As an interfaith child, I tend to avoid "interfaith" conferences. Religious leaders inevitably describe the ideal interfaith encounter as one in which we must gird our religious loins in order to cross a bridge and embrace the "other," without being pulled down into that muddy, syncretic, dangerous space between us, below the bridge. Then, after a respectful hug, both parties return to their respective sides, enlightened but affirming the depth of their own religious convictions.This imagery poses a problem for those of us from interfaith families, especially those of us who are interfaith children. Some of us inconveniently insist on living on the bridge itself, or possibly under it, like trolls. We do not belong on one side, or the other. Or we feel we belong equally on both sides, and insist on traveling from one side to the other, in the space of a lifetime, or in the space of a conversation.

But yesterday, I tried to suspend my suspicions and personal complexities, and to some degree my irony, to go down to the National Press Club in Washington for the unveiling of the "Charter of Compassion." The Charter was created to unify and inspire people from every religion, and no religion, with the idea that we must put compassion at the center of our lives and world.

I was drawn in, principally, by Karen Armstrong, former Catholic nun and a religious writer both notorious and celebrated for thinking outside the box. As she told us today, "I don't think belief is very important." A radical statement from a religious thinker, but one that works perfectly for me as an interfaith child who has spent a lifetime integrating two religions while being told that they are somehow mutually exclusive.

The Charter came about after Armstrong won the groovy TED Prize last year, and TED granted her wish to create the Charter of Compassion. Religious luminaries signed on to support the project, including everyone from the Dalai Lama to Archbishop Desmond Tutu.

Three aspects of the Charter project, besides the leadership of Armstrong, made this more than just another typically sappy interfaith declaration: first, the hipster TED folks convinced Armstrong to let the Charter evolve through a massive online collaborative free-for-all: thousands of people posted ideas about what should go into the Charter. (TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design). As a blogger, I was intrigued by this techno-savvy commitment to user-generated content, or crowdsourcing, in the world of ideas. At the press conference, Rabbi David Saperstein called this "one of the most collaborative undertakings in religious history," and predicted that it could have a "transformative impact."

Second, Armstrong specifically encouraged atheists and agnostics to be part of the process. The basis of the Charter is the idea that the Golden Rule is a central tenet of all major religions. But the acknowledgement of the importance and contributions of "non-believers," as President Obama affectionately calls them, is novel and daring.

Third, the Charter itself includes some edgy statements. For one, it calls on us to acknowledge that "any interpretation of scripture that breeds violence, hatred or disdain is illegitimate" and that some of us have "increased the sum of human misery in the name of religion." So very true, but strong stuff that. At the press conference, Armstrong said she was determined not to "try to mask the less than flattering aspects of religion."

The charter also calls on us to "ensure that youth are given accurate and respectful information about other traditions, religions and cultures." That is music to the ears of interfaith families who brave the disapproval of religious institutions to educate their children about even two religions

In the last forty-eight hours, the Charter has been unveiled and mounted on the walls of houses of worship, and secular spaces, including the the Sydney Opera House, the Garden of Forgiveness in Beirut, the Ramallah Friends Meeting House, and both the National Cathedral and the Washington Hebrew Congregation in DC. Around the world, today and through the weekend, communities are staging readings of the charter, a sort of benediction and charge to mobilize interfaith love. Suspend your snark-o-meter and read it. I expected platitudes, and instead encountered bracing challenges and frank talk.

Last night, as I was reading comments to yesterday's post, Multiple Spirituality Disorder, it finally occurred to me that I may be witnessing a generational shift in attitudes and perspectives toward interfaith dialogue and identity. (Does that make me a great sociologist or what? Graduate school at NYU was not wasted on me!)

These days, the world of Jewish-Christian dialogue is pretty messy, although it might not seem that way at Jewcy.com.  My week of writing and hanging out at this site has been a source of great comfort and several very good laughs.

