Many years ago, a young Jewish man from Boston traveled down to Florida for his honeymoon. He and his wife were picked up at the airport by an African-American cab driver. As they drove through wealthy neighborhoods, they passed by a Country Club, with a large sign out front, with the words, “No Jews, No Dogs.” The man was shocked. He turned towards the cab driver and asked if that was common practice down there. The driver answered: “At least you made the sign. They don’t even mention us.’” That young man, Kivie Kaplan, became an activist and a philanthropist. He marched with Dr. King in Selma, travelled to Mississippi for Freedom Summer, and served as a president of the NAACP.
Late in life, Kivie helped found the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism. The RAC has a long history of advocacy and fighting for justice. A few years after the RAC’s founding, the very words of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were penned on its conference room table.
Kivie Kaplan was one giant among a generation of Jewish leaders who stood against racial injustice. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel and Rabbi Joachim Prinz and scores of other Jewish men, women, and college students risked their lives for the rights of others. They helped make our world a more just, a more tolerant, a more equitable place for all.
That is why I am saddened by the recent news of racial injustice. There are still too many who face prejudice solely because of the color of their skin. We’ve seen parts of the Voting Rights Act struck down, and now, new, onerous laws make it challenging for many to vote. On Rosh Hashanah, Rabbi White reminded us of the power that words hold, such as Eric Garner’s “I can’t breathe!” There are too many stories of black men who were stopped by the police and failed to make it home.
In light of these recent events: of the shootings and the demonstrations, of the rulings and legislation: Cornell Brooks, President and CEO of the NAACP, called for a march, “America’s Journey for Justice.” This was not any march; it was a 40 day, 1,000 mile journey that began in Selma, Alabama and ended in Washington, DC. Why march? Because “our lives, our votes, our jobs, and our schools matter.” Why march? Because “Black Lives Matter.”
Fifty years ago, hundreds marched with Dr. King from Selma to Montgomery, to address the injustice around voting rights. On your seats is a picture taken from that march. Standing next to Dr. King, is Rabbi Maurice Eisendrath, then president of our Reform Movement, marching and carrying a beloved Torah scroll.
When our Reform Movement heard about “America’s Journey for Justice,” they pledged that at least one rabbi each day, alongside a Torah, would march the entire 1,000 miles of the journey. I knew that I must follow in Rabbi Eisendrath’s footsteps. That’s how, I found myself, in the middle of August, on a desolate road in rural Georgia. Alongside me were dozens of other marchers of all races and religions. In the heat and the humidity, with sweat pouring down my face, I marched, carrying the Torah. I learned so much just by walking, talking, and journeying alongside my fellow marchers. I’d like to share some of the stories I heard and I hope, that together, we can work to bring justice and compassion to our world.
That morning, I sat down for breakfast with Royal, who lives in Ohio, just a few hours from where I grew up. Royal shared how terrified he is when his teenage son gets into the car and drives away. I thought about all of the parents who worry when their kids get behind the wheel for the first time. Royal worries about this too, but it’s not his only concern. Royal fears that his son could get pulled over for the crime of “driving while black.” Could his son be dragged from the car, arrested, or even worse, never make it home?
Carrying a 20 pound Torah in the 100 degree heat isn’t easy and as I marched next to Royal, the Torah truly became a burden. But, it wasn’t the Torah’s weight that bothered me; it was its values of justice and righteousness that truly bore down upon my soul. I couldn’t help but think about the prophet Isaiah, whose words we will read tomorrow morning:
Cry from the depths, says God – do not hold
back, lift up your voice like the shofar…[i]
Royal’s cry and the cries of millions of parents like him, sound like a shofar, awakening me from my complacency, my comfort. I thought about all of the times I wanted to lock the doors of my car or hold tight to my phone. I reflected upon my own prejudice and my own discomfort around race. This Yom Kippur, I focus my Cheshbon HaNefesh – the accounting of my own soul – on racial injustice. I challenge myself to look at the fears that plague my soul and the internal racism that goads me. I challenge myself to understand the benefits of being white and finding ways to create equality and fairness for all.
Later that day, I marched alongside Sheila who is concerned about the next generation. In her hometown of Detroit, Sheila told me that those without an education often only find work as a restaurant server – making the minimum wage – barely enough to make a life. Sheila described the pain she feels for those stuck in the cycle of poverty, whose schools fail them, and whose job prospects are dim. Sheila inspires me. She just started a new job tutoring high school seniors, providing them with the skills they need to move forward with their education and their dreams.
