Just Who Do We Think We Are?

Just who do we think we are?

As we sit here today evaluating ourselves, we also need to look at the larger picture of evaluating the Jewish situation, how the identity of being Jews defines part of how we relate to the rest of the world. In the face of serious anti-Semitism all over the world, in the face of the ongoing complex and painful situation in Israel, in the face of violence driven by religious fanaticism, in the face of all the many conflicting voices within Judaism, it seems important to contemplate what being Jews means to us, and what it ought to mean. What privileges does it grant us? What obligations does it entail? Are we taking responsibility for being a member of this people? Do we see it as an accident of birth, of no particular importance? Have we come to it as adults, or as converts, or as spouses of Jews, wanting it to be a spiritual path and source of community? Have we thought about what it means to others that we are Jews, and what others think Jews are because of their experience of us?

Reconstructionists have taken some steps in defining what it ought NOT to mean. Reconstructionists, as you know, are not very comfortable with the terminology of being the Chosen People. We don’t attempt to alter the Torah, but we definitely alter the prayer book wherever the phrase crops up. Mordecai Kaplan taught us to reconstruct the idea of chosenness. It never was meant to connote superiority, but rather challenge, only a duty to serve. And so wherever our prayers proclaim that we have been “chosen,” we substitute words that say we have been “drawn close to service.” We teach that it is possible to be particular, and to celebrate being particular, without demeaning the value of belonging to any other religion or people. We believe the Jewish way is a good way to live, but we do not believe it is the only good way. We know that there are good and bad people in every culture, and try to keep our standards high for ourselves, without denigrating any other group. Being Jewish in particular need not be a contradiction with holding universal values. So we have stricken the original language of prayers that tout our superiority.

The Alenu that we recite, standing and bowing toward Jerusalem, familiar from our closing prayers, begins like this:

Alenu leshabeah l’adon hakol, latet gedulat l’yotzer breishit
It is up to us to offer praises to the master of all, to declare the
greatness of the maker of creation,

And then originally included these words:

Sheh lo asanu k’goyay ha-artzot
who has not made us like the nations of the lands,

V’lo samanu k’mishpchot ha-adamah
or situated us like the familes of the earth,

She lo sam helkenu kahem
that did not give us a portion like theirs,

V’goralenu k’chol ha monam
nor a destiny like the rest of the crowd.

That’s the version you will find in non-Reconstructionist synagogues. Even they have stricken some of the original language, which continued in part: “for they worship hevel ve-rake, emptiness and nothingness, and a god who does not save.”

After this denigration of all other peoples, the prayer goes on to praise God as the one source of splendor and power, to oppose idolatry, and to look forward to the day when all those on earth will turn toward God, will accept God’s rule, and in this way the world will be healed and repaired.

Our Reconstructionist version tries to save the important part, the idea that when everyone perceives and accepts the demands of holiness, the world will be whole. But it cuts out all the comparison to other peoples. We concentrate on our mission, without reference to what others should be doing. We say instead,

Alenu leshabeah l’adon hakol
It is up to us to praise the master of all

Latet gedulat l’yotzer breisheet
To declare the greatness of the maker of creation

She natan lanu torat emet
Who has given us a Torah of truth

V’hayay olam nata btochenu
And planted eternal life within us.

The commentary in our Mahzors points out that,

The Alenu prayer was originally composed for use on Rosh HaShanah in the Malchuyot section of the Musaf. Its trumpeting of divine sovereignty and the anticipated recognition of that sovereignty by all humanity is central to the liturgy of Rosh HaShanah. The world’s birthday and the re-enthronement of God have been linked themes as early as … the Mishnah. (DAT)

So the Alenu is first of all a Rosh HaShanah message. It says, “We accept God’s sovereignty; one day everyone will and the world will be as one.” Now we can argue about what would save the world, and whether or not the answer would be in a spiritual awakening for all humanity. Let’s leave that sermon for another time.

I want to focus on how we understand ourselves in this vision. It seems to me that what we are trying to say is that being Jewish should be part of healing the world. Coming to an awareness of the holy should bring people together in reverence and respect for one another. We are expressing our willingness to submit to the demands of holiness out of a sense of its grandeur, majesty, and saving power. In the original, the bowing was done all the way down to the floor, as we will do on Yom Kippur in the Grand Alenu. We are saying we utterly give way before this power; we are humbled and grateful before it.

The question I have is whether, as Jews, as Reconstructionists, we really believe in the equal value of other peoples, and whether the intolerance that we have clipped out of this prayer doesn’t linger behind the words anyway.

