, see if it works for you. If not, that’s ok, it’s not for everyone. I just wanted to share something that helps me break up the mundane, even when the day is holy. Let yourselves live in the world, and remember that G- d is everywhere, and man, are his creations amazing.

Shabbat shalom from the holy land, much love.

Forgiving Yourself and Others

As Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the holiest day of the year in Judaism approaches, all of the Jewish people turn inwards in self-reflection. In Israel, everything is coming to a halt. Ben Gurion airport, our only major international airport, is closed, television and radio stations have ceased broadcasting, and roads are closing down. Tomorrow, roads will be empty except for emergency vehicles and bicycles, and the majority of Israelis, secular and religious, will fast.

I only wanted to add something to the millions of facebook posts, blogs, and social media bites to the theme of tomorrow. All year, we’ve made mistakes. We’ve wronged others, acted unkindly, hurt one another, and said things that we cannot take back. We’ve neglected what is important and wasted time on the trivial, and we’ve treasured the crass and forgotten the real value of what’s important. We’ve done these things to others, but we’ve also done them to ourselves. As easy as it is to go through the prayers and see all of the wrongs man can inflict on his fellow, unseen is the savagery we can do to ourselves.

The beautiful thing about Judaism is that we don’t say to ourselves that our sins are a badge of shame to be worn on our chests, they are merely lines on a ledger; and with a new year that ledger is wiped clean. We have stood before the Judge of Judges, and now we are awaiting his verdict. Come what will, the future will still be waiting for you come Thursday. Let your fast and afflictions tomorrow be what they were meant to be, things to keep you focused and clear. You’re not being punished with hunger, you are hungry so that whatever effort you might have put on food is now spent reflecting on how you can improve.

Remember too that you are often your biggest victim, so make sure to keep yourself in the list of people to ask for forgiveness from. There’s nothing to be ashamed for when you realize that maybe you’ve been too hard on yourself, that you haven’t been honest with yourself, or that you haven’t loved yourself as nearly as much as you deserve. So much of the conflict isn’t the world today boils down to a lack of love for one another, and it’s impossible to love someone else truly if you can’t learn to love yourself.

Wishing everyone a easy and meaningful fast, see you on the other side, and let’s make this the year that love triumphs over hate.

A New Year and a New Me

I am an oleh chadash, a new immigrant, here in Israel; but there’s something missing from that translation. An oleh is literally someone who ascends, and chadash means new. So I should really say, I am a newly ascended person, and not just a new immigrant.

When I was in the US, everyone that came to our shores was an immigrant, usually with something attached to that word that clarified their legal status. Often, it was whether they were documented or not, or whether they were a refugee, or whether they were actually only there for a temporary amount of time. I never used the term “new immigrant” for someone in the States, and I certainly never phrased their legal status in terms of physical ascension.

So why is it different here? The source of the word oleh is tied with the process of immigrating here, or making aliyah, both words describing going to a greater height, and the words have been used throughout Jewish history to describe things quite different than immigration. When a man is called to read the Torah, he is given an aliyah, and he often literally ascends from the ground floor where the parishioners sit to the bimah, the raised platform where the Torah is read. He is an oleh, he is someone who ascended to the Torah. When pilgrims would come to Jerusalem in the times of the Holy Temple, they would literally make aliyah, they would ascend to Mount Zion to offer sacrifices. Those pilgrims too were called olim. Today, when we say that someone is making aliyah, we are saying that he is ascending from the depths of the lands outside Israel to the heights of Zion. He rises from exile to the Holy Land.

But then there’s chadash. None of those people in the Bible were called “new,” and we don’t describe someone today as being a “new” oleh if it’s his first time being called to the Torah. It is a term uniquely Israeli, and one I don’t see a parallel for in the rest of the world from a legal perspective, at least not in the United States. No one would say that Miguel, or Mohammed, or Sven, or Jacques is a new immigrant after his first day in the country; but I am still “new” six months in.

I think it’s because we are creating here new Jews, Jews that think differently and behave differently than they ever could have outside of this land. As a people and as a nation, we are making strides here that are impossible in the rest of the world; but it is also deeply personal.

I am new. I can explore parts of my personality, my life, and my soul with new lenses. I can create goals for myself and grow in a way that I couldn’t have back in the States. Since I’ve been here, I’ve alternately felt like I just got here but that I’ve been here forever, that I am a different person but still the same in many ways. I know that when I go back to visit, I will never be able to be the man I once was. Life here changes you in ways that are incomprehensible and unexplainable. Just for an example: I feel completely at home here but I miss where I was from. I have a sense of homesickness in a place where my home always was. This is a land where there 70 faces to the truth, and it’s hard to keep track of them all. I feel like I can be myself here, but I am also painfully aware of how different I will always be. I feel the welcoming arms of strangers that see me as reunited kin, but at the same time I feel like a stranger in my own country. I feel like a refugee who fled from a place where I lacked for nothing to a home where I need to build everything. I am constantly confronted by the fact that I have gone up the the mountaintop, but that I feel like it is too strange for me to understand even though the mountain has always been mine.

So as this new year approaches, I want to bind my own personal novelty with the newness of this year. This is my first Rosh Hashanah in Israel, the start of my first year as someone who has returned. I’ve learned so much since I’ve been here, I’ve made amazing friends, and I’ve become a little more Israeli along the way. I still have so many dreams to fulfill, but I know that I must make goals to make those dreams more than just wishes and fantasies. I will need your help, and all I ask is for you to keep reading and maybe comment once or twice. If you feel like asking me to write about something ask, and please complain when I don’t write enough. I have a once in a lifetime chance to be new in a place greater than anyplace I have been before, and I don’t want to waste it.

May this next year only bring us good and sweet things, and in a revealed way. May we all increase in our love of one another, and all find love for ourselves. Shana Tovah y’all, see you in the year to come.