Here, it seems, everyone takes everyone else's self-referent irreverence in stride. Here, making a big deal over the distinction between identity and practice seems to be no big deal. Here, intra-tribal warfare seems to be waged with exponentially less vitriol that it is in other venues.  Here, tikkun seems possible; that the shattered world of Christian-Jewish relations might be repaired a teensy bit.  I hope this is true because my generation has and, as far as I can tell is still, screwing it up.

My experience as an American Jew is anchored in an earlier time in history, a point when anti-Semitism was blatant and acceptable. I was in junior high when Tom Lehrer wrote and sang, "National Brotherhood Week," which included the rueful big-laugh line, "And everyone hates the Jews."  This helped shape my identity as a Jew and, as I'd discover, future interactions with other Jews about my embrace of Christianity.

Calling something a "dialogue" doesn't make it one. In my book Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? I reprinted copies of significant dialogue documents issued by the liturgical churches as well as by the text for Dabru Emet (appearing as a full-page ad in The New York Times on September 10, 2000) and A Sacred Obligation (issued by the Christian Scholars Group on Christian-Jewish Relations). They're moving documents that become even more so considering when they were written.

Still, if my experience in writing my book is any indication, we have a long way to go.  Case in point: the pissing contest with one (Jewish, younger, scholar) reviewer over the proper transliteration of the Hebrew word for "holy."  What do you think it is?  Kodesh? Kodosh? Kadosh?  Choose the "wrong" one and your identity could be suspect.

At one point, my Conservadox Jewish therapist said, "Forget about the Jews. They're not your audience." Perhaps not, but given the realities of interfaith marriage it's time to know more about our shared heritage. For Christians, this means understanding our Jewish roots. For Jews, this means understanding how our legacy endures in other religious traditions. Dayenu? Probably not.

Given the option, I write in "multiple spirituality disorder" whenever asked to declare my religion. I started doing this once I noticed how checking "Catholic" would obliterate first checking "Jewish." I also noticed that if I checked "Christian," "Catholic" would disappear which, at times, is fine with me. Other times, it is not.

Multiple spirituality disorder? Makes for a good laugh and some great conversation, but it's probably more accurate to say my cultural identity is Jewish, although my religious practice clearly is not. In this regard, I'm not all that different from Jews who embrace Jewish culture while rejecting Jewish religious practices. Okay, what's different, of course, is that Jesus as Christ thing.

But why Catholic?

Want to take an educated guess at how many times I get asked about my choice of preferred provider for worship? It's an excellent question, especially given the Roman church's long, despicable history of anti-Judaism and anti-Semitism.* I could do without how the question is usually posed.

To her everlasting credit, my mother, a retired Judaica editor, has always been intellectually curious about my journey. And because of the content and tone of her questions, I've been able to respond rather than react. I mention this because, in general, the vibe coming at me is not conducive to anything that might approximate dialogue. We do want dialogue, right?

I'm thinking specifically of someone at an Episcopal church who after asking if I was a priest, physically recoiled when I copped to being Roman Catholic. I've been asked if I'm stupid or crazy, usually by Cradle Catholics and other Jews. Depending on who pops the question, I'll take it as an opportunity to point out how one cannot become a lapsed Catholic without first becoming Catholic. My more reasoned responses are designed to generate a conversation about similarities rather than differences. We do want conversations, right?

To be clear: the Roman Catholic church breaks my heart and flips my stomach on a regular basis. I'm told my angst is normal.

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Rabbi Susie (maybe her real name) is looking at me with great perplexity. She seems to be having difficulty producing an entire sentence in more than a few words at a time. She's also doing that quizzical tone thing that some might find disarming. I perceive it as hostile. "So, you're Catholic? . . . but you're Jewish?"

We're in the green room before taping a show produced by a Catholic diocese, hosted by a priest and a rabbi. I have found out at the last possible minute that I am not the sole guest, as initially promised and invited.

I'm supposed to be talking about how so many of the home-based traditions observed by Catholic Christians do, in fact, find their roots in Jewish practices. Some of these connections are obvious, like the tradition of reciting blessings before and after meals. Some are less so, like including obvious symbols of religious identity as part of home décor. Even some non-observant Jews will affix a mezuzah to doorways, just as some non-religious Catholics will hang a crucifix in their bedrooms. (No, I am not saying that mezuzah = crucifix. If you think I am, then pretty please think at a more meta level.)

