Behaving Like a Jew
Yom Kippur, 5790
Rabbi Jason Rosenberg
Behaving Like a Jew, By Gerald
Stern
When
I got there the dead opossum looked like
an
enormous baby sleeping on the road.
It
took me only a few seconds—just
seeing
him there—with the hole in his back
and
the wind blowing through his hair
to
get back again into my animal sorrow.
I
am sick of the country, the bloodstained
bumpers,
the stiff hairs sticking out of grilles,
the
slimy highways, the heavy birds
refusing
to move;
I
am sick of the spirit of Lindbergh over everything,
that
joy in death, that philosophical
understanding
of carnage, that
concentration
on the species.
--I
am going to be unappeased at the opossum’s death.
I
am going to behave like a Jew
and
touch his face, and stare into his eyes,
and
pull him off the road.
I
am not going to stand in a wet ditch
with
the Toyotas and the Chevies passing over me
at
sixty miles an hour
and
praise the beauty and balance
and
lose myself in the immortal lifestream
when
my hands are still a little shaky
from
his stiffness and his bulk
and
my eyes are still weak and misty
from
his round belly and his curved fingers
and
his black whiskers and his little dancing feet.
“Behave
like a Jew.” What does it mean to “behave like a Jew?” It means, at least in
part, to be open to all of the pain in the world. It means to be maladjusted to
the world as it is — it means to refuse to be complacent, to refuse to
acquiesce to the reality that there is agony in this world. It means to never
look at suffering, wherever we might encounter it, and accept it with “that’s
just the way it is.” To behave like a Jew means to realize that every animal
that dies should, in theory, be a heartbreak for me. And that, all the more so,
every person who dies, every person who suffers, anywhere in the world, should
be, too. That’s what it means to behave like a Jew.
I have to say, although I hope it
would go without saying, that when Stern talks about “behaving like a Jew,” I
don’t think he means as opposed to how a non-Jew would act. I don’t think he’s
saying, and I most certainly don’t believe, that Jews are kinder or more moral,
or have a greater responsibility to be so, than people of other religions, or
of no religion at all. I think what he’s saying, and what I most certainly am,
is that behaving in this way is a fulfillment of the highest ideals and
aspirations of our tradition, as I’m sure it is in many other traditions, as
well.
Of course, it’s an impossible
aspiration. None of us live this way, really. We couldn’t possibly. Refusing to
accept any pain or suffering, of any living creature, anywhere in the world?
Letting ourselves, demanding of ourselves, that we share in all of the pain?
Impossible. It would be paralyzing. It would destroy our souls. Our ability to
compartmentalize, to put on blinders, to look away from the worst parts of the
world, is essential for those of us who want to actually live in this world.
Can you imagine what it would be like if we truly responded to every tragedy in
the news as if it had happened to our own family? The world would stop as each
and every one of us fell to our knees, crying in endless despair at the sheer
weight of the horror in the world. Thank God we have the ability to turn away
from this, when we have to.
But, we have to occasionally be
willing to open ourselves up to the fullness of the world’s pain. If we don’t,
we may swing too far in the other direction. We may accept our indifference as
normal, as right. We might become satisfied with a world which is good enough,
at least from our safe, comfortable spaces. If we don’t, at least on occasion,
look with clear, wide open eyes at the fullness of the world’s pain, we will
allow ourselves to become numb, and to become unconcerned.
Religion’s job is, in part, to comfort
the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable. A religious life should give us the
impetus, and should give us the courage, to be fully openhearted, without limit
or condition. To feel all of the pain. All of it. To, at least for a moment, at
least for this moment, on this holiest day of the year, to see it all. To feel
it all.
We don’t, because it would be awful
beyond imagining. But, I suspect that we also resist doing this because we
understand, maybe not consciously, but on some level, what it would demand of
us if we were to do so. What would my life look like if, every time I saw
someone suffering on the news, it struck me as if it were a close member of my
own family that I was looking at? How much would I have to give of my time, of my
energy, how much would I have to give of my money if that was what I really
felt? If a dear friend of mine, if a family member, was truly in desperate
need, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, nothing I wouldn’t give, to ease their
pain. We say that, if we go back far enough, we’re all related, one to the
other. We say that all of humanity is one family. But, we don’t act like it.
Not ever, and certainly not when tragedy strikes. We react and we respond. Of
course we do. But, not enough. Not as much as we could, not as much as we
should. I know I don’t. I’m sure none of us do.
