Letting Go of Hate - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5785

 

One of the highlights of this past summer was spending time with my oldest friend.  He’s a proud Jew who cares deeply about Judaism and Israel.  We’ve had lots of debates over the years!  We don’t always agree on every issue, but our discussions always feel important.  We were in the midst of an intense conversation about the current crisis in Israel, when a woman wearing a headscarf walked by.  She looked to be Muslim.  My friend turned to me and asked, “Do you think she hates us because we are Jews?”  I was surprised.  “No, of course not.”  He looked at me.  “I’m sorry, but I do.”

My friend is a compassionate and kind person who cares deeply about the world.  But, at that moment there was fear and perhaps a bit of anger.  She had said nothing and did nothing to us.  My friend didn’t know her story or her opinions, and yet, in his heart, he believed she hated us because we are Jews.  I silently asked myself: If we believe others hate us, does that mean we hate them too?

Unfortunately, this isn’t a new problem.  Throughout Jewish history, there have been many moments filled with fear of the other.  One surprising story is that of Elijah, the prophet.  You know Elijah!  We open the door for him at each Passover and provide a seat of honor when we welcome every baby into our community.  He represents… but wasn’t always such a compassionate figure in Jewish tradition. In the Bible, Elijah possessed a different type of temperament.  He was unpredictable, boiled with rage, and was filled with zeal. 

During the ninth century BCE, Elijah was a prophet of Adonai.  The rulers of Israel, King Ahab and Queen Jezebel, wished to bring a new religion, the worship of the idol Baal to the people.  Queen Jezebel persecuted the prophets of Adonai and murdered many in cold blood.  Elijah decided to act.  He brought the priests of Baal together for an old-fashioned showdown.[i]  Each side would ask their God to accept a sacrificial offering.  The prophets of Baal prayed their hardest, but nothing happened.  When it was Elijah’s turn, a fire came from the heavens and accepted his offering.

That’s all fine and good.  It’s what happens afterwards that is surprising and deeply troubling.  Elijah tells the Israelite people: “’Seize the prophets of Baal, let not even one of them get away.’  They seized them, and Elijah took them down to the Wadi Kishon and slaughtered [the 450 prophets] there.” 

Elijah flees and hides out in a cave.[ii]  Adonai appears and asks him: “Why are you here Elijah?”  He responds, “I am moved by zeal for Adonai.”  God tells him to stand on a mountaintop.  A great and mighty wind passes, but God was not in the wind.  An earthquake occurs, but God was not in the earthquake.  A fire appears, but God was not in the fire.  Finally, God appears in a soft murmuring sound.  God whispers, “Why are you here Elijah?”  Again, he responds, “I am moved by zeal for Adonai.”  And then… God fires him.  Literally, God says: “Go, find your replacement, Elisha the prophet.”  Because Elijah is a whirlwind of anger and vengeance, Adonai believes he’s not fit to be a prophet.

We’re living in a time where many possess a zealousness for their cause.  Hateful rhetoric and vitriolic statements raise the temperature to a boiling rage.  Certain politicians tell lies about Haitian immigrants, a modern blood libel.  Some leaders of the Israeli government unapologetically state their wish for a Greater Israel and the destruction of all Palestinians.  While at the encampments on college campuses, some chant “From the River to the Sea,” which whether knowingly or not, undermine Israel’s right to exist.  I’m worried that this type of rhetoric fans the flames and leads us towards the fiery actions of Elijah.

Judaism has always recognized that vitriol exists.  We can’t rid our world of hateful rhetoric, but we can do our part to keep hate in check.  In the Book of Deuteronomy, we learn: “You shall not abhor an Edomite for such is your kin.  You shall not abhor an Egyptian for you were a stranger in that land.”[iii] 

Too many times in the Torah, we are commanded to attack or destroy our enemies like the Midianites, the Moabites, and the Amalekites.  Why here are we specifically told to “not abhor” an Edomite or an Egyptian?

Our sages[iv] teach that during the time of Joseph, the Egyptians welcomed us with open arms.  While the Edomites were our kinspeople.  Their patriarch Esau was the brother of Jacob.  They’re family.

