Behaving Like a Jew -- Yom Kippur, 5780

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.

Responding not to love, but to pain

Last month, I had the chance to attend a 2-day convention of Rabbis who are involved with Social Justice. I was just glancing through my notes from that event, and I came across an idea from some speaker, but I didn't write down who shared it. Which is a shame, because it's a beautiful, powerful idea, and I'd like to give her or him credit. Anyway...

The point that this speaker made was that, in justice work (as well as in other realms, I'd add), we often put too much emphasis on love. We are moved towards justice because we love the other. We are compelled to help the needy because we love the one in need. Or, so we say. It's a potent idea, but it falls short because of a difficult, not often acknowledged complication.

There are a lot of people whom I don't love.

I'm not just being sarcastic; I'm being quite honest. There are a lot of people out there towards whom I don't feel love. There are the people that I know whom I dislike, of course. But, there are literally billions of people whom I've never met, to whom I don't have the faintest connection (beyond the proverbial "7 degrees" by which we are all connected). I can say that I love them. But, can I look you in the eye and tell you that, really, I love them? I understand that my Christian friends and colleagues might approach this differently, and might understand love as a more basic, fundamental aspect of existence. But, to me, to someone who relates to love as a deep, personal, actual relationship with another, I can't honestly claim that I love people I don't know.

But, I can honestly tell you that I respond to their pain. 

When I see a child suffering on TV, I don't know that child, so I can't really tell you that I love them. But, I can see that they're in pain, and I can be moved by that pain. In my experience, that's an honest claim--I am moved by pain, even when I don't know that one that is in pain. The truth is, that I'm even moved by the pain of people I hate. I can honestly say that I don't wish pain on anyone, and if I saw someone I actively disliked in pain, I'd be moved to try to help them. My love has limits; my response to pain doesn't seem to.

The trick, of course, is to actually see the pain. To be willing to look--both in the sense of being willing to watch and read and listen to the hard stories, which I want to avoid, because they cause me pain, as well as to acknowledge that, whatever else I think, that pain is real. That acknowledgement keeps me from saying "you deserve it" to someone who doesn't agree with me on politics, or religion, or whatever else. That's part of the power of pain, and of responding to it--pain doesn't know of tribalism, or of politics, or of identity groups. Pain, and the humanity of the one in pain, precede these categories, and so it affects me before I can wall it off with a sense of "otherness."

I don't want to get too overtly political, but it's impossible here. So, let me just dive in. To take one current example, I'm sure that many/most people reading this aren't in favor of building a wall along our southern border, and that some of you are. I guess there's an intelligent debate to be had about that practical policy question. But, whatever you think about walls, or The Wall, or immigrants, or refugees, we have to be able to recognize the pain of the real people who are involved in this. The pain of people who are running for their lives is real, and it must be acknowledged, and it must be responded to. And, the pain of people who fear for the jobs or their lives (even if I firmly believe that their jobs and their lives aren't actually in danger from these immigrants) is real, too, and it must be acknowledged, and it must be responded to.

I'm thinking as I'm writing, as I often do when I blog, and I think I just got to the point. Even if I disagree with the cause or the philosophy or the belief which is behind your pain, I can't honestly deny that you are in pain. And, if I'm human, I'll want that pain to end. I may not be able to make it so, but I want to try.

I want your pain to end. That, just maybe, is the wellspring of justice.

Freedom is Caring

During my sabbatical, I've been spending some time with Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik's Torah commentary. For those who don't know, Soloveitchik was one of the giants of the 20th century, and he more or less created what we now know as Modern Orthodoxy. He never actually wrote a Torah commentary, but one of his students gathered various teachings of his which related to various parts of the Torah, and assembled them into a single work. It's a pretty fantastic bit of Torah.

In this week's Torah portion, Parashat Bo, we get the Passover story, including the commandment of the Paschal sacrifice. It is, according to at least some sages, the only sacrifice which is closely tied to the idea of chavurah, community. One sage even asserts that this one particular sacrifice can only be offered by a group, never an individual. This one offering, so closely tied to freedom, can never be an individual act.

But, a chavurah, a community, is more than a group. It must be bound by something. And, that something is chesed. What's chesed? It's usually translated as "kindness," but it also has a sense of communal obligation about it. Loving responsibility. That, Soloveitchik teaches, is what freedom is really about. The ability to display chesed.

The ceremony of the Passover meal, centered around the paschal lamb, aims at the emergence of the new chesed community--for chesed is the characteristic mark of the free man...the birth of the chesed community--of a nation within which people unite, give things away, care for each other, share what they possess--is symbolized by the paschal sacrifice...[God] simply wanted the people--slaves who had just come out of the house of bondage--to emerge from their isolation and insane self-centeredness into the chesed community, where the little that man has is too much for himself.

