Life as a Rebel (or so They Say)

By Faye Davis, Director of Machon Maor Women’s Center for Jewish Studies

When I was 16 years old I decided I didn’t want to be Jewish anymore, or at least cut off my affiliation.

I had been raised in a traditional home, with weekly Friday night dinners, seasonal Chanukah parties, and even the yearly sukkah. I had attended Jewish day schools and Zionist camps in my youth, and a community Jewish high school in my teens.

My mother, a child of Holocaust survivors tried hard to raise us with a strong Jewish identity. The high holidays were always spent in shul followed by a festive gathering at my bubby and zaidy’s house. Chanukah never passed without eight nights of gifts, and Passover was always the time of year when the two ping-pong tables filled the living room, swarmed by folding chairs, for the thirty guests who would come to our seder, or to watch the NHL playoffs between Kaddesh and Shulchan Orech, or both.

However, despite all of my parent’s efforts, it just didn’t seem so meaningful when cast in the shadow of the social reality my school and camp life presented. Treetorn sneakers, Roots leather jackets, moussed curly hair, BMW’s on 16th birthdays, Beverly Hills 90210 addictions, and just so much meaningless talk. Jewish people were shallow. Materialistic. Petty. Judaism as presented in school was a fusion of history, and what seemed like mythology, neither of which was inspiring or relevant.

The summer following grade nine I began to dabble with the ideas of spiritual energies and spiritual worlds. A friend and I crafted a OUIJA board out of an old piece of wood….which led to experiences I still fear to rearticulate. We began to explore “new age” philosophies, and Buddhist ideals. Our discussions were deep. They transcended the meaninglessness of the world I knew. It was a separate reality, and I wanted in.

By the time I reached the summer before grade twelve, as far as I was concerned, I was heading out. Being Jewish was old news. My quest for a life rooted in a spiritual reality was on the brink, only ten months left to go in the Jewish bubble, and I am out of here!

Until….grade twelve arrived, and I had a “cool” Rabbinics teacher. He had been a hippie in the sixties, and knew all the ins-and-outs of who we were, and what we were up to. He was funny, and smart, and candid. He never shied away from talking to us about who he used to be, and the challenges of being who he was now. It was intriguing.

He was Jewish. He was orthodox. He was honest. He was a walking example of someone struggling to grow, and he talked about it. He would talk about the things he missed, and how, if he could, he would, but Truth is Truth, so what you want doesn’t matter. He never said those words explicitly, but that was the message, at least the one I got. So, I attached myself to him. I spent countless hours talking with him about all the things that bothered me about Judaism, all the things I hated about the world, all the things I believed in, struggled with, and yearned for.

I had always been a “rebel” in the conventional system I grew up in. My father often chastised me for being “everyone’s lawyer” because I would often get kicked out of class for defending a fellow student I felt a teacher had been picking on. I never took well to imposed authority, and often stood up for what I believed was right and just. I wasn’t exactly the type of child who accepted the status quo. Needless to say, it didn’t make me a candidate for teacher’s pet…or even 2nd or 20th in line. So between the shallow social world, and continual admonishment from the adult world, I was, to put it mildly, disenchanted with the world entire.

Adults were bullies, and my peers were either complacent and obedient, or sell-outs to pop culture. I would often scream “where are all the real people!?!”.

And I finally found one in my 12th grade Rabbinic’s teacher.

So, I started to think. If he was Jewish, and orthodox, and real, and deep, maybe I should explore Judaism a little bit more seriously before I sign off. With that in mind, following high school graduation, with my Birkenstocks and Bob Marley t-shirt in tow, I set off for Israel. I hadn’t a clue where to begin, other than to get on a plane, go to Jerusalem, and figure it out. So, I did. I found an apartment in the center of town and just waited for something to happen.

A few days in, I ran into a friend from home, who was attending Hebrew University for the year. He was on the promenade playing hacky-sack with a group of friends and invited me to join them on a trip to Sinai. They were leaving in an hour. Since I had no responsibilities, and no one to answer to, I ran home, packed a bag, and got on the midnight bus. After a few days in the small village of Dahab, the group of us (maybe 6 or 7) hitchhiked to a neighbouring village called Terabin. It was that ride, sitting in the back of a VERY rickety old pick up truck, that everything changed.

