Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem Parash Kedoshim 5783

 

As many of you know last Wednesday was Yom Ha-Atzmaut, Israel Independence Day, the 75th anniversary of the State of Israel’s birth as a nation.  On that day, my class from the One Year Program from Hebrew University in Jerusalem had a reunion online. In 1972 we were  mostly nineteen, twenty years old, college Juniors, studying a year abroad in Jerusalem. We were six hundred strong, from all over the United States and Canada. This was our first class reunion, ever. Most of us had not seen, or heard, from one another in 50 years. The One Year Program never tried to stay in touch with the members of our class, so it was hit or miss on who we could find. Of the 60 people online, I could remember only a handful. Yet, for all of us, I believe, the reunion brought back powerful memories of one of the most significant years in our lives. 

 

Fifty years ago, at Israel’s 25th birthday, her population was 3 million. Today, it is 10 million. Fifty years ago, it cost $30 a minute to make a phone call home. That would be $215 a minute in today's economy. No wonder nobody ever called home! What I do have are over a hundred letters home from that year that my mother kept. On May 9, 1972, Palestinian-inspired Japanese terrorists murder 27 people at Lod Airport, now Ben-Gurion airport. I recall being hyper-vigilant when I arrived at Lod airport 2 months later to begin my year in Israel. In August of 1972 Bobby Fischer won the World Chess Championship. On September 5 eleven Israeli athletes were murdered by a Palestinian Terrorist group called Black September at the Munich Summer Olympics. In November, Richard Nixon was re-elected President of the United States in a landslide over George McGovern. On Israel Independence Day, 1973 my friends and I attended the Independence Day parade in Jerusalem. Thousands of soldiers marched by, from every branch of the military. Tanks rumbled down the streets, belching smoke and chewing up the asphalt as they passed. Fighter jets deafened us as they soared wing to wing overhead. This represented the height of Israel’s confidence, pride, and power. The Six Day War five years earlier had left Israel with an expanded territory and as the supreme military power in the Middle East. It was a time of unsurpassed optimism about the future in Israel. 

 

A few months later, in October 1973, when we were back in the United States, Egypt launched a surprise attack against Israel that shattered that confidence and severely challenged the idea, held in the previous five years, that Israel was invincible. Israelis paid a terrible price in that war – 2,700 dead, more than 7000 wounded, thousands of them permanently maimed. The war brought down the leadership of the country. And never again would Israel celebrate its independence with a military parade.  

 

A great deal has changed since those heady years of the early 1970s. At the time, Israel was admired by much of the world as a David slaying Goliath. Israelis were respected for their pluck and their courage, as they prevailed over and over against more powerful forces who sought to destroy them. The terrorism directed against Israeli civilians, adults and children alike, evoked sympathy from most of the world. Today, Israel is seen by much of the world as an oppressor of the Palestinian people, a Goliath subjugating the national aspirations of the weaker party. Terrorists have become “freedom fighters” or “guerillas”. Headlines proclaim that Israel is on the verge of becoming an autocracy, that its judiciary will be so weakened by recent reforms proposed in the Knesset that minority rights will not be protected.

 

I know that many of us feel disillusioned, bewildered, and confused by Israel. Israel has not fulfilled the prophetic dream of being “a light unto the nations” – at least not yet.  Indeed, these are challenging times, worrisome times. But we must not lose our perspective and give up on Israel. We cannot abandon Israel, just because we disagree with the policies of the Israeli government. Our connection to the Land of Israel, our reborn sovereignty on this land promised to us by God, is an essential part of the Jewish story. Our bond to the Land of Israel is integral to our Jewish identity, whether we identify as “religious” or “secular” Jews. From the time of Abraham, the Jewish narrative has been linked to the Land of Israel. When God takes us out of Egypt, now no longer a family, but a people, God leads us to the land of Israel, the Land promised to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Our fate is inseparable from the Land. Indeed, in the Haftorah that Katie will chant tomorrow morning, the Prophet Amos reaffirms the unique relationship between the Jewish people and the land. God, speaking through Amos, says:

 

I will restore my people Israel,

They shall rebuild ruined cities and inhabit them.

