We Do Not Stand Alone — R'Steven Erev Rosh Sermon

This sermon was delivered at our 5786 Erev Rosh Hashanah service.

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Produced by Mishkan Chicago. Music composed, produced, and performed by Kalman Strauss.

Transcript

Transcript

The Hasidic master Rabbi Simcha Bunim taught that every person should carry two pieces of paper, one in each pocket. On one they should write: bishvili nivra ha’olam, for my sake the world was created. On the other: va’anochi afar va’eifer, I am but dust and ashes. For Rabbi Simcha, these verses were a balm for our mercurial ego. There are days when we feel like we’re nothing, and so we must be reminded of the miracle of our existence; that somehow, the collision of elements over billions of years led to each of us being alive right now. And there are days when we forget that, while we may be the hero of our own story, our needs and our desires are co-equal to those of our fellow human beings; we are only part of the narrative, no more important than anyone else. The other day I was studying these verses with some folks, and one of them pointed out that they are also a reminder of our limitations and our power. Yes, we might be a collection of star dust. But this world, the world we live in, is one we have created in our image. Collectively, we have the power to shape the world.

This is a sobering statement of fact, given what the world looks like today. But we know this is true. Whether it is the slow burn of climate change or the movement of migrants across our borders, what we do, the institutions we build, the societies we create have a profound impact on ourselves, each other, and this planet. To say otherwise is to deny reality.

Of course, no single person is responsible for the way things are – we’re dust and ashes, remember. We inherit the blueprint created out by those who came before us and are constrained by the decisions of others, past and present. But collectively, we make choices that build and maintain the structures that gird our lives. The Vidui, the confessional prayer we recite during this season (but also said on our deathbed), contains a whole list of ways we have missed the mark: ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu, dibarnu dofi – we have done things we are ashamed of, we have betrayed our values, we have taken what was not ours, we have spoken ill of others and ourselves, and so on. That this list is written in the collective, spoken in the first-person plural is to recognize that together we create the conditions for a world in which these things happen. Looking down this litany, there are the things we have done. But there are also the things we have not done, but tolerated. Or things we stayed silent about, even when we could have spoken up.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmKbBEs7fMY

More often than not, we are bystanders to harm – too scared, too embarrassed, or too powerless to intervene. There have been many times over this past year when I have simply felt like I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to engage with people across differences. Just the other day, I was with some friends at Hollywood Beach (for those who are not familiar, it’s the one with the rainbow lighthouse). Both the lighthouse and the breakwall have been regularly tagged over the past year, often with political messages, before being powerwashed and then tagged again. This weekend, someone had written on the breakwall: No Zionist Pigs. “I like that one,” a friend said offhand. And like so many times over the past few years, I had to run the cost-benefit analysis of saying something. What exactly did they like about the graffiti – that they hated the war (so do I), or that they stand against Netanyahu and his political allies (I do as well)? Or do they dislike all Israelis (which I don’t)? By “Zionist”, did the person who tagged the breakwall actually mean “Jew”? Did my friend? How much time did I want to spend educating the people I was with about how this graffiti harnessed old antisemitic tropes of Jews as pigs – or was it better to stay silent, so I could enjoy one of the last beach days of summer with my friends? Was I not being courageous enough, when there are people dying? But what help would it be anyway? And of course I recognize the privilege of this moment, when there are people suffering in ways far more significant than my mental calculus – but I am also just so tired of all of it.

The point is, it’s hard to put ourselves out there – to make ourselves vulnerable to ridicule or retribution, especially when what we say or do can so easily be taken out of context and used to cancel us. But as the rabbis teach: shtika k’hoda’ah, silence is like consent – which is to say, silence is not neutral. Our choices (including the choice to do nothing) help dictate the way things are. Whether we actually like the way things are is irrelevant.

I don’t mean to be harsh. We live in difficult times – not to mention the proximate, more personal challenges we face in our own lives. But if we are to bring a different world into being, then we must take responsibility for our part in having made the world what it is. During this season, we are asked to engage in the task of cheshbon ha’nefesh – an accounting of the soul, to remember what we are proud of and be honest about where we could do with a little work. This practice is grounded in the belief that we are fundamentally good, and that this goodness is what allows for our capacity to change. But to understand the hopeful possibility of who we might become, we must take an unflinching look at where we have fallen short.