To emerge from our insane self-centeredness. What a phrase. And, what a great definition of freedom. The ability to emerge from our insane self-centeredness.

As you may know, during my sabbatical, I've also been focussing a bit on Social Justice, and on trying to find ways, and partners, to work towards a world which cares more for the oppressed and the marginalized. And, although I don't know that Soloveitchik would have liked this application (he was speaking about the Jewish community here, not the world community), I still found his words resonant with the world of Justice. And, quite dissonant with much of the hatred and anger, and with the treatment of "the other," that I see in the news.

What is freedom? Freedom is defined, and symbolized, by our ability, and our willingness, to emerge from our insane self-centeredness, and to instead live within a nation built on caring for each other.

Cain Yehi Ratzon--May that be God's will.

Shabbat Shalom.

Mindfulness vs. Justice?

For a while now, two of the most important aspects of my Judaism (and of my rabbinate) have been Mindfulness and Social Justice. And, for just about as long, I’ve been struggling with a tension between the two. They certainly aren’t in direct conflict; in many ways they are complementary. But, in at least one major way, they are most most definitely in tension.

My mindfulness training is always coming back to lovingkindness, in one form or another. It pushes me to be calm and levelheaded, and to be open to others as much as possible. Mindfulness and meditation are supposed to lead us to peace and calm. Screaming in anger is most definitely not a mindful way to be.

But, screaming in anger is precisely what my Social Justice work often pushes me to want to do. When I read about injustice—racial*, economic, gender; it doesn’t really matter what kind—I get angry. No surprise there; anyone who can read about these kinds of injustices and not get angry should be concerned. And, when I read or hear from others who don’t seem to care about these things, from those who dismiss others’ cries of injustice, from those who deny that injustice is real—well, that doesn’t exactly create a groundswell of mindful serenity within me.

By the way, I recently read Ta-Nehisi Coates’ We Were Eight Years In Power. I cannot recommend this book enough. It’s a difficult book (not the writing, which is beautiful, but the content), but so, so important in its subject matter. 

I sometimes feel pretty torn about all of this. On the one hand, I want to continue to explore what mindfulness can bring to me, and how it can change me. I admire the equanimity that truly mindful, spiritual people can bring to their lives. I admire the effect that peaceful equanimity can have on those around them. I want to be calm, and thoughtful, and respectful, and to be someone who engenders those qualities in others.

On the other hand, I want to scream, and rant, and rail. I want to stand on the corner and yell at people who, knowingly or not, abuse their privilege and, unwittingly or not, remain complicit in the oppression of others. Part of me wants to be monklike, and part of me wants to be a righteous prophet. And, while I hope (and kind of assume) that time will help me find some kind of a balance between those two poles, I currently have no real idea how to imagine, let alone achieve, that balance.

Maybe one piece of the puzzle is in an article I set aside a long time ago, but never got around to reading, “Hard on Systems; Soft on People” by Tim Wise. The basic idea? Wise suggests that we be unforgiving in our resiststance to unfair and unjust systems. That we fight, tooth and nail, against the larger forces of oppression. But, that we also remember that not every person who is connected to those systems is evil, or deserving of being screamed at.

Why? Well, in part it’s strategic. Screaming at people is often just an ineffective way to engage in advocacy, for so many reasons. But, more importantly (to me, and my current balancing act, at least) is that it acknowledges that people are complicated, and flawed, and somewhat conditioned by our circumstances. Sometimes good people think or say or do bad things. We don’t have to be kind or forgiving to those things that they think, say, or do. But, we can still be kind to the person who thought, said or did them.

Just to be clear--Wise says (and I wholeheartedly agree) that this isn't advice for every situation. Some people are so awful (or, if you prefer, behave so awfully) that a bit of vitriol is appropriate to send their way. But, at least some people deserve a bit more compassion. And, it might be easier to show it to them if we remember that we are often the ones who fall short and need that forgiveness.

Look, here's my reality. I'm racist. And sexist. And homophobic. Hell, I'm probably somewhat Antisemitic. I'm obviously not a mouth-breathing, White-Power-rally-attending fascist. But, I struggle with just about every -ism you could name. I have, in the past (probably more recently than I'd be willing to remember or admit) said terrible, hurtful things. I know I've spent most of my life not being aware of, or taking responsibility for, my privilege. And, I'm not done with any of that. I probably won't ever be.

Maybe if I remember that I've got my own demons to keep fighting, I'll be a bit more able to be kind to others who are doing the same. And, hopefully none of that will keep me from fighting to make sure that our darker inclinations are never allowed to go unchallenged. Maybe I'll find a way to keep fighting, while growing more mindfully loving. Maybe, God willing, one day they'll even feel like the same thing.