They shall plant vineyards and drink their wine,

They shall till gardens and eat their fruits.

And I will plant them upon their soil,

Nevermore to be uprooted

From the soil I have given them. 

In 1991, Avrum Harman, former Israeli ambassador to the United Nations and President of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, delivered a speech. He said, “If I have one regret in all that I have done for this country, it is the many times over the years that I addressed Jews and said to them: this is the most challenging time in Israel’s history.  This is the most dangerous time in Israel’s history.  This is the most exciting time in Israel’s history.  I’ve said that so many times over the years, in ’48 and in ’67, with the PLO and Lebanon and the Intifada, I regret having ever said it.  Because the truth is, right now is the most difficult, exciting and challenging time in the history of the State of Israel.”

 

So much has happened in Israel since I was first there in 1972. Still more since Avrum Harman penned those words in 1991. God willing, much more is yet to happen, until the end of time. But when we despair over the difficulties and challenges that confront the Jewish state in our own time, let us keep in mind the words of Psalm 122:

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem/May those who love you prosper.

May there be peace within your walls/serenity within your homes.

For the sake of my friends and companions/ I pray that peace be yours.

For the sake of the House of Adonai our G-d/ I seek your welfare.

Shabbat Shalom

 

What Is Heroism: Some Final Thoughts on Holocaust Memorial Day 2023

 

Many of our congregants, both in person, and via Zoom attended our moving Holocaust Remembrance Service last Sunday.  Before I share some of my thoughts about it, I would like to say a few words about the origins for the idea of creating a Commemorative Holocaust Day. 

 

 In 1951 the government of Israel passed a law designating the 27th of Nisan as “Holocaust and Ghetto Uprising Remembrance Day.” In 1953, the day was officially named “Yom HaShoah ve-Ha-gevurah” – Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day. Why “'Holocaust and Heroism' Remembrance Day", instead of simply “Holocaust Remembrance Day”? The answer can probably be found in surveys taken in Israel in the 1950s that showed that Israelis had little sympathy for Holocaust victims.  Most of the participants in surveys believed that the victims of the Holocaust passively went to their deaths like sheep to slaughter. The Israelis admiration and sympathy, instead, was directed toward those who were able to take up armed resistance against the Nazis – the fighters of the Warsaw Ghetto  and other Ghettos, The Israelis admiration and sympathy also focused on the Jewish partisans who fought the Nazis in the hills and forests of Europe. In other words, we were to remember victims and heroes, two different groups, but it was those who took up armed resistance that were admired and held out as models to be emulated.

 

Of course, today we understand that the “victims” – those who ended up in concentration camps – and “heroes” – those who took up armed resistance, are not two different groups at all.  Today we recognize the concept of “spiritual resistance”, the refusal of victims to acquiesce to the dehumanization of their Nazi tormentors. This heroic resistance took the form of holding on to one’s human dignity in the most unbearable and unspeakable of situations. Our speaker on Sunday, Joyce Wagner, , never held a gun in her hand. She never killed a Nazi. Yet this petite, frail, determined woman, now age 100, is a true heroine, as true a heroine as those heroes who fought and died in the Warsaw Ghetto. We were privileged and honored to listen, in her own words, about the experience of this remarkable Holocaust survivor.  

 

When do we call someone a hero? A hero is a person who displays extraordinary courage, selflessness and nobility of character in the face of danger. A hero is someone who maintains their moral integrity when they are faced with corruption, deceit and depravity. A hero is someone who perseveres in the face of immorality and degradation, wickedness and evil. 

 

I doubt if Joyce Wagner considers herself a hero. If we asked her about that, she would probably tell us that she was just doing what she had to do as a daughter and as an older sister. She came to speak to us as a personal witness to the atrocity that was the Holocaust. She came to remind us, and to warn us, that the unthinkable is possible. That we need to be vigilant. That we must do everything we can to prevent it from ever happening again, not to Jews, not to anyone.  That love is more powerful than hate. She taught us all that. And she showed us what a true hero looks like. She taught us what heroism is. 