My being born and raised Jewish is apparently not enough. Someone has decided that I need either rabbinical supervision or company on the show. I suspect it's the former because Rabbi Susie asks, "and you . . . go to synagogue?"

I dearly want to tell her that but if not for the women of my generation, she wouldn't be a rabbi at all. Instead, I say something about not feeling welcome in synagogues.

Rabbi Susie looks even more perplexed. If a thought bubble could appear over her head, I'm sure it would be inscribed with something like, "Why the Gehenna would you even want to attend synagogue?" My thought bubble back would be inscribed with...

I'm irked. I want this rabbi, allegedly so keen on Christian-Jewish dialogue, to stop being so partisan and parochial. I would like Rabbi Susie to have a little historical perspective, to recall that Judaism may have always been monotheistic but was never monolithic. I'd like her to remember that plenty of contemporary Jews don't bother with religious practices but consider themselves culturally Jewish. (Note: Check out Patrick Aleph's post, "What Flavor of New Jew Are You?)

"Well," I say as nicely as I can muster, "one does not suddenly stop being a Jew." But Rabbi Susie still looks very confused and slightly troubled by this, so I decide to stop being so nice and mention St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross.

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Jerusalem was busy last week as thousands descended on the city for Sukkot and the annual Jerusalem March. This year's march drew around 70,000 people, up from the 35,000 who participated in 2008. 20,000 police stood by on Tuesday to oversee the controversial event, after what has already been a tense week in Jerusalem. Thousands of Christians also took part in the march, attending as part of a Feast of Tabernacles celebration hosted by the International Christian Embassy of Jerusalem (ICEJ).

Christian presence is a by now a familiar part of the Sukkot milieu, but Israelis have yet to decide what to make of these "friends of Israel." Rabbi Tovia Singer has warned that the Christian congregants want to "prey on" rather than "pray for" Israel, and in 2007 the Chief Rabbinate forbade Jews from taking part in the march and other events with ICEJ presence. Minister of Tourism Stash Misezhnikov, however, has justified the event, stating that the Feast of Tabernacles is the largest annual tourist event in Israel, and is expected to generate between $16 and 18 million in revenue.

Who are these "Christian Zionists," and should they be welcomed by Israelis? These questions return each year, and have also surfaced occasionally during events like the death of Christian fundamentalist Jerry Falwall in 2007. Israeli journalist Evan Goldstein at the time pointed out that "philo-Semites, like Falwell, seem to relate to Jews more as mythical figures from the Bible than as real living, breathing people." His analysis was based on the thoughts of German philosopher Ernst Bloch, who wrote that a "philo-Semite is an anti-Semite that loves Jews."

As an American Christian who has lived and worked in Israel, I think Goldstein's diagnosis strikes at the heart of the problem. For many Christians the term "Jews" is understood to denote a homogenous group, often conceptualized as characters in a modern retelling of the Biblical narrative. To visit Israel is to enter into that narrative, as is reflected in the names of Christian Zionist tours: Bridges for Peace offers "Land of the Bible" experiences, the ICEJ gives "Grafted In" tours, CFOIC runs tours of "Judea and Samaria," and the Christian Friends of Israel lead a "Meet the People" tour. With the ICEJ you can even "adopt a holocaust survivor" for $250 a month.The problem of "meeting the people" is that in these discourses, the people are the tourist attraction, living figurines in a life-size diorama of Biblical past and prophecy.

When I moved to Israel in 2005, I came equipped with this American Christian picture of Israelis as "Biblical," religious, and European. What I found was a diverse and modern nation of secular, traditional, and religious Jews. Some were of European descent, but there were also Russian, Ethiopian, Iraqi, Yemeni, and many other ethnicities. Among Israeli society I also found a broad variety of opinions on the conflict, and a greater freedom of dialogue than exists in American politics (where the conflict is reduced to a choice between being "pro-Israel" and being labeled an "anti-Semite" or "self-hating Jew").