Is it possible to think highly of ourselves, without thinking less of others? How much do we build ourselves up by putting others down? How open are we to hearing the message of people we disagree with? How much covert intolerance do we carry around? How much have we split the world to pieces in our own hearts, dividing between those we accept and those we reject? I ask again, just who do we think we are?

There are clearly segments of the Jewish community who loudly and clearly do not consider non-Jews as important as Jews, and see the protection of Jews as the highest priority.

Many of you know that I enjoyed a few weeks of notoriety this last Spring, after writing a column for the Jewish Heritage that was perceived as controversial in some quarters. It raised a big fuss in the Letters to the Editor because I articulated some criticism of Israel and some sympathy for Palestinians. Here is the disturbing thing I wrote that stirred up trouble. Commenting on a Torah portion that says you can have the land only if you are ethical, I wrote,

As the violence in Israel mounts, many Jews are beginning to look with despair on the choices made by the Israeli government concerning the Palestinians. Our vision of Israel as a holy land is challenged by the terrible things those on all sides of the conflict are inflicting on one another. Some feel Israel is very endangered, and some feel the Palestinians are severely oppressed. As Jews seated safely above the fray in the United States, we tend to simplify and generalize and look for easy answers. The fact that world anti-semitism is on the rise also pushes us to defend Israel's existence, no matter how we evaluate her behavior. Those who hate do not make fine distinctions between Jews and Israelis.

This portion reminds us that ancient Israel, and Israel today, and American Jews here and now are all expected to live by very high ethical standards, despite the challenges we encounter. We are not permitted to wrong one another. We are not permitted to hate one another. We are to remember at all times that we only have the power to live because God has given it. We only have the freedom to act because God has redeemed us. We no more own land on earth than we own our very souls. And we are commanded to use them according to the will of their Owner, or suffer the consequences…

Several people wrote in over the next few issues, condemning my views. The tenor of the criticisms was disparaging and personal. They wrote that my, “milquetoast peace-now attitude,” would be “funny if it weren’t so tragic,” and that “to imply that Israel is acting immorally is something we should not be hearing from rabbis.” Another said that the mistake Israel made was that “it has failed to remove the Palestinians to….Jordan,” and that the Israelis are “100% right and the Palestinians are 100% wrong,” and that Palestinians have “no valid claim on any part of Israel” …and that it is “sad that some of our Jewish leadership unwittingly helps the cause of our enemies…and it must be stopped.” “You call yourself a rabbi, a title that cannotes a certain amount of knowledge and awareness with regard to Jewish history and law. I for one do not see this exhibited anywhere…"

One woman who wrote in support of my views received threatening phone calls as well. When I mentioned this to one of the rabbis who had spoken against my views, he told me about phone calls he had received from a man with an Arab accent, threatening him with death. When I told all this to a Palestinian friend, she told me about the suspicion and contempt some in the Arab community express toward those Palestinians willing to sit and talk with Jews. I hadn't realized that forces are aligned to squelch progress toward peace WITHIN each side. It seems to me that there is more work to do within each side than between us.

Our contempt for Jews we disagree with may run deeper than our disdain for those we consider the “enemy.” I heard many dismissive and prejudiced remarks about Orthodox Jews from those who supported my views. I also saw that the vilification of Jews who speak against Israel’s policies is a national phenomenon. Writing in the British newspaper, the Independent, last July, Robert Fisk reported on a US speaking tour he had done, where he concluded, “Any US journalist, columnist, editor, college professor, student-activist, public official or clergy member who dares to speak critically of Israel or accurately report the brutalities of its illegal occupation will be vilified as an anti-Semite.” In fact, the Israeli papers are frequently far more critical of Israeli policy than we are. Israeli discrimination against Arabs, Arab Israelis, not Palestinian refugees, was highlighted just this week in HaAretz, a major Israeli daily paper. Nehemia Strasler raised questions American journalists could never consider. She wrote,

“This week, on the day school reopened, President Moshe Katsav called for renewed cooperation between Jews and Arabs, despite the 'harsh events.'" [By harsh events Katsav was referring to the Israeli Arabs recently arrested on suspicion of assisting terrorists in Israel.] It is impossible to justify any act of terror by claiming deprivation and discrimination, because anyone who aids terrorists crosses the red line and himself switches from being a citizen of the state into someone who wants to destroy it. But it is fitting for the Jewish majority to make a personal accounting. Are its hands clean? Was it ever ready to accept the Arab minority as an equal among equals?”

