Love is the Answer - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5786

 

The 1970’s were a fearful time for our Jewish community.  Just a generation or two after the Holocaust, there was once again trepidation about our demographic decline.  As recently as 1920, less than 1% of marriages in our Jewish community were outside the faith, but by the 1970’s, 30% of Jews were marrying non-Jews, and that the number was rising steadily. 

Our Jewish community’s response to these changes was fear, anger, and indifference.  Many leaders openly condemned interfaith relationships while some parents sat shiva when their child married a non-Jew.  Almost no rabbi in the country would officiate at an interfaith wedding and non-Jewish partners felt most unwelcome in our synagogues. 

This summer, I read “Above All, We are Jews” written by Michael Meyer, a biography about the life of Rabbi Alexander Schindler.  Rabbi Schindler, the president of our Reform Jewish Movement from 1973 to 1995, took a different, radical response.[i]  As a refugee from Nazi Germany, Rabbi Schindler wished to restore our Jewish community.  He believed that the only way to do that was through Ahavat Yisrael, a love of fellow Jews.[ii]  It was not fear, hate, or indifference that propelled him, but a love of every single Jew regardless of who they married or who they loved.  Rabbi Schindler urged our Reform Movement to welcome interfaith families warmly and to encourage them to raise their children as Jews.

Rabbi Schindler also saw that there were too many barriers for non-Jewish partners.  They too should be invited to recite the blessing over the Shabbat candles, to hold the Torah scroll, and to serve as leaders of our synagogues. 

Alongside the Central Conference of American Rabbis, Rabbi Schindler worked to broaden our recognition of who is a Jew.  Through patrilineal descent, babies born to either a Jewish mother or a Jewish father would now be considered as Jews in our synagogues.

And when Beth Chayim Chadashim, a LGBTQ synagogue in Los Angeles, approached our Union to be admitted as a congregation, Rabbi Schindler accepted them.  He urged Reform Rabbis to welcome LGBTQ individuals into our synagogues.[iii]

Our Jewish community has changed dramatically for the better since the 1970’s thanks to the leadership of Rabbi Alexander Schindler.  But we must not forget that these changes were not easy or simple. Rabbi Schindler received deep critique for his stances.  Reform rabbis believed that we would be at the periphery of Judaism.  Jewish leaders were outraged by his plan to “dilute” the Jewish community.  Others thought we were spending far too much effort on “outreach” instead of “in reach to Jews by birth.” 

Rabbi Schindler’s response was love.  Ahavat Yisrael, the love of our Jewish people, as well as the love of our fellow human beings.  Because of love, we are a stronger and a more vibrant Jewish community today.

Unfortunately, we are living at a time when love is not the prevailing emotion.  There is too much hate and too much anger. ICE agents terrorize citizens and non-citizens alike.  SNAP benefits are taken away from those who are the hungriest.  Medical research is being decimated, vaccines demonized.  The justice department indicts the president’s enemies and the FCC comes after those speaking their truth.  While the National Guard marches in our streets.

This is not who we are as a country.  These are not our American values.  We are not a perfect country, far from it, but at our best, we stand for democracy, equality, and freedom.  We are a country who takes care of one another.  We are a nation of immigrants who welcomes the refugee as the Statue of Liberty beckons.

As our country changes so rapidly, so many of us are unsure of what to do.  How do we combat hate?  How do we lift up the American and Jewish values that we care so deeply about?

Our Jewish tradition teaches that we combat hate with love. This year, I read Rabbi Shai Held new book, in which he teaches, “Judaism is about many things, but above all else Judaism is about love.”[iv]  Over the course of these High Holy Days, I seek to answer the same question in different ways, “How do I be a Jew in this moment?”  I’ve already shared my thoughts around community, wrestling, and grief.  My answer this morning: “to be a Jew is one who loves.”