As I marched alongside Sheila, Torah in my arms, I once again thought back to Isaiah who reminds us that to change our world, we must act:
Royal’s cry and the cries of millions of parents like him, sound like a shofar, awakening me from my complacency, my comfort. I thought about all of the times I wanted to lock the doors of my car or hold tight to my phone. I reflected upon my own prejudice and my own discomfort around race. This Yom Kippur, I focus my Cheshbon HaNefesh – the accounting of my own soul – on racial injustice. I challenge myself to look at the fears that plague my soul and the internal racism that goads me. I challenge myself to understand the benefits of being white and finding ways to create equality and fairness for all.
Later that day, I marched alongside Sheila who is concerned about the next generation. In her hometown of Detroit, Sheila told me that those without an education often only find work as a restaurant server – making the minimum wage – barely enough to make a life. Sheila described the pain she feels for those stuck in the cycle of poverty, whose schools fail them, and whose job prospects are dim. Sheila inspires me. She just started a new job tutoring high school seniors, providing them with the skills they need to move forward with their education and their dreams.
As I marched alongside Sheila, Torah in my arms, I once again thought back to Isaiah who reminds us that to change our world, we must act:
Is
not this the fast I desire – to break the bonds of injustice and remove the
heavy yoke; to let the oppressed go free and release all those enslaved? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
and to take the homeless poor into your home, and never to neglect your own
flesh and blood?[ii]
Without a doubt, our schools are failing many who live in low income areas. This disproportionately affects students who are black because our schools are more segregated now than they were forty years ago.[iii] There are so many barriers preventing us from fixing our schools, yet Sheila did not throw up her hands and walk away; she acted! She is doing her part to better our world.
There are already so many in our community, from the grassroots to government, from philanthropy to hands-on work, whose acts make a huge difference in Long Island and around the world. But, we know there is so much more we can do both individually and as a community to tackle racial injustice. Here are just four things, some easier than others, which I hope will push us to do even more:
First, you can do something as easy as filling out a postcard! In 2013, the Supreme Court struck down certain sections of the Voting Rights Acts. Since then many states, most famously North Carolina, passed laws making it difficult for thousands of citizens, often people of color, the poor, or the elderly from accessing the ballot box. There is nothing more unjust than preventing citizens the right to vote. On your seat is a postcard. Take a moment to fill it out and drop it in the baskets on your way out of services.
This October, learn and study and open your minds! The Temple Sinai Book Club will be reading Ta-Nehisi Coates, “Between the World and Me.” Written as a letter to his fifteen year old African-American son, it powerfully describes race in America today. I hope you will read the book and join us for the discussion.
This winter, help build a better community. We already have a close relationship with Pastor Victor Lewis and the Friendship Baptist Church. We will come together to have a discussion about race and religion. This will not be an easy conversation, but by truly listening to each other, we can uncover new truths, deepen our relationship, and work together to heal our world.
This year, become an activist! Temple Sinai is a partner of LICAN, a Long Island Community Organizing Initiative. We advocate for social change as part of Reform Jewish Voice of New York and the Religious Action Center. Whether it is a local issue or a national law, our congregation needs leaders who will help us advocate for justice and equality for all. Please volunteer and join us!
I know these might seem to be small things, but this is just the beginning. Don’t let it stop here. May our study and our building of relationship, encourage us to help all who are in need and discover new ways to give back to our community.
As the day grew hotter, I marched alongside Keisha and learned her story. In 1996, the Ku Klux Klan chose Ann Arbor, Michigan, her hometown, as the location for its next rally. A small group of Klansman showed up wearing their white robes and conical hoods, while across the way, hundreds of others stood together in a counter-rally. All was peaceful until a woman with a megaphone yelled out: “There’s a Klansman in the crowd!” A white, middle aged man, wearing a confederate flag t-shirt with an SS tattoo on his arm, stood in the middle of the counter-demonstration. Shouts of “Kill the Nazi” were hurled at him. As he was knocked to the ground, the protesters began kicking him and hitting him with sticks.
Suddenly, Keshia, then only 18 years old, a High School senior, threw herself upon the man, protecting him from the blows. Asked why she did this, she shared: “I knew what it was like to be hurt. The many times that happened, I wish someone would have stood up for me.”[iv]
I asked Keisha if she ever spoke with the man whose life she saved. She never did. But one day, when she was at a local coffee shop, a young man stopped and thanked her. “What for?” she asked. “That was my dad” he answered.
Keisha’s act not only changed one son’s heart, it transformed the trajectory of her life as well. Like Kivie Kaplan, experiencing hatred and hostility, pushed Keisha to become an activist. Twenty years later, she continues to fight for justice and equality. We all can’t be Keshia, but we can possess her willingness to see each other not by the color of our skin, but as other human beings.
