Three Strikes and You're a Winner -- Parasha Achare Mot

Dave and Mike, both in their 90s had played professional baseball together and, after they retired, they remained close friends. Dave suddenly fell deathly ill. Mike visited Dave on his deathbed. After they talked a while and it became obvious that Dave had only a few more minutes to live, Mike said, “Listen, old friend. After you die, try and get a message back to me. I want to know if there is baseball in heaven.

With his dying breath, Dave whispers, “If G-d permits, I’ll do my best to get you an answer.”

A few days after Dave died, Mike is sleeping when he hears Dave’s voice.

Dave says, “Mike, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that, yes, there IS baseball in heaven. The bad news is, you’re scheduled to pitch at the top of tomorrow’s double header.”(Aish.com)

Death is usually no laughing matter. Our parasha for this week opens with reminding us of the death of Aaron’s two sons, Nadav and Avihu. They perished on what was perhaps the greatest day of their young lives. The Tabernacle had been completed, and Aaron and his sons had been instructed on how to offer the sacrifices of the people. Seven days of consecration of the Tabernacle had been celebrated. Now, on the eight day, Aaron was to be ordained as the High Priest of Israel and his sons as priests who would serve underneath him. Everything was going according to plan, until two of his sons, Nadav and Avihu decided to offer what the Torah describes as “an alien fire” in the Tabernacle. A fire comes out from the Tabernacle and consumes them. What was to have been the happiest day of their and their parents lives ends in the bitterest of tragedies.

One of the reasons we break a glass at the conclusion of a Jewish wedding ceremony is related to this story. It was once widely believed that demons bent on mischief were particularly attracted to fortunate people – like brides and grooms. Therefore, to ward away bad luck, a glass is broken to scare away the demons. The story of Aaron’s sons reminds us that even at our happiest times, misfortune can come out of nowhere.

It is true, that sometimes life can throw you a curveball. Or, in the case of baseball player Adam Greenberg, it was a fastball. Adam was nervous and excited when he was called to the Big Leagues in July of 2005 by the Chicago Cubs. Not many Jewish kids make it to the Major Leagues. Only 1% of the players in the Major Leagues are Jewish. Since 2% of the population of the United States is Jewish, that makes us vastly underrepresented in Professional baseball. Of course, we are vastly over-represented in other areas – 22% of Nobel Prize Winners, for example, have been Jewish. On the other hand, who would you rather have batting in the bottom of the ninth inning of the World Series with the bases loaded and the tying run on third – Jewish Nobel prize winning quantum physicist Roy J. Glauber or Cubs catcher Kyle Schwarber?  Nobel Prize winning writer Bob Dylan or Cubs infielder Kris Bryant? You don’t have to be Joe Madden to figure that one out!

In any case, Adam Greenberg, Jewish kid from Connecticut, achieves his life ambition of making it to the major leagues.  The young man was a remarkable athlete. He lettered in baseball, basketball and soccer all four years of High School. He was captain of his baseball team for his junior and senior years, was a four-time All-Conference and All-Area, and was the first player in Connecticut history to be named to four All-State teams. He was team captain of his High School soccer team his Junior and Senior years in High School as well. In soccer he was a three-time All-Conference, All-Area, and All-State selection. He was a High School All-American selection in soccer in 1998. He went on to play college baseball for North Carolina. In his Junior year he batted .337, stole 35 bases, scored 80 runs, and homered 17 times. He was named to the All-Conference team and was selected by the Cubs in the 2002 baseball draft.

On July 9, 2005, Greenberg stepped into the batter’s box for his first “at bat” in the Major Leagues. It was the beginning of what he hoped would be a long career in baseball. It was one of the happiest days of Adam Greenberg’s life. His parents, his friends, his entire community back in Connecticut were so proud of him. He had achieved something special. On the mound was Marlins pitcher Valerio de Santos. The first pitch to Greenberg was a 92 mile an hour fastball. It hit him on the back of the head. As Greenberg lay sprawled at home plate the pitcher, de Santos feared that he had killed Greenberg. Greenberg was able to leave the game under his own power. For the next two years he suffered from symptoms of a concussion and vertigo. He felt, however, that he had to continue to fight through those symptoms if he were ever to get a chance to return to the Major Leagues.

Adam Greenberg continued to play baseball professionally but never made it back into the Majors. Then in 2012 he was signed to a one day contract with the Florida Marlins of the National League. Having been hit by a pitch on his only plate appearance, Greenberg had not been credited with an official “at bat” in the Majors. The Marlins would give him an opportunity to play in a game so that he might record an official “at bat”. So on October 2, 2012, Adam Greenberg once again stepped into the batter’s box at Florida’s Marlin Stadium. The atmosphere was electric. As Greenberg walked to the plate in the bottom of the sixth as a pinch hitter, the crowd gave him a standing ovation. Aerosmith’s “The Dream” played over the loudspeakers. His new teammates cheered him on. His parents and his friends were watching from box seats. He was facing the Mets knuckleballer R. A. Dickey. Dickey would go on to win the Cy Young Award for the best pitcher in the National League that year. Dickey wound up and threw the first pitch for a strike. The second pitch came in – a swing and a miss!  Greenberg was determined to swing at the next pitch wherever it was. He did not want to be called out on strikes. The pitch came. Greenberg swung for strike three. He would not get another chance to bat. He retired from baseball five months later.

Some people might have considered themselves a failure had they gone through what Adam Greenberg went through. Some people might have become bitter over their bad luck. Not Adam Greenberg. Greenberg said that he learned that it is not about accomplishing your goal that determines success or failure. It is about what you do in the process of accomplishing your goal that is important, the work you do to try to get there.

Adam Greenberg said that he drew upon the lessons of the Jewish people to help him deal with his misfortune. Jews, he said, have had to overcome many obstacles at every stage of our history. Jews have had to persevere. We see that in the story of Aaron and his surviving sons. Although their first day as priests was a tragic one, they too persevered and established a religious institution that would endure for thousands of years.

Shabbat Shalom

Everything Can Wait Shabbat Chol HaMoed Pesach 5777

We Jews seem to do things backwards! We read and write the Hebrew language right to left instead of left to right.  We open a book from the back cover. We remember the day of a person’s death not the day of a person’s birth. A few years ago I spoke about why our High Holidays seem to be backwards. First we celebrate New Year’s Day, and only after, we observe the Day of Atonement. I argued that, on the face of it, it makes more sense to atone for our sins first, and then celebrate the New Year, when we have been cleansed of our sins.  But that seems backwards, too. Tonight, I want to examine another ritual that seems backwards.

This ritual is described in the Torah. It is the ritual of the very first Passover. As you know, while we are still slaves in Egypt, G-d commands us to have a Passover Seder. On the evening of the day we are to leave Egypt, G-d commands the Jewish people to gather with their families, in their homes for a Passover feast. We are to eat of the Passover sacrifice, and we are to eat Matzah and Maror.

What is backwards about that, you may ask. But if we think about it, doesn’t it make more sense for us to have the Passover feast AFTER we have been liberated from Egypt? Should not freedom and independence come first, THEN the celebration? Take the American example. On July 2, 1776, Congress formally adopted the Declaration of Independence. The Philadelphia Evening Post published the full text of the Declaration of Independence four days later. It wasn’t until July 4, 1777, a full year later, that Congress declared a formal celebration by the adjourning and celebrating with bonfires, bells, and fireworks. This is the principal – act first, celebrate later!

That is why it appears that we got the celebration of the first Passover backwards. The Exodus from Egypt had not yet happened, yet the Jewish people have been commanded to sit down to a family meal to commemorate their upcoming freedom from bondage. Think of all the other things they could have been doing! For one, they could have been home packing in preparation for the journey they would soon undertake. They could have been gathering in their communal halls planning the logistics needed to move hundreds of thousands of newly freed people out of Egypt. They could have been putting the final touches on their own Declaration of Independence. Instead, they are home cooking! They are deciding what kind of barbecue sauce they will use for the roasted lamb. They are chopping herring and making matzah ball soup. They are going house to house, making sure that everyone in the neighborhood has a seat at a Seder somewhere, since nobody can be left out.

Why hold a family dinner before the Exodus?  One reason is that we learn about the importance of the family unit in Jewish life. The central task of passing on the Jewish faith  from one generation to to the next generation lies upon the family. We all know that Religious school can help, as can Jewish summer camp, as can participation in Jewish Youth groups, as can trips to Israel. All of these build Jewish identity, give us a sense of solidarity with and a love for the Jewish people.  But the family is the cornerstone upon which all else rests. And when does the family convene most regularly? It is at the dinner table, around meals.   Eating meals together is of such monumental importance in Jewish family life that the Talmud states that now that the Temple has been destroyed and we can no longer offer sacrifices for atonement, it is the family dinner table that atones for our sins!

Unfortunately, these days, I hear from far too many people that families are too busy to eat together, even for a weekly Shabbat meal. Rabbi Moses Birnbaum tells the story of Rabbi Abraham Besdin, of Brooklyn. A couple approached Rabbi Besdin with marital problems. After meeting with them, he suggested that they commit themselves to having Shabbat dinner together every Friday night. While they were at odds with each other they were of one mind regarding the rabbi's suggestion. How dare he foist his religious fanaticism upon them? They came for marital counseling, after all!

Some years later Rabbi Besdin was at a simkhah. A man approached him and reintroduced himself as the husband who had angrily rejected Rabbi Besdin's advice about Shabbat dinner. The man began to apologize. "You see, rabbi, my wife and I went to a therapist after talking with you. We spent many years and a lot of money. In our last session he finally gave us some expert counsel: 'Why don't you reserve at least one night a week for a romantic meal together by candlelight with a bottle of wine?' We should have listened to you at the outset"

Now we understand that the Torah did not have it backward at all. One might now ask, “What better thing did the Jewish people have to do than sit down with their families for a meal the night before the Exodus from Egypt?” Everything else could wait. That is a message for us as well. Everything else can wait. Make dinner time, especially Shabbat dinner time, a priority for your family. If the Jewish people, anxious to leave the land of their bondage, and with so much else to do, could find time to do this, so could we!

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach

Passover and Parash Tzav: It's No Shame

 Monday evening Jews around the world will gather with families, friends and neighbors for our Seders to tell the story of Passover. The word “seder” is related to the word we use for our prayer book, “siddur”. Both come from the Hebrew root meaning “order”. Just as the Siddur presents our prayers in a particular order, so the Seder rituals must be performed in a particular sequence. The sages of the Talmud said that when we tell the story of the Exodus, we must start with “shame” and end with “praise”. One of those sages, Samuel , suggested that we start with the shameful fact that, “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt”. The sage Rav suggested we start our story of liberation even further back in history, when our ancestors worshipped idols. In starting with slavery, Samuel was referring to the physical shame of subjugation and exploitation by others. In starting with idolatry, Rav is referring to the spiritual shame of worshipping that which is naught. The Haggadah incorporates both of their opinions, starting with the story of our physical bondage in Egypt, then doubling back to tell of shame -- that Abraham’s father worshipped idols.

I find it intriguing that in telling of the story of our people, we begin with shame. Usually, we want to hide the things we are ashamed of. We do not want to talk about them, we do not want to remember them and we certainly do not want them exposed to the public eye. We usually want to avoid the humiliation that is associated with shame. One of the worst things that one can do in the Jewish tradition is to shame another in public. This week’s Torah portion teaches a profound moral lesson about this. It speaks of two sacrifices that are brought to the priests. There is the normal, everyday sacrifice called the “Elevation Offering”. This is the most common type of sacrifice that can be brought by an individual, and it is brought when a person seeks spiritual elevation and closeness to G-d. The Torah also speaks of the sacrifice called the “sin offering”. This, as its name implies, is brought only when a person has committed a transgression and is asking for atonement. The Torah says that the “Elevation Offering” and the “Sin Offering” are brought to the priest at the same place. This is not merely a matter of geography.  In this The Torah is being exquisitely sensitive to the issue of shame. If there was one entrance marked “For Elevation Offerings” and one entrance marked, “For Sin Offerings” the public would then know who was in need of forgiveness by which door the person entered. They might be subject to gossip, as people speculate about what the person bringing the sacrifice had done wrong!  Therefore, the Torah legislates that both the Elevation Offering and the Sin Offering are to be brought to the same place. One could say it is a way of guarding the individual’s dignity.

Of course, we no longer have a Temple and we no longer offer sacrifices as a way of worship. But our Sabbath table reminds us of the worship in the Temple. The white tablecloth represents the priestly garb. The candlesticks represent the Menorah that burned continually in the Temple. The Challahs on our table represent the show-bread that was baked weekly and placed in the Holy of Holies. The wine represents the wine libations that were performed each morning at the altar.  There is the story of 19^th century Rabbi, Israel Salanter, who once accepted an invitation for Shabbat dinner at the home of a prominent member of his synagogue. When he and his host were about to sit down, the husband grew angry at his wife for failing to cover the two loaves of Challah on the Shabbat table. The wife broke into tears and fled to the kitchen. 

Rabbi Salanter turned to the man. ‘Excuse me,” he said, “But I am getting older and have recently been having problems with my memory. Can you explain to me again why it is important to cover the two loaves of Challah at the Sabbath table?”

The host explained to Rabbi Salanter that the Challahs are covered as a way for them to be spared the shame, so to speak, of being exposed while all of the ritual attention is being paid to the wine. After he finished, Rabbi Salanter said to him, “You are meticulous about the custom of not “shaming” a mere loaf of bread. Yet how quick you are to embarrass your wife over her oversight of not covering the Challahs. I cannot eat with you.”

The man hurried to the kitchen to plead with his wife to forgive him. Afterwards, Rabbi Salanter consented to remain at the meal.

A number of reasons have been suggested as to why we begin our Passover story with shame. Some say it is important to remember our shame because it makes us more sensitive to those who are oppressed in our own day. By recalling our slavery, not only do we remember what it is like to be a slave, but we are reminded how not to treat others. Others say that recalling our slavery enables us to be that much more thankful to G-d for bringing us out of Egypt. By recalling the shame and humiliation of slavery we increase our gratitude for freedom. These are undoubtedly valid reasons for remembering the disgrace associated with enslavement. However there is never a good reason for shaming others, or recalling their most embarrassing moments. With our Passover holidays are coming up, families will soon gather around our tables for Seders.   I would like to suggest that we ask ourselves,  should we retell the “funny” ,  cute” but shaming  stories that go around the Seder table year after year, while the person  about whom the story is about sits there squirming in mortification?  Are we, ourselves, guilty of telling these stories?  Or, are we the subject of the story, and forced to sit there and endure them?  Is it time to retire those stories? ...... And how can we go about doing that?

I want to leave you with a little poem about the difference between shame and guilt. I am not sure where I got this poem, or who wrote it but it is worth listening to:

SHAME AND GUILT

Shame is not the same as guilt.

When we feel guilt, it's about something we did.
When we feel shame, it's about who we are.

When we feel guilty we need to learn
that it's OK to make mistakes.

When we feel shame we need to learn
that it's OK to be who we are!

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach

Some Reflections on "Chad Gadya"

In 1947, in the wake of the United Kingdom’s decision to relinquish their Mandate for Palestine, the United Nations formed the Special Committee on Palestine. The purpose of the commission was to investigate the conflict in Palestine and to make a recommendation on future governance of the area. David Ben Gurion, the future Prime Minister of Israel, testified before the committee. In part of that testimony, Ben Gurion compared the Exodus from Egypt with another historic exodus. Speaking before the committee he said:

“300 years ago, there came to the New World a boat, and its name was the Mayflower. The Mayflower’s landing on Plymouth Rock was one of the great historical events in the history of England and in the history of America. But I would like to ask any Englishman sitting here on the commission, what day did the Mayflower leave port? What date was it? I’d like to ask the Americans: do they know what date the Mayflower left port in England? How many people were on the boat? Who were their leaders? What kind of food did they eat on the boat? “More than 3300 years ago, long before the Mayflower, our people left Egypt, and every Jew in the world, wherever he is, knows what day they left. And he knows what food they ate. And we still eat that food every anniversary. And we know who our leader was. And we sit down and tell the story to our children and grandchildren in order to guarantee that it will never be forgotten. And we say our two slogans: ‘Now we may be enslaved, but next year, we’ll be a free people.’”

In this statement Ben Gurion seems to be suggesting that it is our capacity to remember that accounts for the longevity of the Jewish people. Perhaps as well it is a subtle warning to the great powers of the time that held Israel’s fate in their hands that they would do well to heed that lesson. Many civilizations have come and gone, yet, the Jewish people, with our prodigious memory, remain. This is the essential meaning of the final song of our Haggadah, Chad Gadya that Jewish families around the world will be singing as we conclude our Passover seders in ten days. There have been many interpretations of what appears to be a typical children’s song.  I’d like to share one of those interpretations with you this evening. 

The song begins with the verse “Chad Gadya” - One kid, which Father bought for two zuzim,” or coins. The kid, or goat, represents the Jewish people. The “Father” who gives two coins, or zuzim, for the kid represents G-d, who gave the Jewish people the two tablets of the law, the Ten Commandments. There follows a series of verses introducing animals, objects and people who in turn slaughter, devour, burn, hit or bite one another. These represent the powerful nations of the world who achieve ascendancy in their time, only to eventually lose their power. The final verse of the song, where the Ruler of the Universe makes His appearance, represents the final judgement and the redemption of the Jewish people.

There has been much speculation about how this beloved song entered the Haggadah. Its first appearance in a printed Haggadah was in 1590 in Prague. Some say that it was based on a familiar German nursery rhyme of the era. Others say that German nursery rhyme is based on Chad Gadya! 

Natan Alterman, one of the most prominent Modern Hebrew poets of the 20^th century, has his own theory about how this song entered our Haggadah. He wrote a charming poem about it, which I would like to share with you this evening.

He stood there in the market, among the she-goats and Billy goats /swinging its tail/as small as a pinkie/a kid from a poor home/a kid for two zuzim/without adornment/without bell or ribbon.

No one paid him attention, so no one knew/not the goldsmiths not the wool combers/that this kid/will enter the Haggadah/and become the hero of a song.

The poem begins with a scene in a marketplace. A plain baby goat, unadorned, unnoticed and unremarkable is for sale. The kid, however, is destined to be famous.

But father approached, his face glowing/and bought the kid/and caressed its forehead/this was the start of one of the songs/that will be sung forever.

The kid licked Father’s hand with its tongue/and touched it with his wet nose/this, my brother, was the first rhyme/of the verse “dezabin aba”.

The father of the narrator approaches the kid. There is an immediate bonding. The father strokes the kid. The kid licks the father and nuzzles up to him. The song has begun.

It was a spring day and the wind was dancing/Girls were laughing with winking eyes/And Father and the kid entered the Haggadah/ And both just stood there.

That very same Haggadah was already full/With wonders and great miracles/Therefore they stood on the last page/hugging and pressed to the wall

They enter the Haggadah, but there is already so much going on. Like a shy couple entering a room brimming with activity, the song does not know what to do. The simple song is intimidated by the majesty of the Haggadah. So the song waits quietly, taking comfort in itself, biding its time on the back page.

That very same Haggadah then silently said/Good, stand there kid and Father/In my pages walk smoke and blood/I am talking of greatness and secret things.

Yet I know that the sea will not part in vain/That there is a reason for splitting through walls and deserts/If at the end of the story/Stand a Father and kid/Waiting for their turn to shine.

The Haggadah, full of its own importance, takes notice of this simple song waiting at the back of the book. It then does something surprising. It acknowledges that it tells its story for the sake of this little song. The song may seem like an insignificant child’s ditty, but it is for its sake that the Haggadah tells the story of the Exodus.

I am sure each of us will have their own interpretation of this poem. To me, it means that as grand and epic the Passover story told in the Haggadah is, if it doesn’t move us, if we cannot relate to it, then it is merely a great story. All of the majestic symbols and concepts of the Passover seder are for naught if they do not reach down to the human level and touch our hearts.

Shabbat Shalom

Shabbat Ha-Chodesh: Acts of Defiance

Last night Middy and I went to Chicago’s Symphony Hall to hear a program called “Defiant Requiem: Verdi at Terezin”.  This was a benefit concert for the Jewish United Fund /Jewish Federation of Chicago Holocaust Community Services program. This program helps Holocaust survivors in Chicagoland to live out their sunset years with hope and dignity. In fact, there were three hundred survivors at the concert. The Symphony Hall concert was a mult-media performance that told the story of Maestro Raphael Schacter and his choir of 150 fellow prisoners at the Terezin concentration camp outside of Prague. Terezin was a “show camp” for the Nazi’s, designed to convince the world that Jews who had been herded into concentration camps for extermination were in fact being treated humanely. They therefore allowed some measure of artistic and literary expression by the inmates. Maestro Schacter, a Jewish pianist and conductor from Prague, brought the score from Verdi’s “Requiem” with him to the camp when he, himself, was interred there. Using that one score, he taught his 150 singers the music by rote, and performed the Requiem 16 times in the camp. The final performance was held before visiting members of the International Red Cross and the Nazi SS.

What was “defiant” about performing the Requiem? In learning the score and performing the music with only a piano accompaniment, the Maestro and the members of the choir asserted their humanity in the face of Nazi Germany’s attempt to strip that from them. The words to the Requiem, sung directly to the SS attending that final performance, were words that the camp inmates could sing, but could not say. The words of the Requiem take on a particular poignancy when one considers the setting for the performance:

What can a wretch like me say?
Whom shall I ask to intercede for me,
when even the just ones are unsafe?

A written book will be brought forth,
which contains everything
for which the world will be judged.

Therefore when the Judge takes His seat,
whatever is hidden will be revealed:
nothing shall remain unavenged.

Can you imagine what it must have felt like for the Jewish inmates of that camp to be able to sing those words to their SS tormentors sitting before them in the audience?

This evening is the anniversary of another day of defiance. This Shabbat marks a special Sabbath, called “Shabbat Ha-Chodesh”, or “The Sabbath of THE Month”. The very first commandment that G-d gave to the Jewish people as a whole took place over 3000 years ago this day. The Jewish people are still enslaved in Egypt. They have witnessed nine plagues, and still they have not been liberated. Moses tells them, “This day shall be the first day of the first month of the year for you.” This too is an act defiance, for it establishes a calendar for the Jewish people. Although they are still enslaved, they will no longer mark time by the rhythms of their oppressors.  A calendar is a symbol of independence, of freedom. Slaves must adhere to the calendar of their masters. A free people takes on the responsibility of organizing its own time.

Thus, still in Egypt and still slaves, their liberation begins with a conscious act of resistance. In declaring their freedom to choose their own calendar, they have taken the first step toward liberation. This teaches us that freedom cannot be merely bestowed from the outside. Freedom requires that people actively participate in their own emancipation. Moses gives further instructions to the people. On the tenth day of the new month, each family, or groups of families, are to take a lamb and set it aside. They are to watch over it, and four days later, at twilight, they are to slaughter the lamb and place some of the blood on the doorposts of their homes. Then they should eat the lamb, along with matzah and bitter herbs as part of a sacred meal.

Having declared their own calendar, a monumental act of rebellion, the Jewish people will now act not on Pharaoh’s instructions, but on Moses’ instructions from G-d. This marks the first time that the Israelites will act on their own initiative. The action that they will take – the sacrifice of a lamb – is also a tremendous act of bravery, for the lamb is a sacred animal in Egypt. Thus, sacrificing a lamb as part of this Jewish ritual is a mark of repudiation of the majority culture and an assertion of a different set of values from that of their Egyptian masters!

But Rosh CHodesh – the new month – not only symbolizes defiance, it symbolizes renewal as well. Just as the moon renews itself every month, so the Jewish people, at times on the edge of extinction, rises up to renew itself in every age. This too is the message of the Holocaust. When a wicked empire sought out destruction, our people met them with defiance in whatever way possible. We preserved our humanity and our sense of worth, and renewed ourselves in the State of Israel and in communities throughout the world.

Shabbat Shalom

Jewish-Muslim Dialogue

A few weeks ago I delivered a sermon on four common misunderstandings about Judaism. It was rather well received, and many of you commented that you learned something new about our own religion! This week I attended a talk sponsored by the Chicago Board of Rabbis that addressed specifically Muslim misunderstandings about Jews.  The talk was led by Imam Abdullah Antepli, a chaplain and faculty member at Duke University and Yossi Klein Ha-Levi of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. Together they developed a program, held at the Hartman Institute, which they call the Muslim Leadership Initiative.

Imam Antepli initiated the program. His goal, he said, is to heal the Muslim-Jewish divide in the United States. What divide, you may ask? Has not he Jewish community stood by our Muslim neighbors during this time of heightened anti-Muslim feeling and rhetoric in our country? Has not the Muslim community expressed empathy and provided financial support when our Jewish institutions have been threatened and our cemeteries desecrated?  That is all true, said our two speakers that morning, but our relationship comes at the cost of ignoring the elephant in the room. That elephant in the room is our differences over Israel.

One of the ways to heal that divide is for Muslims and Jews to begin to be honest with one another, and the Imam was very honest. He introduced himself by telling us, a group of rabbis, that he is a “recovering anti-Semite”. As a teen-ager growing up in Turkey he got most of his information about Jews from readings laden with anti-Semitic poison: Henry Ford’s International Jew, Hitler’s Mein Kampf and that classic Soviet anti-Semitic work, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. He was inspired by the religious revival that swept the Middle East in the wake of the Iranian revolution to become an Imam. He was revolted by Israel treatment of Palestinians. Yet, as he continued to study the Koran in depth he found it difficult to reconcile the hatred that he felt toward Jews with the teachings of Mohammed.  It was then that he began to study the long and fruitful relationship between Jews and Muslims prior to the 20^th century. He also began to meet and develop relationships with Jews with whom he shared values and beliefs.  He was intrigued about how we Jews had managed to both maintain our religion and community in the United States and at the same time become so well integrated into the American mainstream. “I wanted to journey to the heart of Judaism,” he said.

At the same time he became concerned about the rising tide of anti-Semitism in the Muslim world as a result of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. He became alarmed when he found Muslims unable to distinguish between their condemnation of Israeli policies and actions toward their Palestinian brethren and anti-Semitism. He now worries that this rising tide of anger and hatred toward Jews will deeply damage Muslims worldwide and will become an obstacle for American Muslims as they seek greater integration into American life.  

Yossi Klein Ha-Levi, Imam Antepli’s Jewish partner in the Muslim Leadership Initiative, is an American born Israel journalist and author. He grew up in New York City and was a follower of the extremist right wing rabbi Meyer Kahane.  Kahane was the founder of the Jewish Defense League, whose mottos were “For Every Jew a .22” and “Never Again”. Kahane later moved to Israel and founded the Kach party that advocated the annexation of the West Bank and the expulsion of all Palestinians from that territory. His party was eventually banned from Israeli politics for inciting racism. Yossi Klein Ha-Levi eventually broke with Kahane and moved to Israel, where, he writes, he gradually repudiated his “Jewish rage” and sought out a different path. He is truly the Imam’s Jewish counterpart.

Yossi Klein Halevi told us that Muslims say they have no problem with Jews. They only have problems with Zionists. From a Jewish perspective this is a fundamental problem. This is a problem because when they say that Zionism is the issue, Muslims are saying that they don’t accept Jews as a “people”, only as a religion. In fact, along with Christians, Muslims have difficulty in understanding that we see ourselves more than just a religion. We see ourselves as a people with a shared past and a common destiny, who believe in the G-d who brought us out of Egypt and who led us to our sacred homeland, Israel, to which we have returned. According to our theology, G-d made a covenant with “The Jewish People” and therefore the collective has a theological importance that is found neither in Christianity nor in  Islam. The Land of Israel is central to our self-definition as Jews. To deny that historical and religious connection is to deny an essential part of who we are. 

The goal of the Muslim Leadership Initiative at the Hartman Institute is not to make Zionists out of Muslims or to recruit new allies to the Israeli cause. Rather, the goal of the program is to help Muslims understand the historical and religious reasons for the deep attachment that Jews have to the Land of Israel after thousands of years of being a persecuted minority in the diaspora.

The subject of Israel is almost totally avoided in interfaith work. There are good reasons for that. The subject of Israel elicits complex emotions and many, including clergy, tend to avoid it altogether. Even those of us invested in enhancing and cultivating interfaith relationships do not talk about Israel with members of the other faith. After all, the topic of Israel is even avoided in many synagogues for the very same reason. If we cannot talk about Israel among ourselves without fearing that it will lead to a disruption of relationships, how can we talk about it with Muslims whose sympathies for the most part lie elsewhere? It also may be that many Jews themselves are not clear about the role Israel plays in the theological and historical self-understanding of the Jewish people. How can we be in dialogue with others when many of us do not fully understand the centrality of the Land of Israel in Judaism?