Our first command to love is not the easiest, but perhaps it’s the one you know best, V’havata et Adonai Eloheicha, “You shall love Adonai Your God.”  What’s most surprising is how we express that love of God.  We convey our love by “walking in God’s ways.”  Just as God clothes the naked, visits the sick, comforts the mourner, buries the dead, so too must we.[v]  Even more than that, we learn in the Torah that God loves the most vulnerable.  God loves the orphan, the widow, and the stranger.  We are commanded to love who God loves.[vi] 

Our role as Jews is to transform hate into love.  We do that through action.  We love by taking care of the immigrant, by feeding the hungry, by lifting up the poor, and by protecting the persecuted.  When we can no longer rely on our government to protect and take care of its citizens, it’s now up to us. 

Unfortunately, hate is not the only emotion that many of us are feeling at this moment.  There is also a sense of helplessness and indifference.  Elie Wiesel once said: “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.”[vii]  Indifference can be found in so many ways.  When we choose not to act, that’s indifference.  When we won’t figure out how to make change, that’s indifference.  When we yell angerly at the news, but go right back to our normal lives, that too is indifference.

A few weeks ago, we welcomed Catalina Rodriguez Lima, the Director of the Mayor’s Office of Immigrant Affairs to speak at our Friday evening service.  That’s in recognition of our second command to love, “to love the stranger.”   Miss Rodriguez Lima spoke movingly about the plight of immigrants and the work our city is doing to keep them safe.  She concluded her remarks with a warning.  Too many immigrants no longer feel safe being in public or attending a rally for fear of their or their family’s legal status.   She urged us, “Those of you who have the ability to act, must step up for those of us who can’t.”  Not all of us are able to act, but many of us have the privilege and the ability to make a difference.

Our actions can be both large and small.  Rabbi Betsy Teutsch recently shared that her husband David broke his leg and was transported home from the hospital via ambulette.  A few days later, she ran into her next-door neighbor in the driveway.  She explained to her neighbor that David had broken his leg during a bike accident.  She was flabbergasted when, her neighbor responded, “Oh, yes, I did see that he came home in an ambulette, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

Rabbi Teutsch shares her response, “Get over it folks!  If your neighbor comes home in an ambulette, do not stand on ceremony.  Offers to help are not intrusive; they are what good neighbors do.”[viii] 

As Jews, we are also commanded to “love our neighbor.” Rabbi Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenburg, a 19^th century biblical commentator, believes that we love our neighbor by being a faithful friend.[ix]  He gives examples of what we would expect of a friend: “to love us, to treat us with respect, to seek out our well-being, to share in our sorrow, to welcome us warmly into their home, to judge us favorably, to gladly go through a little trouble for our sake.”  When our neighbors are in need, we don’t remain indifferent.  We aren’t  intruding when we reach out and show we care. 

There is a third emotion that many of us are feeling: fear.  Fear and retaliation are being used as weapons against us.  Too many pillars of our society are being culled: the press, universities, philanthropists, cities, governors, law firms, and businesses.  We’re so fearful, and sometimes rightly so, of our government contracts, federal funding, non-profit status, bad press, a loss of job, or God Forbid, a justice department investigation.

There is also a real fear of our physical and emotional safety.  A few weeks ago, I was invited to attend a rally for Kilmar Ábrego García just before he was to enter the George Fallon Federal Building for his ICE hearing.  Although the rally was scheduled at 6:30am, downtown, that really wasn’t my concern.  I grew fearful about my presence there.  Would I be seen as a rabble rouser?  Would I be entered onto a government watch list?  Was I being crazy or would I be next? 

I did decide to attend the rally along with four other rabbis, a dozen clergy people, and hundreds of others.  Luckily, I don’t have nearly as much to fear as do many other members of our community; trans individuals, immigrants, black individuals, and so many others who fear for their physical safety.

I know it’s cliché, but I think back to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, John Lewis, and the dozens of other brave civil rights leaders, including Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who marched across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama.  There was real fear: fear of violence, fear of their livelihoods, and yet they bravely marched.