As we drove from village to village I couldn’t help but look up at the night sky. It was awesome. In the true sense of awe. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. No smog. Nothing. Just a pristine view of millions of stars and a full glowing white moon. It was overwhelming. I looked around me. The desert was endless, and in the radiance of the moon’s light, it was inspiring. It was then that I realized that there must be a Creator. How could it be that something so ineffable, so intense in its beauty, could not have an artist? It simply couldn’t be.

From there, the wheels of my mind concluded that if there was a Creator, He must have created the world with a purpose, and therefore if He created me as a Jew, my purpose must be to live as Jew. This epiphany simultaneously made my heart sink, but a weight lift.

There is purpose! There is meaning! The revelation was liberating.

However, the greatness of the task, the commitment to the search, and the necessity to change was intimidating.

Over the next ten months I attended classes all over the city, in women’s seminaries, co-ed programs, and in random people’s homes. The year passed quickly, and not without its highs and lows, but despite the challenges, I held onto my belief that there is a Creator, and He wants me to take this path.

My revelation did not lead me to jumping into mitzvah observance with two feet. I dipped my toes in slowly, pulled back, dipped again, and very slowly, over several years, immersed.

I had remembered learning that the Jewish people had said “na’aseh v’nishma” (we will do, and then we will understand), when they received the Torah on Har Sinai, and so I did the same. “G-d, I will do it, and I am trusting that You will show me why it is good”. It was with that commitment and trust that I began to walk.

Upon my return home, I took on some level of mitzvos. I stopped eating cheeseburgers, and defined Shabbos by not driving, cooking, or writing. Over the next several years, and in very small steps, I came to observe Kashrus and Shabbos properly. From no cheeseburgers, it became no unkosher meat, then no cooked foods in unkosher restaurants, then only salads, then only drinks.

Shabbos evolved from no writing, cooking, and driving, to no phone, no money, no turning on the TV (but I could change the channels if it was already on), to only Jewish content videos, like Fiddler on the Roof (the VCR turned on before Shabbos), to only watching anything after 5 pm, if I were having a meltdown out of boredom. The closest shul to my house was over an hour walking distance, and I wasn’t one for spending Shabbos in the homes of strangers. So, Shabbos was often a lonely time. It was just me, Hashem, and my German Sheppard. Some weeks it was incredibly challenging and for years (literally) I sat by the clock, waiting for Shabbos to end. Waiting for the nishma.

Entering university threw a whole new set of challenges on the table, which I have the sincerest kavannah in thanking Hashem for saving me from. To fortify myself, I returned to Israel during my summer vacations and after graduation, to steep myself in the haven of the Holy Land and the walls of seminary. During my second last trip to Israel, following graduation, I enrolled in a women’s program that really allowed me to explore Judaism in my own way, at my own pace, with the books I wanted.

At the time I was heavily focused on learning mussar, as I was determined to smooth out the many rough edges I had acquired over the years. The first week of school I asked the rabbi who taught the mussar shiur if he would be willing to learn with me one-on-one, as I felt the once a week class was highly insufficient for my lofty goals. He agreed to meet with me twice a week for an hour. It was like winning the jackpot. Until the psychology the mussar approach bore in me began to nit-pick my self-concept into depression.

My jackpot winning didn’t seem to be going so well. I approached the rabbi and told him that I was feeling quite down as a result of what we had been doing and that maybe we should shift gears. I had heard of Chassidus but didn’t really know what it was, other then being the “happy” approach to Torah. I asked him if he would learn that with me instead. He agreed. We explored many different Chassidic writings including, Sfas Emes, Rav Nachman, and Netivot Shalom. Learning Chassidus was like breaking through the surface of the ocean, after being submerged for too long . My insides began to expand, the oxygen coursing through my veins was vivifying. I felt alive. I felt very alive.