But you might be thinking - These statements are outrageous!  The Egyptians enslaved us and were our taskmasters for over 400 years; the Edomites our ancient enemies.  The Torah here teaches a valuable and sometimes very difficult lesson.  We can redefine our relationship with our perceived enemies, even our current or past enemies[RS1] .  The Egyptians could be viewed as taskmasters or those who welcome us.  The Edomites could be foe or family.  We too can reframe our  relationship with all those whom we disagree.

Perhaps there is a clue in a second interpretation to this verse: “You must not abhor an Edomite or an Egyptian.”  At the heart of Torah is the belief that each one of us is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the divine image.   Each of us is a unique individual who possesses our own beliefs, our own opinions, and our own actions. We are told to not abhor an Edomite or an Egyptian not THE Edomites or THE Egyptians.  We are to see humanity in each person.   

That’s hard in our black and white society.  Too many can’t distinguish between Prime Minister Netanyahu’s policies and the Israelis who protest after each Shabbat at Hostage Square.  Too many can’t differentiate between a Hamas terrorist and a Palestinian civilian. Too many can’t separate a college student who feels passionate about the suffering of Palestinians and one who has bought into antisemitic rhetoric.  I pray that we take a step back and don’t jump to conclusions about a person’s beliefs.   I sincerely believe that the only way to mitigate our feelings of distrust and fear is by breaking down barriers and learning more about who we each are as individuals.

Our great sage, Hillel, takes this a step further, in his most famous statement: “That which is hateful to you do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, the rest commentary.  Now Go and Learn!”[v]  Other religions often downplay Hillel’s interpretation of the Golden Rule and believe that his double negative is pessimistic.  “Where’s the love?” they ask.  We know there can’t always be love.  Not every political position is worthy of empathy.  There are views that are beyond the pale. Too many of us this past year have encountered antisemitism and hateful rhetoric.  We can’t ignore these comments, we must speak out.  But, we can act differently when we encounter malice.  We might want to fight fire with fire.  We might want to stew in anger.  Hillel reminds us that we must not mirror their hate or fan the flames of distrust.   

That’s not always easy.  When we’re hurt or harmed, we often just want to lash out!   Rabbi Sharon Brous in her new book, The Amen Effect,[vi] shares a different approach on how to face hate. A few years ago, a Shock Jock who had an incredible reach became an unapologetic purveyor of racism, misogyny, homophobia, and ableism.  He felt he was permitted to speak freely and share a long list of perceived grievances.  After he published an inflammatory piece targeting transgender people, Rabbi Brous recognized that his rhetoric could lead to harassment, violence, discrimination, and even criminalization of transgender friends and family members.

She reached out and asked for a one-on-one meeting.  When they met in person, she told him that his words broke her heart and endangered the safety of her congregants and people that she loved.  Unfortunately, that meeting didn’t change anything.  His writing still fuels racism and anti-trans hatred today.

Rabbi Sharon Brous summed it up this way: “Even though the meeting was a failure, it didn’t feel like a waste of time.  It was the effort to try and puncture even one layer of the thick residue of hate around his heart.”[vii]

Rabbi Brous could have hated the Shock Jock for his vicious words and actions.  She could have upped the ante, pouring more hate on his hate, enflaming tensions, but she didn’t.  Instead, she did the difficult work of sitting down and talking.  She hoped that by sharing her views, it would change his ugly rhetoric.  It didn’t work that time, but every conversation is a possibility.  Every discussion is a moment of action.  Every meeting can puncture a small residue of hate in their hearts.  That is the power of a conversation because we aren’t screaming into the void.  These days, we do too much screaming and not enough talking. 

By putting herself out there, Rabbi Brous also changed herself.  When we step up for what’s right, when we speak up for our values, when we stand alongside our community and our loved ones, we too change for the better.  We reaffirm who we are and what we believe.  We open our hearts to bring more justice and love into this world.

Long ago, Elijah was unpredictable and boiled with rage.  He boarded a fiery chariot and flew to the very Heavens.  That should have been his end, but our sages gave him a second act.  Over time, in their stories, Elijah learns and grows.[viii]  His zeal for the enemy disappears and transforms into an undying support for the downtrodden.  Elijah appears in every generation.  His greatest miracle is the opening of hearts and the transformation of how people act towards one another.  Each Passover, we welcome him into our homes, not because of his zeal, but because he will herald the coming of the Messianic time.  He reminds us that even when hate and fear are seemingly everywhere, we must not close our hearts from the world.