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When I was finishing my book What Else But Home: Seven Boys and an American Journey Between the Projects and the Penthouse and beginning to consider market segments that would be interested in the story I've told of race, class and family, I was excited in a "eureka!" moment to believe that the progressive Christian sanctity communities I'd been coming across of would be a perfect audience for my book, and for me for their work. I figured that our story- a White couple with two White sons in New York City meeting five disadvantaged Black and Latino teenage boys on a blacktop baseball field, welcoming the boys into our home and also becoming our sons, then the story of navigating the whole ship of boys to safe harbor - would naturally to be of interest to religion-based groups dedicated to the Biblical call to social justice. I hoped for a dialogue on repairing the world-what to me was tikkun olam. Jesus had dedicated his life to the sanctity of love and compassion. Caring for others unable to care for themselves was paramount. He'd become, therefore, one of my heroes: the G-d I most listened to spoke through Matthew 25, and thus spoke to and through our odd, extended family-Jews, Catholics and one Protestant; Dominican, Puerto Rican, African-American and White; English and Spanish speaking; born poor and born rich; adopted and not. Matthew 25 reads:

 

³⁵ for I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; ³⁶ I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.' ³⁷ "Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? ³⁸ When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? ³⁹ Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?' ⁴⁰ And the King will answer and say to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.'

 

I'm not naturally inclined to prayers printed in books. I sit in the back of my synagogue most Shabbats an Orthodox shul on New York's Lower East Side. I wrap myself in my tallit and read Thich Nhat Han and Jeanette Winterson. I stand when others stand, I sit when they sit. I listen when the rabbi gives his sermon. I'm built for praying with my hands and feet. Which is why, already in affection for his poetry and compassion, I fell in love with Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel for his practice. Asked why he marched from Selma to Montgomery arm in arm with Reverend Martin Luther King and others, Rabbi Heschel answered, "When I march in Selma, my feet are praying." Rabbi Heschel also said. "We are commanded to love our neighbor: this must mean that we can." That was a lesson I learned accidentally when our older son Ripton invited a baseball field of new teammates back to our home.

 

I began following some Christian writers and websites speaking of social justice. I wanted to walk across that narrow bridge with them. I bought a subscription to the Sojourners magazine (the paper one, hopelessly old school of me) and to their daily email blasts. I applied to the Sojourners conference on "Ending Poverty" for a place to participate. I thought I could contribute. Our five bigger boys were born into impoverished, disadvantaged homes. All eventually became single mother families. They were from public or other subsidized housing. Two of their dads had been murdered; one mom had died of drugs and AIDS; another dad had died of drugs and jail; a number of their brothers were drug dealers because that was the way they knew to put food on the table, buy clothes and pay the utility bills; some my son's brothers had spent years in jail; before we met, some of my sons went hungry at the end of each month when their mother's assistance checks had been spent; the family of one of my sons had plummeted into the homeless shelter system; on and more. But with the support, rigor and expectations of our home, each of the five boys we'd brought in had gone on to college, unheard of in their own families.

 

Sojourners had no room for me. I had applied late. I'm not a celebrity. Restaurants and hotels seem to keep space for the famous; I do understand that every seat might have been full.

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It is a sticky August evening in Garrison, New York. I'm sitting on a park bench at a retreat center with a woman I've only just met. I'm wearing capris, a tank top, and my rainbow kippah. She's wearing a turtleneck and long dress with her hair tucked under a scarf. Our assignment is to teach each other a favorite text from our own holy scriptures. She is a Muslim and I am a Jew.

I've chosen Psalm 27, since the month of Elul is fast approaching and it's customary to read the psalm daily during that month of spiritual preparation. We read two English translations, one from JPS and the other from my rebbe, Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi. "Yah, You are my light," Reb Zalman begins. We talk about the psalms writ large and what it's like to pray them.

She opens her vinyl-covered pocket Qur'an to surat An-Nur, "The Light," and I open the translation I brought with me. "Allah is the Light of the heavens and of the earth," begins Fakhry's translation. We talk about what each of us thinks it means to speak of God in these terms. The sky over the lake turns pink and then darkens. When we turn to go inside, the meadow is filled with fireflies.