At the conclusion of that year of learning, and my return home, I was desperate to continue to swim in the seas of Chassidus. But where was I to go?

The only Chassidim I felt I had access to were the Lubavitchers. I knew there was a Ger community somewhere, and I had heard about a few Breslov families, but would they welcome someone like me into their community? I didn’t know, and I didn’t know where to go to find out.

So, with a slight hesitation, I drove to the local Chabad house and introduced myself to one of the rabbis. I explained that I wasn’t interested in “joining the club” but I wanted to learn.

I began attending a weekly class on Women in Tanach, and I got hooked. The depth, the breadth, it was Judaism as I had never heard it before. As I continued to explore the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbeim I felt a deep sense of connection when I learned about the absolute connectedness every Jew has to The One Above, despite his/her level of observance or knowledge of Torah. We are all His children, and He doesn’t love the orthodox more than the secular. He loves us all. I was also taken by the lessons in Tanya that teach that the Jewish people are one body, and that the health and well-being of every member of our people is relevant to the whole. We are more than just a family, we are a singular entity. As I was discovering the beauty of Judaism through Chabad Chassidus, I was busy working towards my teaching degree with the goal of moving back to Jerusalem permanently. I wanted to live inspired, and Jerusalem was the place to do it. But as the year passed by, and my teaching placement began, (in the Jewish high school I once scorned as a student), I began to reconsider. I was a very popular teacher amongst the student body and couldn’t help but feel a sense of responsibility to try and revive the dormant spark that lay within them.

How could I justify living a spiritually inspired life in Israel while so many of my brothers and sisters are living detached and indifferent? It didn’t take long before my vision of life in the Holy Land began to fade, and a strong sense of obligation set in. My teaching placement ended with an offer for a full time position in the social science department, which I accepted joyfully. The following summer I immersed myself in seminary in the holy city of Tzfas, and when I arrived home, I began my teaching career.

I taught Freud and Tanya, side by side. My students dissected the creation of Eve, as we studied the differences between men and women, and the ways in which we communicate. Wherever I found a space for Torah, I filled it. The next five years passed, with time spent learning in Brooklyn, my engagement and marriage, and the birth of my first two sons.

After my second son was born I decided to leave my teaching position and dedicate myself to raising my children full time. However, by the time my third son was born I was itching for the intellectual discussions and personal relationships I had enjoyed so much as a teacher. I no longer felt suited to teach at my old high school. I had grown, and changed, and it just didn’t seem like the right fit anymore.

With the absence of a conventional classroom, there is nothing I enjoyed more than the many young women who frequented our Shabbos table. They reminded me of myself. They were excited about Torah. They were bursting with sincere questions. They wanted to learn and grow. I missed that energy. I love being surrounded by it.

And so, with them in mind, and the memories of my own experiences on the path of return, I decided to create a program which would allow young women to bring their questions and flush them out. A program that would inspire them to continue to seek, and grow, and spread their wings.

Machon Maor – Women’s Center for Jewish Studies is that program. The program offers a wide of variety of courses including everything from Halacha, and Kuzari, to Tanya, Pirkei Avos, and Women in Tanach (taught by the same teacher whose class I attended so many years ago).

It follows the format of many of the seminaries I attended in the Holy Land, consisting of a full day of classes, optional extra-curricular activities, trips, and weekly Shabbos arrangements. The philosophy of the program is “think!” Be present. Be engaged. I am a very strong believer that the only way to have a healthy yiddishkeit is to own it.

When ba’al teshuvas take on all the external trappings but fail to cultivate their inner connection, it becomes very difficult to endure the challenges this life change often brings. Just like a tree needs strong roots to weather the storm, so to do people. For the ba’al teshuva, strong roots are born of grappling with questions, actively pursuing knowledge, and being honest and truthful about who you are.

The goal of Machon Maor is to provide a positive, warm, and welcoming environment in which to explore our rich inheritance, with self awareness, integrity, and honesty. There is always so much to learn, and having a place where students can be themselves is the best kind of place in which to do it…and the journey continues.

For more info visit www.machonmaor.com.