My friend and I have known each other for a long time.  We’ve had many enriching and challenging discussions and I’m sure there will be many in the future!  Our conversation this summer is still with me.  I hear his worries and his fears, but once again, I answer “No” to his question. I won’t assume that  every person hates us because we are Jews.  And perhaps I’m putting words in his mouth, but, “No, I don’t believe we are justified to hate others, even if they do hate us.” 

I know this is not an easy time to be a Jew.  We are scared and worried.  I believe firmly in my heart that there is a different path than hate or fear.  We have little ability to upend the political leadership in Iran, Gaza, or even in Israel.  We are unable to change every person’s perspective, especially those who harbor antisemitism in their hearts. But we do have the power to focus on our own emotions and our own actions.  We can locate the sliver of humanity in each person.  We can live by Hillel’s maxim “that which is hateful to you do not do to another.”  We can speak up for our values, our community, and never back down.  We can live our days filled not with fear or retribution, but with justice and love. It might be naïve, but I believe this is the only path forward, to make our community safe, and to bring peace to us all.  Amen.

---

[i] I Kings 18

[ii] I Kings 19

[iii] Deuteronomy 23:8

[iv] See Rashi and Chizkuni’s commentary on Deuteronomy 23:8

[v] Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a

[vi] The Amen Effect by Sharon Brous, p. 166-168

[vii] The Amen Effect, p. 168

[viii] Becoming Elijah: Prophet of Transformation by Daniel C Matt, pp. 148-151

---

The Rabbi Who Laughed - Kol Nidre Sermon 5785

 

Long ago,[i] Rabban Gamliel, Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya, Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Akiva ascended the road to Jerusalem.  They wished to see for themselves the remnants of the now destroyed Temple.  When the four rabbis arrived at Mount Scopus, they viewed from afar, the ruins of our holiest site.  They rent their garments as was the custom for those who mourn.  As they reached the Temple Mount, they watched a fox emerge from Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies.  The rabbis began to weep, except for Rabbi Akiva who laughed.  These sages lived during a time of devastation and destruction.  Why would Rabbi Akiva laugh? 

Akiva ben Yoseph did not have an easy life.  Born in the 1^st century of the common era, he lived during a time when the Roman Empire controlled and later decimated the Land of Israel.  Our Temple was destroyed, our religion upended, our people banished across the world.

Akiva became one of our leading scholars, but that came later.  According to tradition, he was extremely poor, illiterate, and unlearned.  He made his living chopping wood to sell to others and to keep his family warm.  It wasn’t until he was 40 years old that he learned how to read. He sat alongside kindergarten students reciting the letters of the alphabet.

As he grew older, he became a wise and deeply compassionate rabbinic leader.  His Yeshiva grew to over 24,000 students.  But then, during the Bar Kochba Revolt in the year 135 CE, tragedy struck.  The Romans massacred thousands of his students.  The Emperor, Turnus Rufus, executed Rabbi Akiva. As his flesh was raked with iron combs, he recited the words of our most important prayer, the Shema.  During his last breaths, Rabbi Akiva felt God’s love as well as hope for the future of Judaism.  How could he remain hopeful?

I believe that it was his life experience that provided him with the strength to continue day after day.  Here’s one story, in particular.  We learn that Rabban Gamliel once traveled by boat. [ii]  The great scholar watched in the distance as another ship sank at sea.  Rabban Gamliel grieved over the death of the Torah scholar who was on board, Rabbi Akiva.  When Rabban Gamliel disembarked on dry land, Rabbi Akiva appeared out of nowhere and began to deliberate on the halachah, the Jewish law.  Rabban Gamliel was dumbfounded.  “My son, who brought you up from the water?”  Rabbi Akiva replied: “A plank from the boat came to me, and I bent my head before each and every wave that arose before me.”

It was a plank that saved Rabbi Akiva as his ship sank.  Perhaps a part of the boat broke off or you could imagine someone throwing him a piece of wood that he used as a life raft.  Rabbi Akiva held onto that plank with all his might until he reached the shore.

That’s all well and good until you look closely at the text.  There’s something unique about the word for plank.  In Hebrew it’s daf.  Daf typically means page, like daf yomi, the daily page of Talmud study.  Why would a page of Talmud help Rabbi Akiva navigate the waves?

