How would you react if you were to wake up to
this headline in all major newspapers both print and online: “Passports of Jews invalidated - Jewish
domestic and international travel drastically restricted”?
Or how would
you deal with another similar announcement: “Jewish residents with passports
from several Eastern European nations deported from their homes without notice”?
Fortunately, those headlines are not taken
from the present. There was a time,
however, when they were real and true. It
was Germany that invalidated the passports of Jewish citizens on October 5,
1938, nearly 80 years ago. And, on
October 27, 1938, Jews with Polish passports who were living in Germany, some
for many years, were deported and, in many cases, escorted by force to the
Polish border.
Within two weeks after the expulsion, the
Third Reich perpetrated on the German Jewish Community the nation-wide pogrom
known as Kristallnacht, “The Night of Broken Glass.” Rioters destroyed 267 synagogues in the
country. 7500 businesses owned by Jews
were looted and had windows shattered.
91 Jews died in the attacks, and up to 30,000 Jewish males were sent to
concentration camps.
I can remember, when I was a child, seeing
movies about the Holocaust, as well as films like the 1965 documentary “Let My
People Go: The Story of Israel.” Both
the Six-Day War of 1967 and the Yom Kippur War of 1973 brought home for me the
precarious existence, as well as the enduring strength, of the State of
Israel. We have seen all too well the dangers
that Jews face living in that unfriendly neighborhood that is the Middle East. In October of 1975, the United Nations
General Assembly passed resolution 3379 which equated Zionism with racism. I was a college senior listening to a radio
news report about that sad turn of events.
I felt like it touched me personally, nearly a year before I first
stepped off a plane at Ben Gurion Airport.
That UN Resolution was rescinded in 1991.
All of these experiences have shaped my
sense of who I am as a member of the Jewish community and as a rabbi. I would add, though, one more experience
that has affected my Jewish identity. I
never really got used to being
told by friends that they were upset and sad that I would not be saved at the
end of time because I am Jewish. Sometimes
our conversation turned into a robust, substantive interchange about our
respective beliefs – and sometimes not.
So I
was not surprised when the 1980 declaration of Baptist minister Bailey Smith
hit me deeply. In August of that year,
Rev. Smith told the Southern Baptist Convention, “It’s interesting to me at
great political battles how you have a Protestant to pray and a Catholic to
pray and then you have a Jew to pray. With all due respect to those dear
people, my friend, God Almighty does not hear the prayer of a Jew. For how in
the world can God hear the prayer of those [who don’t believe in] the true Messiah?”
At that time, and in later statements of his position, Smith claimed to love
the Jewish people. He was never, as far
as I know, able to say that he could affirm where we are as Jews, enthusiastically comfortable with our own
beliefs.
The memories of Rev. Smith’s unwavering
expressions of his position came to mind as I read Robert Jones’ 2016 book, THE
END OF WHITE CHRISTIAN AMERICA. Jones outlined
the changing demographics of the United States which would lead our country to
become more diverse. Jones correctly
surmised that such changes could elicit concern and fear for many Americans. As I read this book, I felt like an observer,
looking on from the sidelines, but not “out of the game,” so to speak. As for
me, I was not afraid of Jones’ conclusions at all. My extensive participation
in interfaith organizations and multicultural coalitions throughout my
rabbinate has always led me to seek out diversity and to develop greater
interreligious connections and understanding.
I
came to see over the years that there are many people in other faith groups who
not only believe that our prayers are heard, but they are eager to discuss our
respective views, to discover where we differ and where our beliefs converge,
and to foster unity and respect between us.
On
Rosh Hashanah, we join in worship as members of a worldwide Jewish community,
with people gathering in synagogues throughout the world, directing prayers to
God that will enable us to see ourselves and our lives with greater
clarity. When I chant, sing and read the
High Holy Day liturgy, I believe that God hears me where I am at the beginning
of this New Year. I have faith that the
Oneness which connects and binds together all of creation is like a counselor
and friend who listens to us and who wants US to listen to ourselves as we
recite readings alone, and as we pray together, about how we, as imperfect
human beings, can still strive for perfection.
The Torah reading for the New Year always
provides insights that can guide us in the months to come. For my entire
rabbinate, I have served in congregations that followed the custom established
in the previous Reform High Holy Day prayerbooks of reading, on Rosh Hashanah
morning, the story of the binding of Isaac in Genesis Chapter 22. That passage is recited in traditional
congregations on the second day of Rosh Hashanah.
Mishkan
Hanefesh provides us with a wider choice for the Torah passages we could recite
on this New Year morning. It includes
the Torah reading that tradition assigned for the first day of Rosh Hashanah,
which is Genesis Chapter 21, which we will read today. This passage begins, VA-ADONAI PAKAD ET
SARAH, “God remembered Sarah,” noting that God kept the divine promise to Sarah
that she would bear a son, Isaac, YITZCHAK, meaning “He will laugh.” The link between this section of the Torah
and Rosh Hashanah is that we want God to remember us and to truly hear us as we
consider our behavior and character in ways that will lead us to bring healing
and repair to ourselves and to the world in the coming year.
There is however, much more to this story
than the birth of Isaac. This passage
is complete with rivalry, drama, and unexpected challenges to survival. It is part of a saga that began several
chapters before. In Genesis Chapter 16, Sarai had given permission for her
husband Abram to have a child with her servant Hagar. Once Hagar became pregnant, Sarai despised
her, and her harsh treatment led Hagar to flee into the desert. An Angel came to Hagar as she rested by a
well, telling her that she would bear a son, whom she would name Ishmael,
meaning “God will hear.”