I recognize that so many of us are just trying to pay our bills, tend to our health, care for loved ones, do a little good, and make it to tomorrow. Given the state of the world, carving out small spaces for joy can feel like the only resistance we can muster – not only against the darkness of these times, but also the shadows cast by the challenges we face in our own lives. As a rabbi, I am often invited to sit with people in the hardest moments. In some ways, this year has felt like a shiva home. Relationships have ended. Careers have been cut short. We have buried loved ones, some who were ready to leave us and some who were much too young. We have struggled with infertility. We have wrestled with addiction. I have sat with people who were so overwhelmed by bad news (and there is always more bad news), that despair has felt like the only acceptable response. And I get it. There is a comfort in despair, because if there’s nothing to be done then doing nothing is the right choice.

But we also know that despair will not guide us through this wilderness. Apathy will not get us to the other side. So we beat our chests and name the ways that we as a community have fallen short to remind us that just as we are the authors of our mistakes and their consequences, we also have the ability to change the narrative. The collective task of cheshbon ha’nefesh, to take stock of the world and name its brokenness, requires all of us to own our part in it. None of us gets to say that this is not our story. 

I am reminded of something said by Rabbi Irving Greenberg, in the wake of the Holocaust: “No statement, theological or otherwise, should be made that would not be credible in the presence of the burning of children.” At the time, he was speaking about how the world responded (or failed to respond) to the horrors of the death camps, but his words continue to be a prescription for how we should act in the face of violence today. And right now, children are burning. For the past two years, we have seen too many images of children dead and dying in Israel, the West Bank, and Gaza. The news cycle should have us beating our chests, to live in a world where this is happening. Where we have collectively allowed this to happen. However we have responded, no matter what we have done or not done – this is a Vidui, a confessional, that implicates us all.

However you relate to Zionism and the State of Israel, one thing it seems we all can agree on is that the war has taken a terrible toll on the people who live there. The conversation takes a more difficult turn when we try to define what is happening in Gaza. Thomas Friedman recently wrote: “I will leave it to the historians to debate whether Israel is committing genocide in Gaza.” The point of his argument is that, no matter what we call it, the war has both killed too many people and ruined Israel’s standing in the world. It has torn apart our communities, here and over there, between those who feel the need to stand with Israel (for better and for worse) and those who abhor the actions of its government and have spoken out in protest. It has destroyed our willingness to speak or listen with compassion.

Of course, despite Thomas Freidman’s protest, the debate about whether what is unfolding in Gaza can be called a genocide is not simply the domain of historians; the conversation is happening right now, as pundits and armchair experts weigh in on whether facts on the ground (if we can trust these facts at all) meet the standards of ethnic cleansing. I have seen many people use this lack of clarity as an excuse to not have this conversation; how can we know what to call it, if we can’t really know what is happening at all. And there are those who fear what the invocation of this word means for Israel, for the people who live there, and for those of us who are tied to that place through family, through tradition, and through history. But whether you call it a genocide or not – the fact this conversation is even happening, shows us that something is very wrong. Children are burning. How will we respond?

I hear the concern, especially from my fellow Jews: we have to be very careful about these conversations. Especially when speaking about the tragedies occurring in Israel, the West Bank, and Gaza (places that some call Palestine), we must be cautious with the words that we use – because what we say, what we admit might be happening, can and will be used by those who hate us. It is a frightening thing, to be caught in between the humanitarian crisis du jour and a world that wants to blame us for it. We have already seen the way careless discourse about the war has been used to justify violence against Jews, including here in Chicago. We have also seen the way these words have translated into hatred of our Palestinian neighbors, sometimes with deadly effect. Our tradition warns us about the power of words. Life and death are in the power of the tongue, and so there is a debate between those who feel that accusations of ethnic cleansing are bring used to unfairly target a state that was birthed in response to the attempted genocide of our people (and perhaps finish the job) and those who feel that by not using this label, we desensitize ourselves to the killing of innocents and abet the killing of more.

