Let’s face it – the year that ended last night was, collectively, not among our best. I remember last Dec. 31st hearing an NPR spot about a garage band at a New Year’s gig, with an original ballad for midnite: [sing/croak] "thank God it’s over… thank God it’s over." The first two-thirds of 2001 – politics aside, for some of us! – wasn’t all that bad. But the last few months pretty much shaped our memories of it. And now we leave behind the Jewish year that began amidst that terror and shock and grief, and fear.
I’m usually a glass-is-half-full kind of guy, but… 5762 was for fatalists. Everywhere you turned last year you could see the precariousness of our situation, the "new world dis-order" we live in. Economically we’ve faced a real downturn, leaving some among us unemployed, and the rest of us worried. Our national psyche remains bruised and battered from last September 11, a tragedy still deeply personal for many of us. As Jews, we feel more vulnerable than we have in decades. And of course, all this comes atop our own crises and losses – from divorces to financial troubles to the loss of loved ones. Each dislocation we experience, personal or communal, takes a toll on us. Suffering is suddenly real in many of our lives, in ways that seem new for our generation. How do we deal with it all?
I cannot isolate in one sermon all of Judaism’s wise responses to adversity -- our tradition is, in a sense, all about this. It is the subtext if not the substance of every Torah discussion, every education session, every pastoral intervention. Why is this so central? Because adversity is, contrary to our entitled modern ethos, the natural state of affairs. Until modern medicine, the average life span was less than 40 – today we’re lucky enough to mourn someone twice that age. Until recently, famine could strike our agrarian societies anytime – today, few of us even think about hunger except when volunteering at Manna (or maybe, on Yom Kippur!). The median global income in today’s world hovers near two dollars a day – and we fret over our 401(k) plans dropping ten or twenty percent.
Such ‘perspective’ is cold comfort, of course, to someone who has just lost a parent, or sees their retirement income dwindle. Knowing that others also suffer, rarely makes us feel better about our own misfortunes. Yet perspective is still something we should cultivate – as is the related value of "counting our blessings". In the days and weeks following last September 11th it seemed that we took nothing for granted. Yet even that source of perspective and meaning has ebbed away, as we’ve gone back to something approaching ‘normal’. How well have we learned the lessons of last September – the political and moral lessons, and the personal and spiritual ones? To what extent have we kept on counting our blessings, and taking nothing for granted, and living life to the fullest and most meaningful extent we can? To what extent have we done so, even in the face of our personal adversity?
I cannot offer easy answers to these questions. We must answer them ourselves. It’s important to ask them though, and to highlight the work that remains for us to do, as this season of repentance returns. What I will do is probe one small corner of this big post-September-11th picture: today, living as Jews in this challenging world; at Kol Nidrei, living as Americans and as people in this altered reality.
So: we all face adversity, of many kinds, public and private. Among them is anti-semitism. It isn’t a popular or inspiring issue; it may not even feel like it’s on our front-burner. But it is crucially important for us all. We can’t afford to ignore it. And, by probing this particular challenge we face, we may gain some insight into how we respond to adversity in general.
I begin with a story from earlier this year – rather, the year that ended last night! – when Minna and I visited her brother, sister-in-law, and two adorable nieces, living for a semester in Santa Barbara. The town center has a huge park and jungle gym complex nearby – a favorite of the under-seven set. With Dave watching the girls at the park, we made vague references to meeting up shortly, then went our own ways.
After a couple bookstores, I headed back to the park. But Minna remembered our plan to meet up differently, and returned to where we’d parted – she and Heather were, for over an hour, in anguished search mode. They asked all over if people had just seen a guy wearing a kippah: for that was my distinguishing characteristic. And, that was the reason for the fear. A couple of bare-headed teens, looking vaguely malevolent, were nearby, and scattered suspiciously. Worst-case scenarios ran through Minna’s mind, when in fact I was holding Julia’s hand on a balance beam, kicking a soccer ball with Anna. Soon enough we were reunited, sharing Minna’s great relief (and anger over the misunderstanding!). Yet the sense of fear persisted for hours – fear, largely, since I’d been so publicly identifiable as a Jew.
It brought back memories of walking one evening in New York -- Columbus in the upper 90s -- when suddenly, liquid fell from a window above, directly on me. I think it was only water, and I suppose it could have been an accident… but it did make a bull’s eye on my kippah. I suddenly realized my vulnerability – had someone been a bit more malevolent, the water could’ve been something much heavier, much more dangerous. That moment stayed with me.
I’m sure we’re not alone with such fears. Let me ask for a show of hands: how many of us harbored thoughts this morning, even fleeting, about some of the bad things that could befall a large group of Jews gathered in a public space? [some ¾ of the room raised their hands] Look around – know that you are not alone.
Some of us have directly experienced anti-semitic words or actions – or at least comments that bordered on it (I think it was in Annie Hall where Woody Allen relates, "he didn’t ask me ‘did you have lunch,’ but ‘Jew have lunch?’ – he must be an anti-semite!). Anti-semitism has touched us all, if only through the minor vandalism a year and a half ago when we moved into our new communal home. For many in this room, the Holocaust was a family tragedy, whose aftershocks still reverberate. And the ongoing violence and bloodshed in Israel is quite personal for us, too. When we allow ourselves to consider it, most of us live in varying degrees of fear. It’s not always at the surface, but it’s there, operative in all sorts of ways, conscious and un.
