
Mil gracias a mi amigo Rabino Charles Arian de Norwich, CT por la foto. El rabino Marshall era de Norwich y está enterrado ahí.
A mark of the anti-Maimonidean ideology (whereby zeal displaces halakhah) is the sanction of violence as a legitimate means for the implementation of “religion.” José Faur
Hoy, en uno de los artículos más interesantes que he leído en El PASQUÍN (que de último se ha dedicado casi exclusivamente a alimentar la paranoia de una guerra con Venezuela), el autor describe el curioso fenómeno de que varios colombianos están abandonando el catolicismo para convertirse a otras religiones. Aparte del obvio fenómeno del éxito protestante y evangélico en Colombia, el autor trae las historias de tres compatriotas que se han convertido o se quieren convertir al Islam, al judaísmo y al Krishna-ismo (?). Aparte de los garrafales errores e imprecisiones cometidos por el autor o por los entrevistados (como afirmar que el judaísmo cree que Jesús eas un profeta- ello no es cierto), el artículo es una bonita pieza de "interés humano" y una ventana al creciente fenómeno de la diversidad religiosa de nuestro país. Como siempre, la discusión en los foros llegó a los más bajos niveles. En este caso los foristas se dividen en tres grupos: a.) los ateos: que castigan cualquier tipo de religión, b.) los protestantes: que explican las razones por las cuales su iglesia es la verdadera y el catolicismo falso (cosas del estilo "las religiones no salvan, Jesús sí") y c.) los católicos: que acusan a los protestantes de ser estafadores y lamentan el hecho de que la gente se haya alejado de la iglesia por los pecados de unos "pocos clérigos". 


Mychal and Riki live off the land and have creative professions. As for myself, as it is obvious in the picture, I could never make a living out of basket weaving. (However, I am very attached to my basket no matter how misshaped and uncomely.)
After the basket weaving we decided to make our way up the hill all the way to the oasis of Ein Gedi ("The spring of the Goat" in Hebrew) which involved huffing and puffing up an incredible incline full of rocks overlooking the Dead Sea. After braving the rockslides and the throngs of Ultraorthodox Jews who, for no apparent reason, were all hiking this path in the middle of a hot spring afternoon in their complete Polish garb (black hat and all), we reached the top of the hill and were rewarded by the crystal pool of Ein Gedi whose waters are cool and delicious (and a great place to put your tired, dusty feet after a long hike). Soon after it started to rain (with lightning and thunder and we had to hurry down the path, risking life and limb. I am sorry there are no pictures of that, we are not the National Geographic Society.)
Ein Gedi from below (yes, yes we climbed all the way up that hill and at 30 C no less).
The kibbutz's palm groves as seen from halfway up the trail. Ein Gedi is an oasis of lush vegetation in the middle of one of the harshest deserts in the world. The pool of blue in the background is Yam Hamelach (the Dead Sea): the lowest point in the world (400 m below sea level) and the saltiest body of water on the planet (nothing can live in its waters). Such fun factoids only make the miracle of Ein Gedi more amazing. Indeed, as King Solomon said, "My beloved is unto me as a cluster of henna-flowers In the vineyards of En-gedi." (Song of Songs 1.14)
At last, the waters of Ein Gedi. (This pool of three meters of diameter feeds all the green in the valley below. Thus is the power of water in the desert.) Later that afternoon we met with our guide, Tamir, and set up camp amidst the ruins of the old kibbutz. The day ended with us trying to learn to light fire without matches and with long meditative walks around the nearby forest practicing the chasidic art of hitbodedut (isolation) espontaneous conversations with God in solitude.[M]y major thesis this morning is that what is happening with the globalization of religion is a globalization of pluralism. Pluralism, which was a much more geographically, much more limited phenomenon 150 or 200 years ago, has become a global phenomenon, and that has enormous implications.


If you did not know that they are separated by only a handful of kilometers and by a fourty minute bus ride, you could probably end up believing that Tel Aviv and Jerusalem are in different countries. In some cases, you could even end up believing that they are different planets. Jerusalem is one of the oldest cities in the world. Burdened and marked by the endless battles that have refreshed its walls with a new color of red every time: Jebusite and Hebrew, Assyrian and Jewish, Greek and Roman, Byzantine and Arab, Crusader and Turk, European and Levantine, Israeli and Palestinian.
Its stones are worth more in words and prayers of millions of souls who every day carry it in their lips and in their hearts and by reinventing it in their minds, betray it. Its alleyways are crooked and made of white slippery stone, like lipidous veins of an enormous lythic animal. No other city is Jewish as Jerusalem is Jewish. Tel Aviv is the among the newest cities in the world. Barely one hundred years old, it grows like a cancer on the side of the oldest port in the world: Jaffa, the city of Casiopea and Andromeda, the Kraken's playhouse.
The only purpose of this city was to create the new Jew, unencumbered by the dust and the stones of old Jerusalem. Moreover, the only purpose of Tel Aviv was to be Jerusalem's antithesis, its brilliant new replacement. It's streets are wide and full of trees. The only old thing in Tel Aviv is the lottery signs that get washed with the new rains.
Tel Aviv's shore is forever young and changing, ebbing with the tides, while Jerusalem holds with its stone talons the sides of the unalterable mountains of Judea. Jerusalem has monasterys and synagogues. Tel Aviv has massage-parlors and discotheques. Jerusalem has the Wall. Tel Aviv has the beach. Jerusalem has the stubborness of the faithful. Tel Aviv has the carelessness of the cosmopolitan.
Jerusalem is an old woman, beautiful and wise but set in her ways. Tel Aviv is a friendly coquette, voluptous and inviting. Jerusalem looks perpetually to the past. Tel Aviv is the future, running away from yesterday.
The carrousers arrive also silently, in cabs and mopeds, covered by the evening fog. Trying to savour the contained rebelliousness of their dancing. Pouring their pagan joy in the dusty walls of the compound that muffle the beat of the music and protects the city outside. These are wary bacchanals, self-conscious menads. Somewhere in the middle of these two extremes there is life to be had. There is a road and fourty minutes and a country. Sometimes, when the rain stops, there are also cows.
The Israel Museum with five centimeters of snow.
The Knesset (Israeli Parliament) with snow.
The walls of the Old City with some of the snow still on the ground. (15th century walls with snow from yesterday and a tree from thirty years ago.)
Last night in the middle of the storm: a palm tree heavy with ice.