Recently, I have seen how this sensitivity to the power of words has fueled the debate about whether starvation within Gaza meets the technical definition of a famine. The United Nations uses a five-point scale to assess a population’s food security. Famine is the highest classification on this scale, and occurs when at least 20% of the population faces extreme food shortages. I am sure you’ve seen the competing narratives emerging from Gaza, photos of aid convoys heading into the war zone (but are they enough and actually reaching people in need) and photos of children bent by hunger (but are they really photos of starving children). Statistics are contested, whether one distrusts the Israeli government to accurately report aid, or one distrusts the Hamas-controlled Ministry of Health to tabulate cases of death and starvation, or one feels that both of these governing bodies are too biased to reflect the realities of war.

So, for the sake of argument, let’s say that what is happening in Gaza doesn’t meet the technical definition of a famine. Perhaps 15% of the population is starving. Or maybe only 10%. To this point, Rabbi Sharon Brous posed the question: are we meant to turn away from a crisis just because it doesn’t reach some imagined threshold? Like Abraham negotiating with God before the destruction of Sodom and Gemorrah, we are obligated to remember the value of every single life. Even one starving child is too many. And I would add: one dead soldier or one missing hostage or one displaced person is too many. Call me radical (and I’ve been called a lot of things over these past two years), but I refuse to tolerate anyone’s death. I do not believe in collateral damage. This is not the world our tradition envisions. Rabbi Brous reminds us, “The Jewish response to catastrophe is not to contest statistics and argue about methodologies. It is to weep, to pray, to cry out in anguish.”

To weep is to care, to take in the brokenness of the world and let it break our hearts. It is how we say: this is also my pain. Your pain is also my pain. But what can we do? What can any of us do? I’m not in charge. I’m not a politician or policy maker (and I didn’t vote for these ones anyway). I’m just a person, made of dust and ashes, doing my best to get through the day – and sometimes even that feels like too much. And so to resolve the dissonance between our breaking hearts and our idle hands, we make excuses: the problem isn’t as bad as it seems (if it even meets the technical definition of a problem) or it’s not my problem to fix, it’s their problem to fix. I didn’t do anything wrong. To this abrogation of our agency and our responsibility, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once cautioned: while some may be guilty, all of us are responsible. 

But if all of us are truly responsible, if what is happening in Gaza indicts the entire world – it does feel like the finger has been pointed at us, Jews, far too often. I know that I have looked at people taking to the streets, protesting the war, and wondered why people are not speaking out against Hamas’ stranglehold on Gaza? Or demanding the release of hostages? Why does the suffering of one people or place seem to preclude compassion for others? Why don’t folks seem to care about other atrocities around the world, like famine in Haiti or the ongoing genocide in Sudan – if not the myriad injustices that occur in our own country, including a precipitous rise in antisemitism and other forms of hate? As Jews, regardless of who we vote for or how we protest, we have been subjected to the harsh gaze of global scrutiny in a way that no other people has. We are constantly being asked to defend our choices, to prove that we are “good Jews” or the right kind of Jew. I have spoken to so many of you who feel isolated, standing by yourself in the gap between communities where you should feel welcome and safe. I also feel it: too Zionist for one space, not anti-Zionist enough for another, caring too much about Israelis to belong here, caring too much about Palestinians to belong there, while still moving through the grief and anger of a war that has gone on too long. It’s not fair. But as Brené Brown once wrote, sometimes being ourselves – with integrity and a commitment to our values – means having to find the courage to stand alone.