We Jews fight fear with love.  When we are afraid, we often wish to flee.  Judaism teaches us to do the opposite.  We are to run towards the people and the places that make us most afraid.[x]  When we are filled with fear, we show up with love.  We visit the sick, we comfort the mourner, we raise our voices, and we stand with the persecuted.  As Rabbi Shai Held teaches, “The goal is not to be fearless.  The goal is to learn to sit with our fears… Certain things may understandably scare us, but we can learn to stop being governed by fear.”[xi]  We do this by showing up, by gathering in community, and by expressing our love.

During the last weeks of 1995, Rabbi Alexander Schindler addressed our Reform Movement for the final time.  He shared these words: “My core conviction, the mainspring of all my actions, the driving power of my life is Ahavat Yisrael, a love of my fellow Jews which knows no limits.”  Over the course of his presidency, Rabbi Schindler, provided us with a different path forward.  It was not easy or simple, but because of his leadership and vision, our Jewish community is more diverse, more open, more welcoming, more loving, and more vibrant.  His response to hate, indifference, and fear, was love.

At this moment, so many of us are unsure of how to act.  How do we respond to our changing country?  How do we want to use our energy?  Should we sit in fear, stew in anger, or remain indifferent to the plight of others?  Or do we wish to love?  Our tradition commands us to love our neighbor, to love the stranger, to love and walk in God’s ways.  It may seem naïve to fight hate or fear with love.  But, Dr. King reminds us: "Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."  May we choose love.  May we choose kindness.  May we choose compassion.  May we choose rebuke.  May we choose fortitude.  May we choose bravery.  May we choose love.  Amen.

---

[i] “Above All, We Are Jews: A Biography of Rabbi Alexander Schindler,” by Michael A Meyer

[ii] “Above all, we are Jews,” p. 177

[iii] “Above all, we are Jews,” p. 125-128

[iv] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 7, by Rabbi Shai Held

[v] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 227

[vi] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 360

[vii] Elie Wiesel, US News and World Report, 27 October 1986

[viii] Rabbi Betsy Teutsch, “Connecting with Neighbors,” September 2, 2024, evolve.reconstructingjudaism.org/connecting-with-neighbors

[ix] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 113

[x] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 230

[xi] “Judaism is About Love” p. 233

A Time for Grieving - Kol Nidre Sermon 5786

 

A year ago, I lost my grandma.  Elaine Gordon was the most loving, special, and incredible grandmother.  She always looked 20 years younger than she was and wore the most stylish clothing.  Dinners were extremely important.  At any restaurant, whether we were 4 or 12 people, we’d always sit at a round table.  A glass of wine would be ready with a toast that she’d make: “to good health.”

Elaine Gordon loved her family and held us close.  She never forgot to send a birthday card.  She’d ring me on the phone and end every call with “I love you, bye dear” and because she never wanted the call to end, she’d repeat it, “I love you, bye dear.”  It’s been a year and a half since her death, I still miss her dearly.

Tonight, on Kol Nidre, we remember.  There’s something about this evening, this service, whether the haunting music, the darkened sky, the empty ark, that summons us to remember.

This Kol Nidre, we are each grieving our own losses.  For some, its relatives and loved ones who’ve been gone for months or even years, who are in our hearts tonight.  There are many other losses as well.  Our country has changed so dramatically since January.  Too many of us lost jobs, lost grant money, lost colleagues, lost our voices.  Too many of us lost faith in our country, lost hope in our future.

Throughout our history, we Jews mourn individual losses, but also communal losses too.  Over the centuries, we faced so much destruction.  Our Temples were in ruins, and our beloved Jerusalem decimated.  We were expelled from our homes, our shtetls ransacked, our future unknown.  As a community, we gather to grieve, to mourn, and to support each other during the challenging times. 

