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
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