The sinking ship was our destroyed Temple. The only thing that remained was one plank, the pages of our tradition.  The Torah, the stories, the mitzvot, and the morals, comfort and support Rabbi Akiva as he rides the waves to an uncertain future.

Rabbi Lauren Holtzblatt connects this to our current situation:[iii] “I have thought about this teaching many times since October 7, holding onto the daf as the violence and trauma continue for the hostages that still remain in Gaza, the many displaced from the south and north of Israel, and the innocent Palestinian civilians.  I find myself asking, “What are the pages we’re meant to hold on to?”

I can’t answer that question for you, but I can answer that question for me.  Seventeen years ago, when I was ordained as a rabbi, I was asked to pick out a verse that summed up who I was and what I believed.  I chose this verse from Pirke Avot, Ethics of the Ancestors, “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving humankind, and bringing them close to Torah.”[iv]  Over the course of my time as a human being, a Jew, and a rabbi, this verse guides me on how I should live my life.  That’s one of the many pages that I hold onto, my mantra and my story, that gives me the strength to keep going.  On this Kol Nidre Eve, may we each rediscover our stories, our mantras, and our teachings, that comfort us during this difficult time.

Obviously, that’s not the only page we hold onto.  Here’s another lesson that occurs in the Talmud directly after our previous tale. [v]   This time, Rabbi Akiva watches from afar as a different boat sank at sea.  Rabbi Akiva grieves over the apparent death of that Torah scholar, Rabbi Meir.  After Rabbi Akiva disembarks, Rabbi Meir appears out of nowhere and deliberates on the halachah, the Jewish law.  Rabbi Akiva asks him: “My son, who brought you up from the water?”  Rabbi Meir replies: “One wave carried me to another, and that other wave to another, until I reached the shore, and a wave cast me up onto dry land.”

Like Rabbi Akiva, Rabbi Meir’s ship also sank at sea.  But this time, it isn’t a plank, a daf, that brings him to safety, but the waves of the ocean.  Wave after wave after wave carries him to dry land. 

Once again, if we look closely at the Hebrew, the word for “another,” as in “another wave” is chavro.  Most often, chavro is defined as “our friend.”  Here, it’s not the waves that carry Rabbi Meir to the shore, but his friends and his community.  I imagine Rabbi Akiva watching as community member after community member holds up Rabbi Meir and provides him with consolation and comfort during this stormy moment in his life. 

Our Jewish tradition believes in the power of community, especially during moments of consolation.  In Judaism, we don’t grieve by ourselves, it is our family and friends who support us.  We take turns, placing earth on the casket during a funeral service.  We recite mourners kaddish not separately, but in a minyan of at least ten people.  We don’t mourn alone, but together at a shiva house. 

This past May, after my grandmother died, I personally experienced the power of community.  The surviving mourners: my parents, my aunts and uncles, and even my grandfather were all skeptical about sitting shiva.  They asked: “Do we really need shiva?  Is anybody going to come to the house?”  But luckily, we did sit shiva.  Dozens of people stopped by including acquaintances who heard the news of my grandmother’s passing, extended family, and old friends who hadn’t crossed paths in decades.  It was moving to be together: to listen to stories, to be comforted, and to know that our grief mattered.  We might not know what to say when someone has lost a loved one, but we can show up.  Our actions state the obvious: “I see you.  I’m here for you.  I care about you.”

Rabbi Akiva learned the power of showing up.  From chavro to chavro to chavro, from one friend to another friend to the next friend, we can carry each other, lift each other up, and support each other during the most challenging moments of our lives.

That’s just what Rabbi Akiva did when he ascended to Jerusalem with his fellow sages.  When they reached the Temple Mount, they watched a fox emerge from the Holy of Holies.  The rabbis wept, except for Rabbi Akiva who laughed.[vi]

The other three rabbis were horrified.  “Why are you laughing?”  Rabbi Akiva replied to them, “Why are you weeping?”  They said: “We learn in the Torah that if anyone except for a Cohen Gadol enters the Holy of Holies, they will die” (Numbers 1:51) and now a fox walks amongst its ruins.  How can we not weep?”