She goes on to describe the personal stories of discrimination Arab Israelis commonly experience in simple things like trying to get mortgages or jobs, even for Arabs who are highly educated and dependable. She asks,
“Why is unemployment highest in the Arab community? Why is the level of investment per pupil the lowest for Arab children? Why do government companies not employ Arabs? Why do none of us learn Arabic? And why does practically no one have an Arab friend?” It is a very telling critique. But if it were printed in an American paper, it would surely be taken as an attack on Israel.

We have to get beyond the simple labels and categories. For over a year, I have been involved in a Jewish-Palestinian dialogue group. What I have come to see is that both Israeli Jews and Palestinians see themselves as victimized and brutalized by the other. Both sides generalize the actions of extreme segments to be the will of the entire group. Both know very little about the history of the other’s culture. Both carry misconceptions about the values and intent of the other. To Jews, Zionism means there should be a political state of Israel as a Jewish homeland and refuge. To Palestinians, Zionism means Jews think they can take over our land, and deprive us of human rights. When Israelis suffer from a suicide bomb or Palestinians suffer from an assault on a village or camp, each thinks the other wants to kill them all. Each thinks the other is heartless and cruel.

Dialogue is not about finding policy solutions, but simply about listening to each other’s narratives. The Palestinians have listened to the Jews talk about why we are so attached to the land and to Jerusalem, and how hounded and persecuted we have been, and how having Israel is a dreamlike answered prayer. The Jews have heard the Palestinians talk about what it’s like to have a five-year old niece in Ramallah, who has learned not to look scared when she crosses the street in front of a tank, what it's like to not be able to visit your mother because of where you were when the war was over, how trapped Palestinians feel between Israel and the other Arab countries who want no part of them. We ask each other to simply listen and develop some empathy, some compassion for what the other has seen. The only thing we all agree on is that we passionately refuse to be enemies.

Ellen Dannin, who participated in my group until she moved away, wrote that, “This is hard work but necessary if we two peoples are to survive physically and spiritually. Last year I heard a nationally-known rabbi give a talk in which he said that an Israeli soldier is perfectly justified in killing a six-year old child who throws a stone at him. And he ended his talk praising a young Jewish American who was wearing a bullet around his neck. His Jewish audience gave him a loud ovation. Palestinian children of an age when they should be carefree are volunteering to blow themselves up in order to kill others. We are both in danger of losing our souls. Dialogue many not solve all problems, but failing to talk and listen will ensure we stay locked in this tragedy.”

The mentors to our dialogue group, and to many others springing up across the country, are Len and Libby Traubman, a Bay Area couple who have a simple motto. “An enemy is someone whose story you haven’t heard.” They are fond of quoting Dr. Harold Saunders, former U.S. Assistant Secretary of State andCamp David Accords negotiator who said, “There are some things only governments can do, such as negotiating binding agreements. But there are some things that only citizens outside government can do, such as changing human relationships.”
It comes down to telling stories.

Here is a story from Rabbi Sarra Lev, a peace activist in Israel, about a night she spent with a Palestinian family:

The night I stayed in Beit Jallah, there was another moment of hope. My host family stays up every night until 4. It is only then that they finally feel so tired they cannot keep themselves awake anymore, and usually the shooting stops around then. They have learned the routine. The bags are packed, in case it becomes really bad, to take the children to a neighboring town. They bring out a plate of food around 1:30 in the morning, when people start to get hungry. You can’t refuse the food. Being in a Palestinian home is like being in a Jewish home. If you don’t immediately begin to eat, you have no reprieve for the rest of your stay.

There were three children in the family, all girls. The family spent the night trying to get Liana, four years old, to eat. She had stopped eating altogether when they began shelling Beit Jalah. Her older sister, Maral, 12 years old, is always sick. She eats all the time from anxiety. Maral told me about her middle sister, ten years old, who had gone outside into the street when she heard the snipers walking through one night. 'Please don’t shoot at Israel tonight,' she begged.'‘Please don’t shoot. They will shoot at us.' Maral said the man swore at her ten-year old sister and then pushed her…

Maral’s mother told me about the night she came home and found all three girls sitting in a circle with their hands clasped together, praying to Allah to stop the shooting. 'Please listen to us. Please make it stop.'

…But the small trusting hands of a 12-year old, a 10-year old, and a 4-year old are not going to make it stop.