This moment is also a difficult one.  Each of us is unique not only in our beliefs, but also in how we respond to these changes.  Some of us are angry, some ready to fight, some fearful, a few might be uninformed or unaware.  All of these are important emotions.  But, one Jewish response is to grieve.  We mourn individually, communally, and as a country. 

Over the course of these High Holy Days, I seek to answer the same question in different ways, “How do I be a Jew in this moment?”  Over Rosh Hashanah, I spoke about the importance of being in community and of wrestling.  My answer tonight: “to be a Jew is one who grieves.”

Not long after my grandma’s death, my family looked to me for guidance.  I am “the family rabbi.”  The question that kept coming up was around shiva.  Did we really need shiva?  My grandmother was 94 when she died, my grandfather is 96.  They have a small home.  Would anyone come to the house?  If they did, would everyone fit? 

Luckily, with a little prodding we did sit shiva.  I’m so glad we did.  My extended family came together to eat, to comfort each other, and to share memories.  Old neighbors who moved away stopped by for a shiva call.  Second cousins from California called on the phone to check-in.  Shiva was a strange confluence of sadness and laughter, tears and joy.  Shiva allowed us to remember my grandmother, to mourn our loss, and to begin the process towards healing.

Unfortunately, my family’s experience seems rarer these days.  We are more disconnected than ever from our Jewish mourning rituals.  I’ve heard so many good excuses.  “My family member wasn’t Jewish.  My loved one lived out of state.  No one knew them here.  Everyone already said their goodbyes.  We’re just too busy now.”  These excuses, although valid, quickly turn to inaction.  Too many of us forego some, if not all, of our Jewish mourning rituals.

There are consequences when we refrain from mourning.  We don’t give our bodies and our souls the time needed to grieve.  Losing a loved one is extremely difficult with many emotional ups and downs.  We aren’t doing ourselves any good when we jump immediately back to normal life.  We also aren’t providing a space for our family and friends to comfort us.  They aren’t sure how best to support us and to show us they care.

These well-crafted rituals: gathering quickly after death, cutting a kriyah ribbon, sharing memories at a funeral, burial, sitting shiva, praying at a minyan, reciting kaddish, and yahrzeit are for us, the living.  These rituals[i] help acknowledge our pain, to share our emotions, to be in the presence of others, to rely on friends and family, to find the support we need, and to turn our grief into a positive experience.  If we arrive at the Mourner’s Path, may we take the time to grieve; and when those in our community do walk in the Shadow of Death, may we do our part to support them in their sadness.

Over the centuries, our rabbis also created rituals to help navigate communal grief.  When the First Temple was destroyed in 586 BCE, many of our ancestors were taken by force to Babylonia.  It was there, in a strange land, that they wrote these famous words from Psalm 137:

“By the rivers of Babylon,
there we sat,
sat and wept,
as we thought of Zion.

There on the poplars
we hung up our lyres”[ii]

Our ancestors created rituals to mourn together communally.  They even foregoed playing their instruments to mark this moment of sadness.  Powerfully, some of these rituals continue to be observed today.  At the conclusion of a wedding, we still break a glass to mark our communal grief.

While in the Middle Ages, during the height of the Crusades, the Christian armies marched across Europe to “free” the Holy Land.  As they reached the Rhineland, these armies massacred the Jewish communities living there.  It was our Jewish survivors who crafted new rituals to mourn the loss of their communities.  The Kaddish became a prayer of mourning while the yizkor memorial service was created to mark communal grief.

We too need rituals to mark this moment of a changing America.  There are already kernels of ideas bubbling up like Park Rangers hoisting upside down American Flags in our National Parks signaling an SOS or brave athletes who kneel during the National Anthem.  I honestly am not sure which of these or other rituals will be the most meaningful to us.  But we need to create rituals together, to help us journey through grief towards healing.