This evening, on Kol Nidre, as I begin my fast, Isaiah’s cry summons me: Is not this the fast I desire – to break the bonds of injustice and remove the heavy yoke; to let the oppressed go free and release all those enslaved?[v] Isaiah calls me to recognize my prejudice and my fears. Isaiah calls me to act, to do my part, to not remain silent. But, it is not only Isaiah who calls me: Royal, Sheila, Keisha and millions upon millions of others cry out, their cry like a shofar, for justice and equality. They remind me that I have the power to heal our world so that on one feels injustice or hatred or discrimination for who they are. I hear their call. Hineni, Here I am, I am ready.
Without a doubt, our schools are failing many who live in low income areas. This disproportionately affects students who are black because our schools are more segregated now than they were forty years ago.[iii] There are so many barriers preventing us from fixing our schools, yet Sheila did not throw up her hands and walk away; she acted! She is doing her part to better our world.
There are already so many in our community, from the grassroots to government, from philanthropy to hands-on work, whose acts make a huge difference in Long Island and around the world. But, we know there is so much more we can do both individually and as a community to tackle racial injustice. Here are just four things, some easier than others, which I hope will push us to do even more:
First, you can do something as easy as filling out a postcard! In 2013, the Supreme Court struck down certain sections of the Voting Rights Acts. Since then many states, most famously North Carolina, passed laws making it difficult for thousands of citizens, often people of color, the poor, or the elderly from accessing the ballot box. There is nothing more unjust than preventing citizens the right to vote. On your seat is a postcard. Take a moment to fill it out and drop it in the baskets on your way out of services.
This October, learn and study and open your minds! The Temple Sinai Book Club will be reading Ta-Nehisi Coates, “Between the World and Me.” Written as a letter to his fifteen year old African-American son, it powerfully describes race in America today. I hope you will read the book and join us for the discussion.
This winter, help build a better community. We already have a close relationship with Pastor Victor Lewis and the Friendship Baptist Church. We will come together to have a discussion about race and religion. This will not be an easy conversation, but by truly listening to each other, we can uncover new truths, deepen our relationship, and work together to heal our world.
This year, become an activist! Temple Sinai is a partner of LICAN, a Long Island Community Organizing Initiative. We advocate for social change as part of Reform Jewish Voice of New York and the Religious Action Center. Whether it is a local issue or a national law, our congregation needs leaders who will help us advocate for justice and equality for all. Please volunteer and join us!
I know these might seem to be small things, but this is just the beginning. Don’t let it stop here. May our study and our building of relationship, encourage us to help all who are in need and discover new ways to give back to our community.
As the day grew hotter, I marched alongside Keisha and learned her story. In 1996, the Ku Klux Klan chose Ann Arbor, Michigan, her hometown, as the location for its next rally. A small group of Klansman showed up wearing their white robes and conical hoods, while across the way, hundreds of others stood together in a counter-rally. All was peaceful until a woman with a megaphone yelled out: “There’s a Klansman in the crowd!” A white, middle aged man, wearing a confederate flag t-shirt with an SS tattoo on his arm, stood in the middle of the counter-demonstration. Shouts of “Kill the Nazi” were hurled at him. As he was knocked to the ground, the protesters began kicking him and hitting him with sticks.
Suddenly, Keshia, then only 18 years old, a High School senior, threw herself upon the man, protecting him from the blows. Asked why she did this, she shared: “I knew what it was like to be hurt. The many times that happened, I wish someone would have stood up for me.”[iv]
I asked Keisha if she ever spoke with the man whose life she saved. She never did. But one day, when she was at a local coffee shop, a young man stopped and thanked her. “What for?” she asked. “That was my dad” he answered.
Keisha’s act not only changed one son’s heart, it transformed the trajectory of her life as well. Like Kivie Kaplan, experiencing hatred and hostility, pushed Keisha to become an activist. Twenty years later, she continues to fight for justice and equality. We all can’t be Keshia, but we can possess her willingness to see each other not by the color of our skin, but as other human beings.
This evening, on Kol Nidre, as I begin my fast, Isaiah’s cry summons me: Is not this the fast I desire – to break the bonds of injustice and remove the heavy yoke; to let the oppressed go free and release all those enslaved?[v] Isaiah calls me to recognize my prejudice and my fears. Isaiah calls me to act, to do my part, to not remain silent. But, it is not only Isaiah who calls me: Royal, Sheila, Keisha and millions upon millions of others cry out, their cry like a shofar, for justice and equality. They remind me that I have the power to heal our world so that on one feels injustice or hatred or discrimination for who they are. I hear their call. Hineni, Here I am, I am ready.
[i]
Isaiah 58:1 (Verses from the Yom Kippur Morning Haftarah Reading)
[ii]
Isaiah 58:6-7 (Verses from the Yom Kippur Morning Haftarah Reading)
[iii] http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/wp/2013/08/29/report-public-schools-more-segregated-now-than-40-years-ago/
[iv] http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-24653643
[v]
Isaiah 58:1, 6 (Verses from the Yom Kippur Morning Haftarah Reading)