But, as I stand here today, on this
sacred day, don’t I have to confess to you, don’t I have to admit to myself,
that when I turn away, when I file away someone else’s pain in the box labeled “not
my problem,” that I am ashamed. I’m ashamed because part of me, maybe the best
part of me, knows that it is my problem. Precisely because I have seen it. How
could the suffering of a human being, any human being, not be my
problem? I’m ashamed because I know that turning away from anyone’s pain, that
being indifferent to the suffering of any single human being, anywhere in the
world, no matter who they are, is a sacrilege. Torah teaches us that to be a
Jew is, at its best, to be responsible for it all. To refuse, adamantly and
passionately, to be indifferent. It is to open my heart as wide as I can. Wider
still. To be a Jew is to acknowledge that your pain is my pain. Your suffering
is my suffering. Your plight is my concern. Wherever and whoever you are. To be
a Jew is to refuse to accept indifference or callousness. It’s what we should
expect of ourselves, and what we should expect of each other. We should be
horrified when we realize that we were, in fact, indifferent to someone else’s
suffering. We should be appalled when someone around us closes their eyes and
hearts to another’s pain. When we drive past the beggar, when we pretend not to
see the person crying, when we turn on the news and flip past another story
about another group being oppressed by one set of leaders while being ignored
by another. We can’t be content. We can’t say that this is good enough. We have
to cling to our belief that our world needs better.
When thinking about our
responsibility, about our need to respond to the pain of others, it’s
impossible for my mind not to turn to politics. And, it should. This is a
deeply political thought, for a deeply political moment. Not politics in the
sense of any particular policy, party, or candidate. But, politics in the sense
of understanding that each and every decision that we make, as individuals, as
a society, as a nation, has untold impacts on those around us. We are obligated
to never be satisfied with the suffering of anyone, never to be silent in its
face. All the more so, when the politics and policies which I support are the
cause of that suffering.
I passionately support Israel and
Israel’s right to defend itself. That must never make me anything less than
heartbroken to see the suffering of a single Palestinian. You might be in favor
of strong immigration enforcement. We must never be anything less than
horrified, devastated at the site of a person suffering because of that policy.
If you believe in strong borders, I can respect that. If you are unmoved by the
sight of families being pulled apart, of children in cages, if you are
undisturbed by innocents being denied medical care, of people sleeping on cold,
wet concrete, if you are indifferent to a parent burying a child, in an
inner-city, at our border, in Gaza, then you are lost.
To choose a policy which leads to
suffering is, probably, in the end, unavoidable. To be comfortable with that?
To be satisfied in a world in which people suffer? To be satisfied in a world
in which our decisions, justifiable as they may be, lead to that suffering?
That’s inhuman. That’s profoundly, deeply, fundamentally, un-Jewish.
Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik (Leviticus
19:34) teaches that the Jewish people was formed in exile, that our Torah was
given to us outside of the holy land, specifically so that we would develop a
sensitivity to others. And he also teaches (Deuteronomy 1:13) that establishing
a system of perfect justice was a prerequisite for entering the holy land
thousands of years ago, and it remains so, today. Being sensitive to others,
being open to the pain of others, is literally the foundational trait of
Judaism. Being satisfied with less than perfect justice will always keep us
from full redemption. 1000 years ago, Maimonides taught that not being kind to
others is enough to allow us to be suspicious about whether someone is truly a
Jew. This is who we are. This is who we’ve always been. We care for others. All
of them.
Today is Yom Kippur. Today is the
day in which we open ourselves up to all of the ways in which we have failed,
all of the ways in which we have fallen short. And, each one of us is surely
guilty, at some point this past year, at some point in each and every year of
our lives, of a failure of compassion. We have cared, but we have not cared
enough. We have allowed ourselves to be appeased, we have allowed ourselves to
accept the presence of suffering in our world. I know it’s not realistic, and I
know it’s not possible. But, today I have to look at myself as if I am
responsible to give, and to work, and to speak out, without limit, without
pause, until the last tear is shed in our world. Today I accept that I am responsible
for it all, because if I accept that today, then I might be more moved to act
tomorrow.
I will never fully live this. I know
that. I will never be able to be this caring, this open, this good. But, if I
let myself, for at least today, believe that I should be so, maybe I’ll push
myself more this year. If I allow myself to understand what my best self is
capable of, and what my best self is responsible for, maybe I’ll be a bit more
like him than I otherwise would. Today, I do not accept my acceptance of pain.
Not one bit.
I talked last night about the idea
of chet, a word which we usually translate as “sin,” as really being
about missing the mark. I said that maybe, in our generation, we can best
understand this not as “transgression,” but as “falling short.” Not being bad,
so much as not being enough. Have we actively sinned? Have those of us sitting
here today gone out and done terrible things to others? Probably not. Not most
of us. But, have we responded to as many needs as possible? Have we been as
caring, as openhearted as we should be? No, surely we haven’t. In that way, we’ve
fallen short. Today, we don’t accept that. Today, we open ourselves up to that
pain, and to those failures, and we use that as a goad to drive us forward. To drive
us to be better. Today, we can’t care enough.
Al chet shechatanu l’fanecha—for
the ways we have fallen short abusing our power. For the ways we have fallen
short through cynicism and scorn. For the ways we have fallen short by
hardening our hearts. For all these, God of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us,
lead us to atonement.