Rabbi Akiva turned to them, “That is why I am laughing.  For it is written, that two prophets are connected to each other, Uriah and Zechariah (Isaiah 8:2).  For one prophet’s words to be fulfilled, the other prophet’s words must first be true.  Uriah teaches: ‘That Zion will be plowed as a field’ (Micah 3:12) which means that foxes will frolic in the Temple.  But in Zechariah, we learn: ‘That the elderly will be sitting in the streets of Jerusalem while the squares will be crowded with children playing’ (Zechariah 8:4).  I was so pessimistic about the future.  The Temple is destroyed, and Jerusalem is now devoid of life and people.  Like you, I never believed that Jerusalem would once again be filled to the brim with laughter and with joy or with the elderly and the children gathered in its squares.  But now that Uriah’s prophecy has come to fruition, it is evident that the prophecy of Zechariah won’t be far off.”

The sages turned to Akiva and said to him, “Akiva, you have comforted us; Akiva, you have comforted us”

I am always in awe of Rabbi Akiva at that moment.  There was such hopelessness for the Jewish people.  Weeping is the right response when witnessing our destroyed Temple.  Akiva did the opposite.  Even during devastation, he held on to a sense of hopefulness and optimism.

There is so much sadness that pervades our world right now.  Too much fear, too many worries about the future.  There is such grief at the devastation in Israel, the destruction in Gaza, the nervousness of the upcoming election, the horrors of these Hurricanes, and the dread of what’s to come.  Like the other sages, a fitting response is to weep.  Like them, you might not feel a sense of hope.

Rabbi Akiva was different.  He reminds us that symbols of hope can be found everywhere.  For Akiva, that fox was a sign of optimism.  Not false optimism where everything would return back to normal.  As we know, the Temple was never rebuilt.  But, hope that our future would be filled with joy, laughter, and peace.

Rabbi Akiva instructs us to grab hold of the pages that matter most in our lives. It is these: our stories, our mantras, our morals that center us and keep us going.  As he saw a   community come together and support a dear friend, he reminds us that we must show up and lift up our friends during the most challenging moments in their lives.  And perhaps most important of all, he teaches that we can always change the narrative, find a glimmer of hope, or share a word of encouragement.  May we comfort our friends as they shed their tears.  May we laugh even during times of great sadness. Ken Yehi Ratzon. May it be so. Amen.

[i] Babylonian Talmud, Makkot 24a

[ii] Babylonian Talmud, Yevamot 121a

[iii] Sapir, Volume Thirteen, Spring 2024, p. 5

[iv] Pirke Avot 1:12

[v] Babylonian Talmud, Yevamot 121a

[vi] Babylonian Talmud, Makkot 24a

Side by Side: Holding Multiple Truths, Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon - 5785

 

At the very beginning of the Torah, before creation even began, the world was tohu v’vohu, complete and utter chaos.  Over the last few days, it feels as if we are living through a similar whirlwind.  I want to name the fear, the worry, and the tears that I and many of you are feeling.  May our siblings in Israel be comforted.  May they be protected by a Sukkat Shalom in this New Year. May peace come quickly to Israel, Gaza, and the entire Middle East.

Since today is the Birthday of the World, I think it’s fitting that we dig into the creation story.[i] Most know this story well, so please help me.  The world according to the Torah was created in how many days? …  Seven.  On the first day, God created light and …. Darkness.  God than divided the waters. Up above, the heavens and down below the … seas.  Afterwards, land and vegetation.  Sun, moon, and … stars.  God creates birds, fish, and animals.  God creates, men, women, people, at the same time, and shapes them B’tzelem Elohim, in the Divine Image. 

You know the story, except… there is a second creation story which is completely and totally different.  This story has no timeline; no seven days.  Creation begins not with light and darkness, but with the birth of a single human being named Adam.  Adam is lonely so God creates animals.  Adam remains lonely, so God puts Adam to sleep, takes one of his ribs, and makes Eve. 

We have two stories with completely different timelines, unique ordering of creation, and distinct views of gender.  Two stories, both in the Torah, literally side-by-side: Genesis chapter one and two.  And… they don’t seem compatible.  They don’t seem to work well together. 

As you know, there is often difference of opinion in our Jewish tradition.  There are countless biblical, rabbinic, and even current examples.  This has been especially true in our community since October 7.  Each of us, in our own way, has grieved the brutality of the Hamas attack and its aftermath.  I want to share with you two very difficult conversations that I had last November.  These meetings challenged me, and they might be hard for you to hear as well.