Whatever you believe about political solutions, stories like this make it difficult to dismiss the humanity and dignity of the people involved.

Many people expressed support for me personally and for my views after all the yelling in the pages of the Heritage. One note said in part,

“Any hope for peace requires that both sides acknowledge that they have blood on their hands, that they have squandered opportunities for peace, that they have failed to build trust and act in good faith. I have been finding it harder and harder personally to maintain this moderate attitude in the face of the appalling suicide bombings Israel has had to deal with, but it is still important that we speak up for peace and tolerance.”

My message here is that it is very very easy to let pain become hate, and for hate to become violence. It is easy to see the one who is hurting you as a monster. It is much harder to hold the pain and keep perspective at the same time. Both sides in this struggle are fractured by the pressures of coping with violence, loss, and injustice. Both have their violent extremists and their frightened children.

For Jews to find some kind of unity, we have to think about who we really think we are, and what we really think we are entitled to and why. We have to listen with compassion, not only to Palestinian refugees caught behind barbed wire, but also to Jews whose views differ from ours.

The Torah names us as a Chosen People and calls Israel our Promised Land. We have to take responsibility for how this has led us to be blind to certain things.

Reconstructionists love Israel. We are supportive of a Jewish state and have our hearts set on Jerusalem, turning toward it in prayer, looking for a new light to shine from Zion, like Jews all over the world. Israel is home. But we do not think this means we have to march in lock step to support Israeli policies we cannot condone. We can appreciate the poetry of Israel being the Promised Land, without thinking this means we are more entitled to it than people who have lived on it and farmed it for hundreds of years. We do not have to overlook the plight of people who have suffered at the hands of Israelis, or expect other countries to solve the problem. We do not have to make excuses. We can both love Israel and insist that the nation live up to Jewish values, not merely be a place Jews can gather from all over the world. Refuge and safety mean a great deal to a persecuted people, but how much real safety is there in protecting ourselves while endangering others?

The difficult and ominous question we need to be asking ourselves is not how to get along with Palestinians, or even how to stop the terror. It is how to deal with the simple demographic fact that before long, there will be more Arab-Israelis and Palestinians than Israeli Jews. We are going to be outnumbered in Israel. What then? What finally matters more to us? Being fair or being Jewish? Ethnic comfort and safety, or the principles of true democracy? What if it comes down to one or the other?

This is the hardest question, one that is difficult to discuss publically. But the basic question is, just who do we think we are? Just what do we think we need and deserve? The present trend is for Israeli Jews to have more civil rights, and more economic opportunity than Arab Israelis, although they are technically supposed to be equal. How can we find a solution that addresses all the important values we hold simultaneously? How can Israel be a safe refuge for Jews, without being a place where Jews are more privileged than others? What can be done to protect us from persecution, and prevent us from being persecutors?

I refuse to imagine we will have to choose one or the other. My hope and prayer is that efforts like Jewish-Palestinian dialogue both here and in Israel, and despite everything, there are many such projects in Israel, will slowly build enough trust that a government can be created that protects everyone.

So what are we “chosen” for? What is the promise of the “promised land” ? We can begin with ourselves, with our own people, and the people around us. Tolerance begins with ourselves. We are most intolerant of the qualities we abhor in ourselves, until we forgive ourselves. Then we are most intolerant of those qualities we have rid ourselves of, until we are humbled in some way by loss. And when we come back from that, we are intolerant of the things that harm everyone: cruelty, suffering, hatred. And it is at this point that our intolerance becomes a blessing. It is for this purpose that intolerance exists - to help us purge from within ourselves and our sweet world that which is degrading to the human spirit.

Our task is as it ever was: to sanctify our lives, to consecrate our homes, to build a noble society. This is our mission. Judaism exists to bring peace and redemption to the world, and our vision, as we conclude every service, is that the whole world find unity.This prayer is read by the congregation at the end of every service at Congregation Kol HaNeshama in Jerusalem, based on a teaching of Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlav:

Source of Shalom, ruler of Shalom,
Grant Shalom to your people Yisrael
Let the Shalom spread to all your creatures
Let there be an end to hatred, jealousy, competition between people
Let there be only great love and shalom among us all
So that we can all gather together, everyone with their fellow
Speaking to each other, learning the truth from each other
Allah huma - antas salam wa-minkas salam
Adon haShalom barchenu b’Shalom
Source of Shalom, bless us with Shalom
Amen

©Rabbi Alexis Roberts
Rosh HaShanah 5763
September 7, 2002