In Genesis Chapter 21, the rivalry had
extended to the new generation, as Ishmael was mistreating his half-brother Isaac. The word in Hebrew for what Ishmael was
doing is M’TZACHEK, which can mean “making sport” or “mocking.” One commentator suggested that Ishmael was
doing more than that. Given that Isaac’s
name was YITZCHAK, M’TZACHEK, taken from the same root, could mean that Ishmael was trying to take
Isaac’s place as the favored son. That
was not going to happen, but Hagar had been promised that her son would become
the father of a nation. It was just
that, in Abraham’s household, there was only room for one ancestor of a great
nation - and that was Isaac. Ishmael’s
behavior and Sarah’s anger led Abraham to send Hagar and Ishmael away. Abraham had compassion for his family,
though, so he provided them with bread and water to last for the first days of
their journey.
But the provisions ran out. And Hagar had no hope for her own survival
and that of her son. The story
continues:
“God heard
the boy's cry, and from heaven, an angel of God called to Hagar and said, ‘What
troubles you, Hagar? Do not be afraid, for God has heard the cry of the boy
where he is. Stand up, lift the boy, and hold strongly onto him with your hand,
for I am going to make of him a great nation.’
And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water. And she went and
filled the water-skin and gave the boy a drink. And God was with the boy as he
grew.”
This is a difficult story to tell, because it
presents Abraham and Sarah as approaching their own family members with apparent
cruelty. Even so, Hagar and Ishmael survived because God heard
them. Where there is divine listening,
there can be a chance for rescue.
And where there is human listening, there
can be an opportunity for acts that can save people who face threats to their
own survival.
Sometimes we readily recognize those needs
and give food and clothing and provide shelter for people who might ultimately
be lifted up to their own subsistence because of our generosity.
But we might not readily see everyone’s
needs. In his book, Pirkei Avot: A Social Justice Commentary,
Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz explained that sometimes we have to intently listen to
hear the cries of people in need. He
said, “Tikkun ha-olam, repairing the world, hints at tikkun he-elem, repairing
that which is concealed, whether from our thoughts or from our heart. Our job
is not just to repair the world, but to make what is hidden visible and repair
that, too. This includes the suffering of invisible people—those vulnerable
people who go through life without the concern of the broader populace—while
also combatting the pernicious and hidden forms of injustice, below-the-surface
oppression, and scarcely seen brokenness that silently affect millions.
Undertaking
this task reinforces the purpose of human creation and our human essence.”
So it is our challenge to not only to be
God’s hands and eyes, but also to listen for those voices that call on us to
recognize inhumane treatment and cruelty.
Some may claim that there are people who are undeserving of our concern based
on the beholder’s interpretation of legality. Other may not understand that people
who are facing extreme financial challenges may be in that situation because of
a whole constellation of forces at work in society, not solely because of their
own mismanagement or incompetence.
The point of this Torah reading is to teach
us that everyone deserves to be heard.
If God heard the cry of Ishmael and an angel gave Hagar reassurance,
then they were not to be despised or ignored. They were still very much part of
Abraham’s story. When Abraham died, Ishmael and Isaac came
together to bury their father. So the
Torah intends for us to be sympathetic to the mother and child who were sent
away from their home. That is why it
tells us that, more than once, God heard them and answered them.
We can, from our place, hear the cries of
people in our own country and around the world who need assistance, who are
seeking to live a good life, who desire freedom, who would work hard for any
community or country in which they would live, and who would be grateful to anyone
who would show them grace and hospitality.
I believe that the Torah is trying to
remind us, on this New Year’s day, that it is our human duty to open our minds
and hearts to all people, to see beyond disagreements and differences, and to reach
out based in fellowship, peace and even love.
To do all this, we simply have to
acknowledge that our humanity inexorably ties us all together. In her book, THE OPPOSITE OF HATE, Sally
Kohn recounted a personal story that served as the foundation for her
work. She had, as a young teenager,
bullied and harassed a classmate. As she
later looked back on her behavior at that time, she was regretful and even
horrified. After describing, throughout
her book, the ways in which people in many places around the world have tried
to resolve their own disagreements and conflicts, she arrived at this
conclusion about how we should think about our fellow human beings, especially
when hatred could overtake us in ways we can’t control. She said: “Ultimately, the opposite of hate
is the beautiful and powerful reality of how we are all fundamentally linked
and equal as human beings. The opposite of hate is connection....Understanding—and expressing—our equal interconnectedness
is the practical path to ending hate…It’s what every major and minor world
religion teaches, though, sadly, it’s not something all followers seem to fully
grasp. This sense of connection is not just some heady abstraction, nor some
bland platitude, but a transformative tool for finding our way out of hate and
toward a positive, constructive alternative. We can relate to each other and to
society in general in ways that perpetuate hate. Or we can spread inclusion and
equality and justice—by choosing to connect.”
Sally Kohn did seek out and find, through
social media, her long-ago classmate whom
she had wronged. She sent her a note of
sincere apology. The woman wrote her
back, claiming she wasn’t sure she was the person Sally had been seeking. Then
she said this: “Messages such as this cannot absolve you of your past
actions. The only way to do that is to
improve the world, prevent others from behaving in similar ways, and foster
compassion.”
So may the One who created us, who made us
equal, and who fashioned us in the divine image, enable us to hear with clarity
and with an ear for compassion, words that can bring us ever closer to one
another, cries of those who desperately require our helping hand, and teachings
that continue to reveal that we are all in this together, as we continue to
work for healing, repair and hope in this world. So may we do, and let us say Amen.