It was late in the afternoon when I sat down with a member of our community.  Right away, I could sense her anger.  Just weeks earlier, Israel had entered Gaza.  She was furious at Israel’s reprisal and horrified by our Jewish community’s support.  “Israel is killing innocent people, bombing hospitals and schools.  We need a ceasefire.  How can we back Israel’s actions?”

I said goodbye to her.  Not long after, a second person walked in and immediately began to cry.  She was consumed by the crisis.  She doomscrolled, late into the evening, reading about the young Israelis who were murdered at the Nova Music Festival, the women who were raped by Hamas terrorists, and the hostages who were forcibly removed from their families.  “I’m so sad,” she said.  “I can’t help it.  I just want them dead.”  

After she left, I tried to gather my thoughts.  I’ve had so many conversations this past year, but these meetings stick with me precisely because they occurred so near each other.  Two unique beliefs about the conflict, and so different from one another.  This sermon is an attempt to make sense of those conversations.  This morning, I’ll be speaking about our relationship with the Palestinians.  I know that Iran is on the minds of many of us, but that will be a topic for another sermon. 

Let’s look back at our creation stories.  How does our Jewish tradition navigate two stories in dissonance?  One answer: focus on the good parts!  You might laugh, but we do this all the time.   Take those who are more Fundamentalist in their beliefs.  They focus on the seven days of creation from the first story.  But many of them believe in a man’s role in a patriarchal society.  They lift-up the second story’s belief that Eve was created from Adam’s rib; that women are lesser than men.

You will never hear that here!  In a Reform synagogue, we lift-up the first creation story.  We believe that all of us, no matter our gender identity, were formed at the same time, B’tzelem Elohim, in the Divine Image.

This is what we do when two stories clash with each other.  We chose the truth that feels at home with our identities and our values.  We pick the narrative that makes the most sense to us, that connects to our history, and which highlights our understanding of the world.

As a Jewish community, it’s important for us to know and share our story, especially around Israel.  There are few people who tell our story with more empathy and compassion than Yossi Klein Halevi.  This summer during my sabbatical, I read his 2019 book, “Letters to My Palestinian Neighbor.”  Over the course of these ten letters, he shares the importance of Israel to Jewish consciousness, not just now, but over the course of our long history,[ii] reminds the reader that Zionism drives Jewish life today because half the Jewish people live in Israel,[iii] and shares that unlike groups like the Crusaders, Israelis are here to stay.  This is our homeland.[iv]

I was especially moved by Klein Halevi’s vulnerability.  He writes movingly about the existential challenges he faced serving in the army during the first intifada.[v]  He felt great pain as the Israeli army encountered young Arab boys throwing stones.  He didn’t shy away from the occupation and recognized the humiliation it brings to the Palestinian people.

Yossi Klein Halevi reminds us that our Jewish story, in the diaspora and in Israel, is historical, valid, and authentic.  Many of us are often so troubled by the Israeli government’s actions that we shy away from our story or limit its significance.   Our story is true.  We must not minimize our history or Israel’s right to exist.

But this is not the only story.  This summer, I also read Rashid Khalidi’s 2020 book, “The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine.”  Let me tell you, this was not an easy read.  Khalidi, a professor at Columbia University, is part of a long line of diplomats and Palestinian leaders.  In this book, Khalidi defines six different wars against his people beginning in 1917 and ending in 2014.  How challenging as a Jew and a Zionist to read history through his eyes.  I was troubled that the Balfour Declaration in 1917 as well as Israel’s Independence in 1948 were viewed as acts of war.  Most surprisingly, not one page was written about the Yom Kippur War.  I came to realize that for Khalidi the Yom Kippur War had no bearing on Palestinian history.  For him, this was a skirmish between Israel and Egypt.

These two books, by Yossi Klein Halevi and Rashid Khalidi, gave me heartache!  The Torah provides us with the wisdom that multiple stories with unique perspectives can exist together.  But still I was stuck.  I needed support from a chevrutah, a rabbinic colleague and good friend.

This summer, the two of us spent four days together delving into the Israeli – Palestinian Crisis.  We studied five books together, but spent most of our discussing, “Side by Side: Parallel Histories of Israel-Palestine” written by a group of Israeli and Palestinian academics in 2012.  Their dream was to develop a single bridging narrative about the Middle East.  Unfortunately, it was too difficult to come to consensus on the facts or the history. [vi]  Instead, they decided to write two separate histories.  The left side of the book is written by Israelis.  The right side of the book by Palestinians.  Two histories, literally side by side.