Protesting the Anthem

There's been a whole lot of ink spilled over Colin Kapernick and his refusal to stand for the National Anthem. As I'm sure you know, he's doing so as a protest against the treatment of African Americans in this country. Many have joined in that protest in one form or another, many others have refused to, often condemning him, and those who have joined him, for being disrespectful to the flag, to the military, and to our country.

This morning, the news was filled with another story about an unarmed black man being gunned down by police. Another. Words fail, so I'm not going to even try to respond specifically to that incident, at least for now.

Here's what I want to say to anyone who is mad at Kapernick et al for what they're doing. Let's concede, at least for the moment, what you're complaining about. Let's concede that Kapernick is a whiny, privileged hypocrite. That he's aggressively disrespecting the military which has kept him safe*. That anyone who feels this way should just be quiet or (as ridiculous as this is on its face) leave the country. Let's, for a moment, let the worst version of Kapernick and his protest be what we accept as true.

* Although, I'll admit to being unbelievably frustrated that we've let anyone turn this into a debate about the military. The flag is not the military, and the military is not the flag. Unless and until someone actually calls out the military for something, conflating a protest against the anthem/flag with criticism of the military is just specious.

How bad is it? I mean--if Kapernick is everything his critics claim he is, what is he doing that's so bad? He's disrespecting a flag, and an anthem, and a country. I'm not a huge fan of that--I love our country, and as a religious person, I take symbols seriously. So, I'm somewhat ambivalent about the way he's protesting. But, that's all he's doing--protesting against symbols and institutions. Quietly and peacefully. That's as bad as it gets.

And, why is he protesting? Because black men keep getting shot by police when they've done nothing wrong. Because that's just the most heinous, egregious, awful, disgusting, unthinkable, evil manifestation of the larger reality, which is that racism is real, and it's present, and it affects people of color every single day in myriad ways, large and small. And that most of us who don't live daily with racism don't seem to be too bothered by that.

Disrespecting a flag vs. systemic racism. And, we're focussing on that disrespect.

If you don't like what he's protesting, or how he's protesting--fine. That's your right. But, if you think that the form of his protest is what's really important here, then we've got a bigger problem.

The world is on fire; let's stop protesting that we don't like the sound of the siren.

Ice Cream, Race and Privilege

Earlier today, I posted a little video on Facebook of a cop in Halifax who is pulling people over, ostensibly for some traffic violation, and then citing them for "driving without ice-cream," before giving an ice-cream cone to everyone in the car. I offered it as a feel-good counterpoint to all of the very serious (and very real) trouble with policing and race in America (and Canada, I presume).

A friend and classmate of mine gently but directly pushed back on me, pointing out how cruel it is to pull someone over when that person will almost inevitably fear for their safety. Even if the resolution is good, there's surely a moment when the driver thinks "Is this it?" Even if the intentions are good, which I assume they truly were, getting to the "good stuff" required playing on this woman's deeply seated fears. If I'm splitting hairs, I might challenge my friends use of the term "sadistic" to describe this, because the intent was to cause joy, not pain. But, that's a minor quibble--whether through cruelty or thoughtlessness, the pain that can be caused by this kind of thing is very, very real.

Here's another thing, though. When I first saw the video, I had that same thought. It wasn't as well developed, and certainly wasn't as strong, but I did think about that moment when the person in the car must have been afraid. I don't think I thought of it in terms of "feared for her life," but all of us who have been pulled over know that wrenching feeling of fear. For those who have seen like-skinned people killed for minor (or non-existent) traffic violations, that nauseating feeling must be incalculably greater. But, despite my learning more and more about what it's like to be a person of color in a situation like this, it just didn't fully register in this incident. It didn't seem like the main point. I mean, the interaction ended well, and she laughed, so all was good, right? It's just oversensitive to focus on that "little" moment when the cop was just trying to do something nice.

Still think it's not a big deal? Give this one a read:

To the untrained eye and ear, the black woman captured in the video sounded full of joy. But to black people everywhere, we know what loud, uncontrollable relief looks and sounds like. That relief that Maya Angelou once talked about that black women have perfected. That relief that forces you to laugh because you haven’t had the space to cry just yet. That relief every time we interact with police officers because we never know if we will leave that interaction alive.

Watching a situation, and being able to forget that for someone who looks like that, as opposed to someone who looks like me, it might have induced absolute, real-life panic? Thinking about the fear, but only briefly, and lightly? Thinking that a false pull-over might be, overall, funny and fun? There's a term for that.

Privilege.

Thanks, LR, for helping me see mine.