Two States for Two Peoples
Last week I attended JStreet’s National Conference in Washington DC. What follows are some of my impressions. First a word about JStreet’s mission. JStreet was founded a little over ten years ago to advocate for, and lobby in behalf of, a two-state solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In other words, it supports the creation of a Palestinian state in a large portion of the West Bank, as well as perhaps Gaza, living alongside the Jewish State of Israel. AIPAC by contrast, although officially affirming the need for two states, avoids prescribing a solution to this conflict, claiming instead that this is for Israelis, and Palestinians, to decide. AIPAC’s mission is to make sure there is strong bipartisan support for Israel, and in particular for Israel’s security, in the United States Congress.
I will also be attending the AIPAC Policy Conference the beginning of March. Unlike AIPAC which both Democrats and Republicans attend, there were only senators and representatives from the Democratic Party at JStreet. There were also only Israelis from the center and left in attendance. While I recognize that many find JStreet controversial I struggle to understand why it is deemed out of bounds. Among those in attendance, and those who spoke to the 4,000 participants, were Ehud Barak, former Prime Minister and Israel Defense Forces chief of staff, and Ami Ayalon, former director of Shin Bet (Israel’s internal security service) and admiral in Israel’s navy. Their security credentials are unmatched. More about that later. First a few details about my personal journey regarding the question of two states for two peoples.
I have long believed that the two state solution is the only answer, albeit an imperfect one, to the conflict....
I will also be attending the AIPAC Policy Conference the beginning of March. Unlike AIPAC which both Democrats and Republicans attend, there were only senators and representatives from the Democratic Party at JStreet. There were also only Israelis from the center and left in attendance. While I recognize that many find JStreet controversial I struggle to understand why it is deemed out of bounds. Among those in attendance, and those who spoke to the 4,000 participants, were Ehud Barak, former Prime Minister and Israel Defense Forces chief of staff, and Ami Ayalon, former director of Shin Bet (Israel’s internal security service) and admiral in Israel’s navy. Their security credentials are unmatched. More about that later. First a few details about my personal journey regarding the question of two states for two peoples.
I have long believed that the two state solution is the only answer, albeit an imperfect one, to the conflict....
King David's Footsteps
Several days ago, I hiked in the footsteps of King David. The words of the Bible became real. They became filled with life.
In Israel one can literally walk where our biblical heroes traveled. One can stand where Abraham nearly sacrificed Isaac or where the prophet Amos admonished the Jewish people or where David composed his sweet psalms.
In the land of Israel our Bible takes shape. It is here that the soil adds flesh to our legends.
Before beginning the hike, we stood on the heights of Tel Azekah where the Israelites spied the Philistine army. It was there that our people cowered in fear before the mighty Goliath. A young David volunteered to battle the giant. He refused the offer of King Saul’s armor and spear. He thought them too cumbersome and heavy. David killed Goliath with a small pebble thrown from his slingshot. The Israelite army then routed the Philistines and the Israelites soon crowned David as king.
The legend of David and Goliath was born here, in this place....
In Israel one can literally walk where our biblical heroes traveled. One can stand where Abraham nearly sacrificed Isaac or where the prophet Amos admonished the Jewish people or where David composed his sweet psalms.
In the land of Israel our Bible takes shape. It is here that the soil adds flesh to our legends.
Before beginning the hike, we stood on the heights of Tel Azekah where the Israelites spied the Philistine army. It was there that our people cowered in fear before the mighty Goliath. A young David volunteered to battle the giant. He refused the offer of King Saul’s armor and spear. He thought them too cumbersome and heavy. David killed Goliath with a small pebble thrown from his slingshot. The Israelite army then routed the Philistines and the Israelites soon crowned David as king.
The legend of David and Goliath was born here, in this place....
Failing to Peace
When interviewing for jobs people compile resumes that feature their career highlights, focusing on their many successes. Promotions are featured. Rewards are delineated. Missteps are reframed. Brief tenures are deleted. A recent The New York Times article suggests that we would be better served, and grow and learn even more, if we also tallied a failure resume.
Tim Herrera writes:
Could these biblical chapters serve David’s failure resume? Or is this instead the mark of great literature? And yet we learn more from David’s sins than from his many successes. Do his military victories offer us instruction or instead this moment when he acknowledges his wrongs? Our heroes are fallible. They are often quite ordinary and frequently all too human. That is how we learn from Bible. That is how we grow from their example.
Moses is given to anger. God can at times appear vengeful. So too is each and every person. The Bible’s failures are our greatest teachings.
Another frequently cited example. The Torah’s stated goal of bringing the Jewish people to the land of Israel is never achieved. Moses dies, and the Torah concludes, before our ancestors cross over the Jordan River. Is this also a catastrophic failure or like each and every person’s life? Who achieves all their goals? A lifetime is never really enough. Who achieves only success after success, strung one after the other as if in a finely polished resume?