*

There are eighteen participants in the first Retreat for Emerging Jewish and Muslim Religious Leaders, organized by the office of multifaith initiatives at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College. We have been carefully hand-picked. The Jews present were recommended by the heads of our various rabbinic programs as people likely to find this kind of interfaith encounter fruitful. The Muslims present aren't clergy students (since, it turns out, their clergy formation process doesn't map neatly to ours) but scholars, academics, community leaders, lay leaders. Many of them are Muslim Leaders of Tomorrow.

The formal structure for our time together revolves around studying one of the stories our two traditions hold in common: not the Abraham/Ibrahim, Isaac and Ishmael tale around which most Abrahamic initiatives are based, but the story of Joseph/Yusuf. Two Jewish scholars and two Muslim scholars will delve deep into the story and its commentaries over the course of our week together.

We read Tanakh and Qur'an, midrash and tafsir. Each of our teachers illuminates a different facet of this shared story. Raquel Ukeles teaches us about intertextuality in the Joseph narratives, Sherman Jackson provides a Blackamerican Muslim perspective on the ambiguity of love in the twin Joseph stories, Rabbi Or Rose offers Hasidic teachings on the Joseph cycle as a spiritual journey, and Mahmoud Ayoub teaches us about the Yusuf story as a lesson in repentance, love, and forgiveness.

If this were the entirety of the retreat experience, dayenu: it would have been enough.

*

Four small subgroups are formed within our larger cohort, each tasked with a project. The first group organizes a storytelling circle: one night we sit on floor pillows and pass a microphone around. We're invited to share love stories, then to share grandparent stories, which turn into immigration stories and then freeform stories about who we are and where we're coming from.

The first couple of tales are tentative, but then we start to loosen up. It's the "grandparent" theme that really gets us going. Despite our considerable differences, we all had beloved grandparents and we all want to share something of how they made us who we are.

One of the retreat organizers tiptoes out and returns with milk and cookies. We tell stories and we nosh. By the end of the evening, I'm starting to feel less like I need to be on my best behavior, and more like I can let some of my personality shine through.

The second group project is a session of intrafaith dialogue, e.g. dialogue within (rather than between) our religious-community groups. The Jews gather in the Jewish prayer space, the Muslims gather in the Muslim prayer space, and each group takes half an hour to talk about what the retreat has been like for us so far, what we're learning, what's been good, what's been hard. Not for the first time I'm amazed by the simple fact of sitting in a circle with rabbinic students from Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist and Orthodox seminaries (plus the other two transdenominational seminaries besides my own.)

I say something about that, and everyone laughs a little. And then I say the thing that's been bothering me all week: I know how different we are from one another. But I don't know enough about the Muslim cohort to know what their differences are. I don't even know what questions to ask. We all know the terms Sunni and Shia, but what do they mean in practice? I can see variations of dress in the Muslim students, but what do those imply? What do I not even realize that I don't know?

When the two groups reconvene, the students in charge of the session take a new tack. They invite us to take turns, one Muslim speaking and then one Jew speaking, asking questions of one another. We come up with an incisive list of the things we don't know about each other but wish we did. This is the first time that I hear someone outwardly name the elephant in the room, the issue of Israel and Palestine, and it feels to me as though the room breathes a collective sigh of relief.

On the first night of the retreat, the subject of travel in Israel came up at the dinner table. (Of course all of the rabbinic students have spent time there; our perspectives differ, but it's a natural area of conversational common ground for us.)  I felt awkward, worried that the Muslims at our table might feel alienated but unsure how to ask them what the conversation was like for them.

Now, a few days in to our learning together, one of the Muslim professors asks a question about how Jews perceive Israel and the energy in the room shifts. One of our potential points of contention has been raised and the sky hasn't fallen. I feel as though an invisible weight has been lifted.

*

My small group gets the privilege of leading the session entitled "difficult conversations." When we meet early in the retreat to begin planning, we begin cautiously by asking each other what we think the difficult conversations are. Slowly we shift into talking about the stereotypes that each group holds of the other.

Often the same stereotypes cut in both directions. Each of our communities has a tendency to feel that the other is more powerful. The Jews say: but there are so many of you; Israel is surrounded by hostile nations! And the Muslims say: but you are so disproportionately powerful given your small numbers! As we share with each other what we've heard in our communities, we wear the same chagrined expressions.

We decide to begin our session with a roleplay. I will announce that we are on flight such-and-such from JFK to Heathrow and that I am our flight attendant. Then I will walk over to my two fellow retreatants, seated on chairs in the middle of the circle, and say, "I have a halal meal and a kosher meal...?" and pantomime handing one to each.

In the ensuing conversation, my two classmates will aim to work in as many obnoxious stereotypes as possible. We decide to do a trial run, so I pretend to hand the meals to them and then I sit back to see what they will do.

"Give me that," the Muslim says. "You took the wrong meal." Then he mutters, "Just like a Jew -- taking what doesn't belong to her!" It's an appalling remark, and yet in this moment it's hilarious; I have to fight back a giggle. His Jewish counterpart doesn't miss a beat: "Excuse me? I'm offended! Are you talking about my homeland, the land of Israel?" And they're off.

A few minutes later we notice that one of our fellow retreatants is standing near us, eyes wide as saucers. "We're practicing a roleplay," one of my cohorts says hastily. The retreatant who overheard the conversation bursts into relieved laughter.

We tweak her about it for the rest of the retreat -- "you didn't honestly think that was real, did you?" But of course it could have been. Each group harbors fears of the other. Maybe what's most miraculous about this retreat is that we're beginning to name those fears, and to hear each other naming them...and then  we sit down to eat and talk about life and work, parents and children. Not ignoring the tough stuff, but not allowing it to define us, either.

We grow bolder. One of my colleagues asks me about my kippah: what does it mean, why am I the only woman wearing one, what do the colors signify? In return I learn about the Ismaili tradition of which she is a part, where in smaller communities women may serve as lay leaders and pastoral counselors.

I know that there are divides within each group which remain hidden. That African-American Muslims, Arab Muslims, and South Asian Muslims have different experiences and priorities doesn't come up until the "difficult conversations" session, when one South Asian Muslim notes that the Israel/Palestine issue isn't a central issue for her as it is for some of her colleagues.

By the same token, the Jewish participants generally don't raise the places where we diverge, issues of sexuality and LGBT ordination and who counts in a minyan. But even with these issues largely unspoken, we're still learning about each others' communities, and everything we learn nuances our understanding.

At lunch, a Muslim participant asks how long women have been writing midrash, crafting Torah commentary, ordained as rabbis. She seems galvanized by our response. We talk about Amina Wadud, who has been leading mixed-gender Muslim prayer since 2005. What was once inconceivable is already a reality, even if it's not yet comfortable or mainstream. What else which once seemed impossible is within our grasp?

*

As the week ends, the Jews are on the cusp of the month of Elul, a month of prayer and contemplation and the inner work of teshuvah (repentance/return.) The Muslims are on the cusp of Ramadan, which could be described in much the same way.

We hug and shake hands, we agree to meet on the internet. We brainstorm a list of ways we can continue to work together. What would it be like to bring each other to events in our own communities? Can we teach together? Can we write together? How can we ensure that the fragile friendships we're beginning to build outlast our visit to the Garrison Center? And, most importantly, how can we share some of this sense of transformed relationship with the people in our communities who aren't here?

On Shabbat, at the kiddush after morning services, I tell a group of people where I've been all week. "Why don't we ever hear about Muslim clergy denouncing violence?" one of the congregants at my shul asks. There is a note of gotcha! in his voice.

"Because our media doesn't report it," I say. "Or because it's being said in a foreign language and we don't understand it. Or because it's not news. Or because we're not listening. But it's not because they're not saying it."

He looks startled, but apparently decides to take my word for it. I wonder how many of my new Muslim friends found themselves in a similar position at the masjid when they got home -- when they said they'd spent several days studying texts and forming connections with Jews, what push-back did they encounter?