 

There were many moving parts of her story. One of 11 children, she was the only survivor. She vividly described How she hid her sisters  and brother from the Nazis in her neighbor’s attic. How she risked her life to bring a little food and money to her parents and two sisters, Hava and Haya, ages 10 and 11, who were living on the Polish-Czech border, hoping to be more protected from the Nazis.  In her book. A Promise Kept to Bear Witness,  she tells about a time she resisted the amorous advances of a Nazi guard who promised her a few days of freedom outside of her slave labor camp in exchange for a favor.

 

The part that I feel will stay with me forever is how, after losing everything, her home, her  parents, her beloved siblings, her friends and extended family; after having been imprisoned and beaten and starved and humiliated and almost worked to death, she had the opportunity to reach out and touch the electrified wire of the concentration camp and to end it all. Joyce  tells us that the face of her father appeared to her, her father, a religious man, and her father said to her, “God gives life and God is the only one who can take it away.”  And she pulled her hand away from the electrified wire and chose to live. To choose life over death, to love deeply while surrounded by dehumanizing  barbarity, to continue to believe in God when the evidence of God’s existence is nowhere to be found, to rebuild a life after years of  despair  – that is the ultimate  act of heroism, I believe. 

 

I want to close by sharing the remarkable words of Aharon Appelfeld. He was a famous Israeli writer who was born in Romania in 1932. When he was eight years old, his mother was killed, and he and his father were sent to a concentration camp. He escaped and spent three years in hiding, a child alone moving from village to village. He reached Israel in 1946. 

He writes: 

“My reminiscences of the war, of the second world war—I hope it will not surprise you—are of love, endless love. Anyone who was in the Ghetto and saw mothers protecting their children, mothers not eating but feeding their children, young boys staying with their parents, defending them until the last minute, will understand. Asking myself from where do I derive my writing force, I know that it is not from horror scenes but love scenes that existed there, everywhere. My world was not formed by the executioner, it is not dominated by an irreparable, endless evil; I remained with people, and I loved them.”

Shabbat Shalom

Some Final Thoughts For Passover 5783

 

One of the central rituals of our seders comes right before the meal. We are told that Rabban Gamliel, the first century sage, held that as part of the seder we have to explain three symbols on our seder plate – the Pesach, the Matzah and the Maror. The Pesach, or shank bone, represents the Passover sacrifice that our ancestors ate before the Exodus. The Matzah represents the flight from Egypt. The Maror represents the bitterness of the experience of being slaves. But while Rabban Gamliel focuses on the national and historic meaning of these symbols, I wonder if there are some other, more personal meanings hidden within them.

The word Matzah is related to the root mem-tsadi-heh which means “to squeeze”, or “to drain”. Matzah, therefore, can symbolize our basic selves, squeezed, or drained of any pretention or pride. Matzah is a simple, honest food. It symbolizes, therefore, the values of modesty and humility in our own lives. It represents our “pure” internal state, where we can be our “true selves”, free from any external, material influences, free from comparisons with others. Matzah symbolizes the absence of the superficial in our lives, and the ability to be “faithful to ourselves.”

The Maror represents the bitterness of slavery, but it also can represent the difficulties in our own lives. We cannot avoid bitter moments in our lives – times of loss, times of disappointments, sadness, and pain. They are part of being human. Here, we not only partake of the bitterness, but we also recite a blessing over it!  Perhaps this is because, as Maimonides teaches, we can never know when those bitter times will in fact turn out, in the longer run, to be a blessing. The eating of the maror teaches us to look directly at the hard moments of life, without fear, without evasion. Out of every difficulty we grow, we become strong in the broken places.