The Muslim Leadership Initiative cannot in itself bring peace to the Israeli –Palestinian conflict. But it can have a profound effect on those individuals who choose to participate in it. One graduate of the program writes that she learned that Zionism has a very different meaning to Jews than it does to her. And she learned that Jewish fears about the survival of Israel are not merely excuses for maintaining the occupation or “a deep collective pathology divorced from reality”, as she had previously thought. 

Perhaps programs like this can open up dialogue and make for more honest and authentic relationships between Muslims and Jews.

Shabbat Shalom

The Challenge of Purim

We begin our celebration of Purim tomorrow evening with our Megillah reading. On Sunday morning with our Purim carnival. Purim is a story for the ages. Haman, the villain of the story, is the archetypical anti-Semite, the kind of government official that we have seen often in Jewish history. He is a wicked man whose lies about the Jews threaten the very existence of the Jewish people. “There is a certain people,” Haman tells the King,  “scattered and dispersed among the other peoples in all the provinces of your realm, whose laws are different from those of any other people and who do not obey the king's laws; and it is not in Your Majesty's interest to tolerate them.” Haman wants to rid the Kingdom of the Jewish People.

 The Megillah was likely written between 400 and 300 BCE. The historical setting is accurate, yet the events described in the Megillah likely never occurred as they are described. The story is read best as a farce.  After all, what Jewish father, let alone a holy man like Mordechai, enters his daughter in a beauty contest to compete for the chance to marry a King?  Yet the story told in the Megillah falls into that category of stories that may not be literally true, but that capture the truth of experience.

I love the story of Purim because it turns history on its head. Instead of the Jewish community helplessly suffering at the hands of an evil ruler, as has been the case throughout our history, Mordechai and Esther manage to turn the tables on their enemies and emerge victorious. Instead of Haman getting rid of the Jews, the Jews get rid of Haman and his allies. But the story also celebrates violence, and this troubles me. If you do not know what I mean, pick up a Bible and read the Book of Esther to the end.

The Torah does not command us to celebrate Purim, like it commands us to celebrate Passover, Succoth, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, or Yom Kippur. The Megillah itself that tells us that Mordechai and Esther decreed this Jewish holiday. The rabbis of the Talmud debated whether Purim should be included in the calendar of Jewish holidays. Should they ratify Mordechai and Esther’s edict to celebrate this holiday throughout the ages? Many Rabbis opposed the holiday. They argued, “Have we not had enough oppressions? Do we want to increase them by recalling the oppression of Haman?” The Talmud tells us that “Eighty elders, including more than thirty prophets, have been unwilling to grant recognition to the feast of Purim.”  Perhaps they understood that our enemies would use the more lurid parts of the story of Purim against us, thereby leading to greater antisemitism. For example, David Duke, the White Supremacist, describes Purim on his website as a festival of hatred that shows the world how Jews view Gentiles.

Of course, Haman and his ilk represent absolute evil, the kind of radical evil that we associate with a Pharaoh or a Hitler. These are men with whom no compromise was possible. One of the challenges in our own day is to distinguish between the evil of Haman, which needs to be confronted and eradicated, and the actions of enemies with whom we may be able to reach out and make peace. In this respect we might learn from the actions of the Hasidic Master Zvi Elimelekh of Dinov. During the Purim celebrations, the Rabbi announced to his disciples, “Saddle up the horses, we are going to blot out the name of Haman.” Not knowing what their meant, they followed him to a local inn, where the Polish peasants were involved in a wild party. “These men are our enemies,” said the disciples, to one another. “What does our Rebbe mean to do?”

The Rebbe and his disciples entered to inn. The peasants saw them and stopped their carousing. The music stopped. Tension filled the air. You could hear a pin drop. Then the Rebbe looked at one of the peasants and stretched out his hand. The peasants looked at one another. Slowly, one of them stepped forward and took the Rebbe’s hand in his own. They started dancing. The musicians began playing. In a few moments, the disciples of the Rebbe and the local peasants were dancing with one another.

This ought to be the message of Purim. Our ultimate goal should be that we work to rid the world of hatred, not of those who hate. On Purim may we re-dedicate ourselves to achieving the vision of Isaiah, that “nations shall not lift up sword against nations, neither shall they learn war anymore.”

Shabbat Shalom