How do we separate the fear from the reality? How much do we allow anti-semitism to define our communal agenda, our personal choices, our lives? These are core questions for us in the Jewish community, exacerbated by the anniversary of 9/11, and our national sense of vulnerability and loss. And again, all this national and communal tumult takes its place alongside our own personal challenges and triumphs and tragedies, so the question broadens: How much do we dwell on our suffering? How do we go on in a dangerous world?
Here, it’s tough being a Reconstructionist. We’ve staked our claim on a modern American approach to Judaism, which relegates victimization and anti-semitism to a small corner of concern. We emphasize living fully and safely within the larger society. We emphasize the "joys" of Jewish life, rather than the "oys." Our new members often report leaving Jewish communities that dwelt on suffering, on Jews as victims. We Adat Shalomers tend to want positive, proactive reasons to be connected Jewishly. We have created a Jewish identity that still commemorates the tragedies of our history on Tisha B’Av, and the Holocaust on Yom Hashoah; that still insists on vigilance in looking after our safety -- but for us these themes of persecution are peripheral, not central. We are proudly universal, counting our blessings, and downplaying our seemingly perennial victimhood.
Yet recent events in the Jewish world have resurfaced an unvocalized fear deep within us. Not to scare you but… well, actually, to scare you a bit: We’ve reached new lows reached in recent months: hundreds of attacks on Jews and synagogues in France and elsewhere in Europe; arson in Canada, California, Pennsylvania; worsening conditions in Argentina, South Africa, and around the globe; the deadly bombing of Tunisia’s historic El-Ghriba synagogue. All this follows last September’s sickening propaganda that the Mossad engineered 9/11, that thousands of Jews and Israelis had fled the towers that morning, and none were killed. We know all too well, and all too personally: this is a canard of the worst possible kind.
And 9/11 itself came just after the so-called World Conference Against Racism in Durban, South Africa, which concluded exactly one year ago today. At Durban, you may recall Israel was singled out for unique condemnation as "racist" and "apartheid." The hate we saw there spilled over from anti-Israel, to anti-Jewish. The official gathering narrowly rejected a written condemnation, and then only after the US and Israel had walked out. Friends of Israel and of Jewry did prevail: we should take heart that even in today’s tough international climate, the Jewish people and even the Jewish state are not the complete pariahs we sometimes feel we are. Yet Durban’s non-governmental forum was far worse, with rampant anti-semitism – a frightening reflection of the mood on the street in many corners of the world.
So in this "New World Dis-Order", our fates as Jews (and as friends and family of Jews) seem to hang partly in the balance of shifting forces greater than we are. It’s the same for us as people: we know, painfully, just how little is under our control. Yet, this dynamic is in fact not at all ‘new’, as a quick lesson in Jewish history shows: Jews have always been at the mercy of shifting geo-political trends. When the Babylonians laid waste to the Temple and exiled our leadership; it seemed like the end. But a generation later Persia defeated Babylon, and allowed us to return home and rebuild. The Greeks then came in, first as benevolent overseers, later as tyrants. Rome repeated that pattern, destroyed the Temple, and brutally quashed the Bar Kochba rebellion. Roman rule became Christiandom, under which our people’s condition see-sawed at the whim of the pope or the king or the mob. Every age has seen both philo- and anti-Semitic Christians, along with philo- and anti-Jewish Muslims (mostly philo, through this last century).
History can be helpful and instructive, starting with this reminder to not assume the worst, or the best, of others. But we need to know where to go and what to do now – how we might approach anti-semitism, and with it all the various challenges we face, in our own day and our own lives. So I will suggest three short lessons from our history, each with a course of action.
First: as in our lives, there have always been cycles in our history. Some swings of the pendulum are wilder than others, and some moments require more vigilance – or more readiness to move… or, to fight. But thankfully, quieter moments in our history outweigh the rougher ones: certainly in America, and probably in general as well. Likewise in our own lives: the good usually outweighs the bad. Again, we have many blessings to count. So what do we learn from this? We must go on, and live our lives! Even under Roman occupation, our Rabbis began the Talmud. Even through the First Crusade, Rashi wrote his sweeping Torah commentary. Even out of the pogroms and persecutions and yes, the Holocaust came stories and literature and lessons to be treasured through the ages.
Nothing makes up for suffering – but we can deny suffering the upper hand when we refuse to give up. Canadian philosopher Emil Fackenheim calls Jewish continuity the 614th commandment – denying Hitler a posthumous victory. As a basis for our Jewish identity, it’s questionable – and a heavy trip for 13-year-olds. But it does offer perspective on the comparatively smaller challenges of our day. If they managed to persevere in the camps and ghettoes and forests, how much more should we go on, despite bombs in Tel Aviv, planes in Manhattan and Arlington, threats in France and Argentina? We must be vigilant and prepared – but we must not let "them" dictate the terms of our life. We must keep our Jewish names, visit Israel, wear kippot on the street -- and yes, gather together in in high school auditoriums. And so in our personal lives: let’s be vigilant against our challenges; find what we can learn from our misfortunes (without thereby ‘justifying’ the suffering); and live the most meaningful lives we can, each day, so the adversity doesn’t win.
Second: Expanding societies, with new possibilities for all, tend to be good for the Jews. The trouble starts once stasis and contraction set in. Poland was actually welcoming to Jews, until wars and depression in the 1640s. Spain was great for us until the Reconquista. 20th century Germany provides the starkest contrast – the dozen expanding Weimar years saw unprecedented flourishing of Jewish culture; the next twelve contracting Nazi years saw unprecedented horrors. To say "America is different" means (in part) that our society and our lives have, with only minor setbacks, seen continual expansion in economy, settlement, culture, and ideas. (May it continue…)
Thus, we must work for the welfare of the larger society, for our own sake -- and because it’s the right thing to do. The prophet Jeremiah, nearly 2600 years ago, said (29:7): "Seek the peace of the city where I caused you to be carried away captive, and pray to God for it, for in its peace shall you have peace." Self-defense and social action are one: we must do what is right in the societies where we live. Are we truly working for the peace of the place where we live – which in today’s global village means, are we working for the betterment of all? And, personally: are we doing meaningful transformative work, despite our adversities? Whether we face loss of relationship or money or a loved one, there’s much meaning and hope and even healing for us when we leave the insular world of our own suffering, and emerge to make a difference for others – which is ultimately, for ourselves.
Lastly: history teaches us that the most important thing is to have allies. This has often been through shtatlanut, Court Jews, who guard our interests at the highest level – tales abound, from Spanish royal advisors to Harry Truman’s haberdasher, of Jews who whisper into the ear of leaders, and change history. Yet we can’t do it all through leadership: we need allies across all subgroups and classes. To put it starkly: the key determinant of Jewish survival rates in Nazi-occupied countries was the degree to which the Jews had allies within the larger population. In Denmark, and Bulgaria, and to some extent in Holland, France, even Germany, friendships and civil relationships meant that thousands of Jews were saved. In Poland or Romania or the Baltics, fewer righteous gentiles stepped up in the moment. Whatever cultural factors may have affected this, it was somewhat due to the greater insularity – partly imposed, and partly chosen – of those Jewish communities.
There’s a vicious cycle of insularity: when attacked, we naturally circle the wagons and turn inward, yet in doing so we make ourselves more vulnerable to future attack. In our own lives, pain and depression lead to loneliness, which leads to more pain and depression. It is the human and the Jewish condition to need allies. Israel and oppressed world Jewry are certainly ‘our’ concerns – but so are economic and racial justice, environmental sustainability, foreign aid beyond as well as including Israel, and so on. We must use what power we have not only in our own service, but in the service of others, who will in turn be there for us when we need them. This is the genius of America, in which -- when it works -- our diverse and enfranchised populace shifts alliances enough that no group is left out altogether. To say "it can’t happen here" means "we have enough friends and allies who wouldn’t let it happen here, just as we wouldn’t let it happen to others." Similarly in our own lives: let us not be afraid to call on our friends in time of need – they want us to do that: that’s what friendship is all about. And there’s no better antidote to adversity than friendship.
I don’t mean to sound facile about all this. The history I cite is not entirely clear; the suggestions I make come with no guarantees of success. But even in the face of uncertainty and fear, we can act to make a difference. We have not seen the last of terror, or anti-semitism, or hate in all its many forms. God forbid, even the worst may not yet be behind us. Likewise in our own lives: we will all face some form of suffering in the year that begins now, and hopefully, we’ll all be around to suffer for many years thereafter! But there’s much we can do to put the odds in our favor – and meanwhile, to live our lives to the fullest. Rabbi Nancy Fuchs-Kreimer says of these High Holy Days: "just as we acknowledge how very little is in our control (this year more than most), we set about trying to repair and improve that which IS in our power -- our own moral lives."
We feel powerless, understandably, reflecting on the enormity of the loss our nation suffered a year ago – and, the losses we’ve all suffered in our own lives. We feel powerless when we see the depth and breadth and resilience of anti-Semitism – and, of the various challenges we each face. And we feel powerless against society’s many, profound, systemic ills. What can we do without power? We can (and must) reaffirm hope and possibility: faith in ourselves; hope in humanity; the possibility of tshuvah, of repentance, for us and the world.
But in fact, we do have power. We have the power to be good friends and allies, knowing that we will have good friends and allies when we need them … the power to maintain perspective, even amidst catastrophe … the power to work for a better and more just world, to find a sustainable pace for expansion of opportunity and happiness in this land and all lands, and to take a little of that opportunity and happiness for ourselves. And, we have the power to live our lives, even – especially! – in the face of real or perceived adversity: and thus to validate, every day, all that we hold dear.
May 5763 be a year of such sacred work, to which we commit ourselves and our community and our society – and in so doing, may we help make this year a year of peace, for all of us. Shanah Tovah.