From India to Meron: A Journey Back to Faith

Kfir came back to Israel from the Far East dressed in colorful Indian clothing. His hair was long, he wore earrings, necklaces, and rings. He spoke about spirituality, meditation, and higher consciousness. His friends laughed at him. His parents were worried and confused. The practical and focused son they knew seemed to have disappeared.

He had returned gentler, softer, even asking forgiveness from others. When someone asked him why he didn’t wear a watch anymore, he calmly answered, “Time is an illusion. Everything is completely spiritual.”

His parents and friends tried to talk him out of it. “You’re living in a fantasy,” they said. And for a moment, Kfir began to wonder maybe they were right.

Back when he first left Israel, he had received a new ATM card and used it only once before losing the PIN. When he went to the bank, they told him they couldn’t recover the number, and that a new card would take a week. But Kfir urgently needed money. So, he sat down and began to meditate.

He imagined himself traveling back in time, like in a movie. He returned to the moment he first got the ATM card and remembered seeing the secret number written on a small slip of paper. He jotted it down. Then he went to the ATM, entered the number and it worked.

That experience shook him. Maybe the teachings of the Far East weren’t all nonsense. He realized he couldn’t fully live a spiritual Indian lifestyle in Israel, but he also couldn’t ignore the soul that had awakened within him. Something inside him, a kind of inner bird was still crying out.

He wanted to find a way to integrate the two worlds, but didn’t know how.

A friend suggested he study alternative medicine. It seemed like the perfect path, something spiritual that could also provide a livelihood. He began learning Chinese medicine, but it still didn’t sit right. The healers he studied with knew many secrets, but they also had big egos and often lacked humility. Something felt off.

He spoke with his brother, who had become religious after the Lebanon War. Kfir asked questions, but the Torah didn’t seem to speak to his heart, and he remained frustrated.

During this time, Kfir began working at a restaurant. There he met Yossi, a former ultra-Orthodox Jew who once studied Torah twelve hours a day but had since left religious life completely. He even went so far as to smoke marijuana on Yom Kippur, just to rebel.

Yossi shared his story. Kfir replied honestly, “I believe there’s a Creator of the world.” Yossi scoffed, “There’s no Creator!” But then he added, “If you believe, then it’s your responsibility to explore what you believe in and seek the truth.”

Kfir asked, “If you know all this, why don’t you live by it?”

“I don’t believe,” Yossi answered. “But you do. And if there’s a Creator, He must want something from you.”

That simple idea hit Kfir in a new way. For the first time, he considered that the Creator who felt so abstract might actually want something from him.

Their conversations continued over months. Kfir would speak about the wonders he saw in India. Yossi responded with deep Torah insights. Both found meaning in each other’s words.

One day, Yossi said, “The Torah I grew up with felt dry. All day I studied Gemara, but maybe there’s something that will speak to you. There’s a big celebration on Lag B’Omer in Meron, by the resting place of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai. Ever heard of it?”

Kfir’s eyes lit up. They traveled together to Meron. The conversations stirred something in Yossi too, awakening thoughts of teshuvah, returning to Jewish faith.

But Kfir still struggled with one thing. He believed the Torah was true, but he couldn’t make peace with the religious community. He didn’t understand how there could be so much disagreement. If rabbis argued, maybe it was all just human opinions. And if so, he thought, “I have a brain too. Why can’t I interpret the Torah however I want?”

Then he arrived in Meron and everything changed.

He was overwhelmed by the spiritual energy. It was stronger than anything he had experienced in India. Someone asked him to help complete a minyan (a quorum of ten Jewish men for prayer). He joined and was amazed by the variety. One man wore a tiny knitted kippah, another a big one. There was a Breslover, a Chabadnik, a Lithuanian, a Sephardi, a Yemenite and Kfir, with all his beads and long hair.

During the prayer, he noticed how each man prayed in his own way. One with sweetness, another with fear, another with joy. Suddenly, it hit him. Despite all the differences, they were all facing the same direction toward Hashem. They were all connected. He realized that the differences weren’t contradictions, they were expressions of a beautiful unity.

And then he saw a Haredi man standing across from him. The type of Jew he used to resent. Without thinking, Kfir walked up to him. With his colorful clothes and earrings, he wrapped his arms around the man. They embraced with all their strength. Then, realizing what had happened, they both stepped back, slightly embarrassed but something had shifted.

Just then, someone nearby shot an arrow from a bow, as is custom on Lag B’Omer. In that moment, Kfir felt it deep in his soul, he was returning to his people. and to himself.