There is a story in the Torah about Balaam, a famous prophet who is sent to curse our ancestors – but when he opens his mouth, instead of malediction he offers blessings. You might recognize some of what he says, verses that we have incorporated into our morning liturgy: Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkanotecha Yisrael; how fair are your tents, O Jacob; your dwellings, O Israel.  But amidst these words of praise, Balaam says something curious: Hen-am levad yishkon, you are a people that dwells alone. You are a people set apart. You stand by yourselves. These words may feel more like a curse, than a blessing. For most of our history, we have been treated as people apart; at best tolerated, often vilified, surviving on the largesse of whomever happens to be in power at the moment knowing that at any time this could change. Jews are often subjected to a double standard not applied to any other people or place; we see this clearly with Israel, which is subject to censure that may be deserved but should also be equally applied to other actors – but is not. We are consistently asked to respond to violence with restraint, inequality with generosity, and hatred with compassion.

Yet, here’s the thing: this is also our own ethical standard. Just look in our sacred texts. The philosopher Dr. Mara Benjamin once wrote, we are an obligated people – commanded by a set of values that are not contingent on the actions of others, but constant and true even in the worst of times. We are a people with a story and a purpose, one that translates the pain of our past into how we respond to the present. Our understanding of what it is like to stand at the margins of every single society we have lived in demands an empathic impulse that calls us outward, not inward, opening our hearts to any person burdened by the yoke of oppression. We have stood on the vanguard of every civil rights movement in this country, a fact that we should be proud of. And sometimes we have stood alone.

But would you have it any other way? I’ve spoken to so many people who look at the world with despair, who feel that nothing they do matters. Whether by birth or by choice or by association (I see you, Jewish-adjacent folks), we have been given a way to respond. We have inherited a map to navigate the wilderness, a vision of the future we want to create, the faith to cleave to it, and the tools to build it – first among them, our unbreakable belief that things can change, if only we will it and work for it. For if you will it, it is no dream. The whole world may seem like a narrow bridge, but we do not fear crossing it because of all the narrow bridges we have traversed to reach this moment. When the path ahead appears impassable, we remember every Jew who came before us who dared to step forward into impossibility. We are alive today because of them.

And people are choosing to be Jewish right now, knowing all that we face, because it gives them meaning and purpose in a world that makes most gestures of protest feel empty. This year at Mishkan, we welcomed 18 new converts into the Jewish people – along with dozens more across Chicago, and hundreds across the country. We stand in very good company. We do not, in fact, stand alone.

I had a conversation with a friend about the different roles required for a society to function. He’s a lawyer, and his job is to ensure that the rule of law is applied effectively and fairly. A healthy society works well when there are many people doing different things, and doing the things that they are meant to do. You would not want him to lead services. You would not want me to represent you in court. I’ve thought a lot about my job as a rabbi, what role I play in a world turned upside down. How do I help solve the many problems we face? As I’ve said, I’m not a politician; I am certainly not a policy maker nor a military strategist. I am, like all Jews, a person of the book – a story teller. And our story reminds us that what is, is not what must be. We must be annoyingly insistent about this fact. That’s my job. To remind us that this is not it, this is not the only way; we have inherited the blueprint of a better world and the obligation to build it. I am here to help us tell a different story about these times: our story.

Enslaved for four hundred years our ancestors could have told a story of impossibility, one that imagined slavery as its only conclusion. And many Israelites did feel that way. But some chose to write a different narrative. The rabbis say that the prophet Miriam, when she was a child, witnessed a conversation between her parents. Her parents decided that they wouldn’t have any more children for who could bring a child into this reality, bound in chains and with no hope for a better tomorrow? Miriam tells them: don’t give up. Bring another child into the world. Perhaps this one will show us a different way forward. (And that child, Moses, does just that).

This is a role we all can fulfill: to remind the world to not give up. As Jews, we are called to be an or l’goyim, a light for others – not that we know better than them, like the light of knowledge locked away in an ivory tower. No, to be a light. For those in darkness, the light of comfort and companionship. For the places too painful to look at, the unflinching light of witness. For those who cannot see a way forward, the hopeful light of a better future that we know is possible. A light that refuses to be extinguished.

This is, in the end, the message of Rosh Ha’Shanah. Hayom harat olam. Today is the day of the world’s creation. Together, we decide what world to bring into being. Together, we will create it. This year, may it be one that is a little gentler, a little kinder, a little more just – for us and for all people. This is our inheritance. And this is our purpose.

Shanah tovah, may this year be a better one.