The Pesach sacrifice was eaten in a communal setting, among family, friends, and neighbors. Moses commands the Israelite slaves that each family should set aside a kid or a lamb to sacrifice on the night of the 14^th of Nisan. If the kid or lamb was too much for the family to consume in one evening, they were to invite their friends and neighbors to the roasted meal. Thus, the Passover sacrifice was not to be eaten by only one person alone. This reminds us that it is with the help of family and friends, neighbors, and community that we endure the bitter times in our lives.  The shank bone also symbolizes the mysterious bonds that connect one Jew to the other, not only at this Passover, but to Passovers throughout the ages, beginning with the very first observance of our Festival of Freedom on that Egyptian night so many years ago.

Chag Sameach

 

Creating Memories at the Seder Passover 5783

What is the main point of having a Seder? Tonight, I want to challenge the idea that the seder held primarily so that we can remember the Exodus from Egypt. Despite the fact that our Haggadah says that we are obligated to tell about the Exodus from Egypt, and that “the more one tells the story of the Exodus from Egypt the more one is to be praised” I’m not so sure that the main purpose of having a seder is to tell the story and remember our liberation.

First, we never actually tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt in our Haggadah. There is no mention of the main protagonist of the Exodus story, Moses, in all of the Haggadah. How can one tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt while leaving out the central character of that very story! Chronologically, we read tell the story of our oppression, how we were slaves in Egypt, how God sent plagues against the Egyptians and so forth, but we never read about the Jewish people leaving Egypt! We never read about them crossing the Red Sea. We are told that God brought us out of Egypt, but we never read about the drama associated with it. True, the Exodus from Egypt is referred to, but it is not actually told.

Second, why do we need a Seder to remind us of the Exodus from Egypt? Every morning, and every evening, we are reminded of the Exodus from Egypt in our prayers. Every Friday night when we recite kiddush we say that the Shabbat is “Zecher litsiat mitsrayim”, it is a remembrance of the Exodus from Egypt. In fact, remembering the Exodus from Egypt is an obligation that is met through the daily ritual of prayer, specifically in the mention of the Exodus from Egypt in the third paragraph of the Shema that we recite daily, morning and evening.

Rather than remembering the Exodus from Egypt, I think the main purpose of the Seder is to teach our children to remember that they are Jewish. The Seder is a vehicle toward creating and implanting indelible Jewish memories into the minds of our children. The Seder is all about connecting children to their parents and grandparents and from there to an awareness that our lineage stretches all the way back to Abraham and Sarah.

What our children do with those memories, no parent can control. Whether those memories determine how adult children live their lives is beyond the reach of parents. Our children need to live their own lives. Whether, and how, their lives unfold Jewishly we cannot determine. Yet, if we do our job properly, our children will need to struggle with their Jewish identity as adults even as they may submerge it. Here is a remarkable story that illustrates just how that played out in one man’s life:

A Black African woman and a White European rabbi stand before the grave of Walter Galler, born in London in 1885. The grave is in a Christian cemetery in Namibia, Africa. The African woman is his widow. “He would be so happy to know that a rabbi was visiting his grave,” the woman said, tears in her eyes. The rabbi examines the tombstone. He notices some strange markings carved above the name. On closer examination, he sees that these are Hebrew letters, written upside down, and reading from left to right instead of right to left. He looks closer, and sees that the letters spell out the words, “Kasher le Pesach” – Kosher for Passover.

The woman explained that her husband had come from London many years ago. They married but he never said anything about his being Jewish. It was only on his deathbed that he told her that he was Jewish and that he wanted that acknowledged at his grave.

He took out a box of Matzah that he had kept for years but had never opened. It was the only Jewish item in his possession. He pointed to the Hebrew words on the box – Kasher for Pesakh – and said, “Please engrave this on my tombstone.” Those were his last words.

No matter how far this man travelled, physically and psychologically, he could not forget that he was Jewish. Memory is a huge thing. Here we have an entire holiday designed to instill Jewish memories. Memories that we will carry with us the rest of our lives. Through these memories can recall warm connections with parents, family and friends, no matter how far we have travelled from them; memories that can guide us, inspire us, and even haunt us. The memories that we take from our Seder can play a crucial role in shaping who we become and how we relate to the world.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach