The Kotel, or the Western Wall, is one of, if not the most important spiritual site in Judaism. I am a Jew. So why did I not weep as I laid my hands upon the wall?
I teach at Hillel Academy of Pittsburgh, an Orthodox Jewish day school serving pre-K through 12th grade students. And so, when the rest of our group was exploring the regions around the Sea of Galilee and the Golan Heights on Friday and Saturday, I was traveling to Jerusalem early to welcome Shabbat in the holiest city for the members of my faith.
On Friday night, I prayed at the Kotel with thousands of other Jews. Underneath the telling black hats made from fur or velvet, beards more often wild and unkempt than cut short, and twisted curls hanging from the sides of heads, the people there mostly looked like me. By this I mean they were mostly of European descent, perhaps visiting from abroad or perhaps residents of Jerusalem – I could not tell.
In contrast to the familiar images of Muslims prostrating in unison or Christians reciting words together during prayer services, the general atmosphere at the base of the Kotel was that of chaos. Tens of groups of men went about their prayers in a manner independent of those adjacent. It was nothing short of a mosaic of traditions and purpose.
Before leaving, I approached the Wall, with it lit up almost as in daylight. Weeds shoot out here and there along with notes containing prayers or blessings that protrude from cracks between the stones. The bottommost blocks between the floor and about a meter and a half off the ground have been slightly darkened by the thousands of hands that have been laid upon them, a feature only visible from a distance. And as I closed my eyes and placed my hands upon those stones, I felt… very little. Again today, as our group passed by the wall, I took a moment to stop and place my hands upon those stones. And again… very little.
Did I not properly prepare myself for the experience?
What caused me to fail, not once, but twice, when the opportunity for a genuine spiritual experience was presented to me?
What data can be extracted, what interpolations made, what conclusions reached about me, as a Jew, in sight of this failure?
My answers to these questions are surely of little interest to the readers of this blog. But there is a general relevance to the questions themselves and the greater context in which they can be placed.
I failed what can be thought of as a test. I have students that have failed tests.
The “test” I failed was specific in its scope and content. The tests my students have failed were specific in their scope and content.
Like the varied groups of men praying at the Kotel, each in their way, students brings their own traditions and personalities to the classroom. Each student, while they may look the same and come from similar circumstances, may not be equipped to complete assignments or assessments that are so specific in scope and content.
The Kotel is a holy place for many Jews. But the fact that it did not conjure deep emotion in me cannot be used as the basis for any definitive statements about me as a Jew. So cannot the failure of students to pass certain tests be used to make definitive judgements about their many and varied merits in and out of the classroom.
This is something all of us as educators should keep in mind as we prepare future generations to live in a world as multifaceted as they are.