The family of Abraham has long been at loggerheads, but this retreat shows me that we can do better. (I would argue that we must.) Both of our traditions name us as spiritual cousins. Being related doesn't necessarily mean that we always like everything about each other-anyone with an extended family knows that. But I'd rather be on speaking terms, even though our family tree is sometimes warped by our history.

**
Islamic theology forbids images. The calligraphy that opens this piece is from Muslim-canada.org and by the artist Yusuf Ali. It is from the verses on Light and can be translated to mean:

 Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The Parable of Hs Light is as if there were a Niche and within it a Lamp: the Lamp [is] enclosed in Glass: the glass [is] as it were a brilliant star: lit from a blessed Tree, an Olive, neither of the East nor of the West, whose oil is well nigh luminous, though fire scarce touched it: Light upon Light! Allah doth guide whom He will to His Light: Allah doth set forth Parables for men and Allah doth know all things. Qur'an 24:35

You know, just when I write off the Reform movement they come at me with this amazing programming and I have to admit how much they rock. Check out this article from The Washington Post:
Eric Yoffie: suddenly kind of hot

Jews and Muslims Set Up Big Interfaith Effort

By Michelle Boorstein

Two major Jewish and Muslim organizations unveiled an interfaith dialogue curriculum yesterday and are urging their hundreds of thousands of members to use it. Both sides say it is the broadest Jewish-Muslim interfaith effort in the continent's history.

Rabbi Eric H. Yoffie, president of the Union for Reform Judaism, North America's largest Jewish movement, announced the partnership with the Islamic Society of North America at his group's biennial convention in San Diego.

"As a once-persecuted minority in countries where anti-Semitism is still a force, we understand the plight of Muslims in North America today," Yoffie said yesterday. "We live in a world in which religion is manipulated to justify the most horrific acts, a world in which -- make no mistake -- Islamic extremists constitute a profound threat. For some, this is a reason to flee from dialogue, but in fact the opposite is true. When we are killing each other in the name of God, sensible religious people have an obligation to do something about it."

This summer Yoffie became the first major Jewish leader to address ISNA, the continent's largest Muslim organization with 30,000 attendants coming to its annual convention. ISNA President Ingrid Mattson will address the 980-congregation Jewish group today, the first leader of a major Muslim group to do so.

The manual and video are built around five sessions that touch on topics including the place of Jerusalem in Jewish and Muslim tradition and history. The toughest potential sticking points will probably be related to Israel and to stereotypes both groups carry about the other, Mark Pelavin, director of interreligious affairs for the Jewish group, said in an interview. "Jews want to know how Muslims feel about terrorism in the name of Islam, and Muslims want to know how Jews feel about Palestinian suffering."

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The amazing thing about this effort is that it’s not one of those lame, ‘we’re not going to talk about Israel we’re just going to talk about how important it is to respect each other’ gigs. Both sides plan on addressing really serious issues. My guess is it won’t be pretty, but I’m SO psyched that they got this going. Now what I want to know is when the Conservative movement going to step up to the plate.

Meanwhile, over at Jewschool there’s a pretty decent breakdown of all the cool things Yoffie has planned for the next year or so. My favorite part is an excerpt from Yoffie’s big sermon on Saturday:

In recent years, there has been a feverish conversation among communal leaders about how to connect young adults to Jewish life. We all agree that they need Torah study, Jewish ritual and connection to Israel. But all of this has not been enough.

Well, here is my suggestion to these leaders about what they need to do next: They need to speak up for justice. They need to speak up loud, proud and unafraid.

Because our young people are very wise. They know that a Judaism that ghettoizes itself has no real mission and therefore no real purpose. They don’t understand how Jews can pray for the sick every day and then do nothing to get health care to those who need it. In the end, if the Judaism we offer our young does not speak to the great moral issues of the world and of their lives, it will fail to capture their imagination or their hearts.

I kind of have a crush on Eric Yoffie now. But don’t worry, I promise not to have meaningless sex with him.