I would dive into the Jewish perspective, and it was everything that I was taught as a child and an adult.  But, when I turned to the Palestinian narrative, I was dumbfounded.  How could the same historical events be understood in a completely different manner?

Here’s just a handful of examples: In the 1920’s was it an “Arab mob” or an “Arab uprising?”[vii]  Did the Jews settle upon “abandoned land” or “confiscated land?”[viii]  Was it a War of Independence or a Nakba, a catastrophe?  Was the Six Day War in 1967 provoked by Egypt or was Israel the aggressor pining to take over more Palestinian land?[ix]  Who was at fault during the 1990’s peace process, Israel or Arafat?

It wasn’t just me who was challenged by this book.  An Israeli teacher, Rachel, who used “Side by Side” as a textbook in her classroom, summed it up this way:

“When I saw the narrative of the other side, first I was angry and frustrated at how different it was from ours.  I felt it was not based on facts but on stories and emotions.  Later, I learned to cognitively accept the difference, but still felt that our narrative was superior to theirs.  Only recently did I learn to see the logic behind their narrative and even to emotionally feel empathy to what they went through.  If this took me four years, imagine what it will take the pupils or their parents.”[x]

The writers of “Side by Side” believe that the first step in comprehending another narrative is mourning. At this moment, we are raw.  Many of us are angry and unwilling to hear a differing perspective.  This week, we commemorate the yahrtzeit of October 7.  We must mourn.  We mourn the loss of life, the terror, and the fragility of Israeli society.  As the uncertainty continues, we might be mourning for a long time to come.  It took Rachel four years. How long could it take us?

I know this will be painful, but there is work ahead for us to do.   Yossi Klein Halevi believes that the main obstacle to peace is the inability to hear each other’s stories.  That’s why he offered his book in Arabic for free downloading.[xi]  While Rashid Khalidi shares this message, “The irony is that, like all peoples, Palestinians assume that their nationalism is pure and historically rooted while denying the same of Israeli Jews.”[xii]  Mutual acceptance is the only path forward and must be based on complete equal rights and national rights.[xiii]  

As we begin this New Year, our world is tohu v’voho, complete and utter chaos.  There is real fear of a war with Iran.  We pray with all of our hearts for Israel’s safety and security.  At the same time, we must not forget that there is a land where two peoples live, with two stories, and two truths.  Even in the midst of a larger Middle East conflict, even as we sit in sorrow and anger, we must be willing to inch towards peace with the Palestinian people.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday soon.

May we learn from Israeli and Palestinian authors.  May we talk to those who differ in their perspective from us.  May we share our story and feel proud and confident in our narrative.  May we do our best to hold multiple truths.  May we always work to write a new story of hope, peace, and mutual understanding.  A story of two states, Jewish and Arab, Israel and Palestine.  A story where the hostages come home, where children can be safe, and laughter can be heard in the streets of Tel Aviv and Gaza City. Ken Yehi Ratzon.  May it be so, Amen.

---

[i] In appreciation to Rabbi Marci Jacobs, whose essay in “Am Yisrael Chai: Essays, Poems, and Prayers,” edited by Rabbi Menachem Creditor, pp. 266-274, helped center the story of creation as one of the centering texts of this sermon.  Her beautiful essay guides the reader through narratives that are in conflict with one another.

[ii] “Letter to My Palestinian Neighbor,” by Yossi Klein Halevi, p 34

[iii] “Letters,” p. 43

[iv] “Letters,” p. 69

[v] “Letters,” p. 108-109

[vi] “Side by Side Parallel Histories of Israel-Palestine,” edited by Sami Adwan, Dan Bar-On, Eyal Naveh, and Peace and Research Institute in the Middle East (Prime), p. X

[vii] “Side by Side,” pp. 32-33

[viii] “Side by Side,” pp. 51

[ix] “Side by Side,” p. 191

[x] “Side by Side,” p. xiv

[xi] “Letters,” p. xi

[xii] The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine: A History of Settler Colonialism and Resistance, 1917-2017,” by Rashid Khalidi, p. 246

[xiii] “The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine,”  pp. 245-246