One of the most important mourning rituals in the mourning process  is the sharing of stories.  As I sat shiva in my grandparents’ house, my family and I began to tell stories about my grandmother.  Elaine Gordon would make sure her salmon was “very, very well done.”  When you came to visit, there’d always be bagels and lots and lots of rugelach!  Whenever there was a simcha, a birthday or major anniversary, she would plan a big party.  Family was so important.  We’d gather for Rosh Hashanah dinners and Passover seders.  But the highlight was Thanksgiving.  Every other year, we  all gather in one big house, all 27 of us, four generations, for a full extended weekend together.  The stories we shared about my grandma that day were the first crucial step towards healing.

As a Jewish community, we also tell the stories about our past.  It inspires me that year after year, we continue to read the same stories from our Torah.  Each time we arrive at Leviticus, there’s always one person who asks, “Why do we read all these rules about animal sacrifice?  We’ll never again offer animal sacrifices as part of our ritual observance!”  My answer: we read these words to remember our past and to never forget our history.  A Jew is one who remembers.  Without our past, we have no future.

In our country, too many are trying to take away our past.  Whether good or bad, our American history is being censored, stripped away, or cancelled.  The Enola Gay airplane and its brave pilots erased because of the word Gay.  Harriet Taubman deleted from the National Park Service website about her role in the Underground Railroad.  Transgender Activists Marsha P Johnson and Sylvia Rivera silenced from their brave actions in the Stonewall Uprising.  Slavery, Civil Rights, Women’s Suffrage, LGBTQ Pride, especially the T, are being deleted from the history books.  As we mourn, we must never forget our past. 

As we grieve, we walk the Mourner’s Path.  Sometimes that path is short, sometimes more winding, but hopefully it leads us in the direction of healing.   We mourn to begin the journey forward.

After the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, our rabbis recognized that what was would never be rebuilt.  The Temple was the central meeting place for the Jewish community.  Pilgrimage holidays, sacrifices, Levitical worship, all occurred in the Temple in Jerusalem.  Once the Temple was destroyed, our community was without its heart and soul.  Our rabbis had an answer.  They transformed our Jewish way of living by creating new alternatives to Temple worship.

Torah study became so central to rabbinic Judaism that it equaled all other commandments.  Acts of loving kindness were considered by our ancient sages to be even greater than Temple sacrifices.  While the dining room table became our communal altar expressing the centrality of our Jewish homes.  Jewish worship in the synagogue became a way to repent for our mistakes and to gather in prayer.[iii]  The Temple was gone, but a new path was set for future generations.

One reason we grieve is to reflect upon what comes next.  I know that my grandmother will never again have dinner with me, but every time I’m seated at a round table, I think of her.  I’m always thoughtful of how best to keep her legacy alive, whether it’s saying, “to good health” whenever we clink our glasses, celebrating with gusto at every birthday, sending a card, calling a loved one, or marking holiday celebrations.  She won’t be there with me, and I miss her dearly, but her presence is always felt.  Her memory propels me forward. 

We too must begin this difficult work for our country. Taking time to grieve provides us with the opportunity to dream dreams.  Our country was never perfect, but we must envision what a country “For the people, by the people, and of the people” could truly become.  What could our country’s future look like?  What should it look like?  I have no idea what we will create, but we must dream in order to bring it to fruition. 

I know that many of you are not ready to grieve.  You might be too angry to grieve.  You might feel that mourning is giving up.  Plus, we will grieve differently.  But, our sages teach that grief and mourning are the first steps towards healing. 

Tonight, Kol Nidre calls us.  We are called to grieve.  We are called to remember.  We are called to hope.  May we take the time to mourn our losses, to gather in community, to comfort each other, and to turn towards a new day.  Amen.

---

[i] Based upon the ten guidelines for grieving by Rabbi Earl Grollman found in K’vod HaMet edited by Rabbi Stuart Kelman

[ii] Psalm 137:1-2

[iii] “From Time by Time: Journeys in the Jewish Calendar” p. 313-315 by Rabbi Dalia Marx, translated by Rabbi Peretz A. Rodman.

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

---