Our lives offer many failures. Examine them. Recount them. And grow from them.
Even the Torah’s successes are nearly failures. Yes, the Jewish people are indeed freed from Egyptian slavery, but it takes ten attempts to convince Pharaoh to let them go. (Is God learning on the job?) And then, soon after gaining their freedom and while waiting for Moses to return from communing with God, the people grow impatient and build an idol. Rather than discouraging them, Aaron tells them to bring him their gold and silver. (Exodus 32)
I imagine a job interview. “Aaron, you apparently feel you are ready to take on a more decisive leadership role. Tell us about that time Moses left you in charge for forty days.” Aaron reframes the episode. He casts it as a success. “The people were on the verge of rioting. They were scared. We were in the middle of the desert. We had little food and water. Moses went off to do one of his ‘I need to talk with God for a few days.’ After a few weeks I decided to refocus the people’s attention so they would not kill each other. Better to give them something to build, I decided.”
The rabbis agree with Aaron’s retelling. They advise: “Be of the disciples of Aaron loving peace and pursuing it.” (Avot 1). Aaron concludes the interview. “It was then that I realized my greatest skill. I am a peacemaker.” Is this week’s Golden Calf episode a failure? Or a success?
Is peace a failure? Perhaps that is the secret. Peace is the recognition that a long hoped for goal will not be achieved (100% security!?), and that our failure to reach that once all-important objective, must be reframed as a success.
We edit our story. The Torah concludes. We refashion our goals. The rabbis imagine. “Enough of blood and tears.”
Is compromise a failure? Aaron thinks not. Others think so.
Is peace a failure? Perhaps it must be. Still it is a resume I dream of reading.
Our failures are not derailments. They are instead opportunities.
Tim Herrera writes:
Keeping a failure resume — or Anti‑Portfolio or CV of Failures or whatever you’d like to call it — is simple: When you fail, write it down. But instead of focusing on how that failure makes you feel, take the time to step back and analyze the practical, operational reasons that you failed. Did you wait until the last minute to work on it? Were you too casual in your preparation? Were you simply out of your depth? There are countless things that can go wrong when we’re trying to accomplish our goals or advance our careers. But those things are opportunities, not derailments.I wonder. Perhaps the entire Bible should be viewed as a failure resume. A favorite example. The greatest king, David, has an affair with Bathsheba. When he discovers she has become pregnant, David has her husband Uriah, a loyal army officer, killed. The prophet Nathan confronts David and exposes his sin. King David acknowledges his misdeeds and repents. It is a surprising act—powerful leaders rarely admit their errors.
Could these biblical chapters serve David’s failure resume? Or is this instead the mark of great literature? And yet we learn more from David’s sins than from his many successes. Do his military victories offer us instruction or instead this moment when he acknowledges his wrongs? Our heroes are fallible. They are often quite ordinary and frequently all too human. That is how we learn from Bible. That is how we grow from their example.
Moses is given to anger. God can at times appear vengeful. So too is each and every person. The Bible’s failures are our greatest teachings.
Another frequently cited example. The Torah’s stated goal of bringing the Jewish people to the land of Israel is never achieved. Moses dies, and the Torah concludes, before our ancestors cross over the Jordan River. Is this also a catastrophic failure or like each and every person’s life? Who achieves all their goals? A lifetime is never really enough. Who achieves only success after success, strung one after the other as if in a finely polished resume?
Our lives offer many failures. Examine them. Recount them. And grow from them.
Even the Torah’s successes are nearly failures. Yes, the Jewish people are indeed freed from Egyptian slavery, but it takes ten attempts to convince Pharaoh to let them go. (Is God learning on the job?) And then, soon after gaining their freedom and while waiting for Moses to return from communing with God, the people grow impatient and build an idol. Rather than discouraging them, Aaron tells them to bring him their gold and silver. (Exodus 32)
I imagine a job interview. “Aaron, you apparently feel you are ready to take on a more decisive leadership role. Tell us about that time Moses left you in charge for forty days.” Aaron reframes the episode. He casts it as a success. “The people were on the verge of rioting. They were scared. We were in the middle of the desert. We had little food and water. Moses went off to do one of his ‘I need to talk with God for a few days.’ After a few weeks I decided to refocus the people’s attention so they would not kill each other. Better to give them something to build, I decided.”
The rabbis agree with Aaron’s retelling. They advise: “Be of the disciples of Aaron loving peace and pursuing it.” (Avot 1). Aaron concludes the interview. “It was then that I realized my greatest skill. I am a peacemaker.” Is this week’s Golden Calf episode a failure? Or a success?
Is peace a failure? Perhaps that is the secret. Peace is the recognition that a long hoped for goal will not be achieved (100% security!?), and that our failure to reach that once all-important objective, must be reframed as a success.
We edit our story. The Torah concludes. We refashion our goals. The rabbis imagine. “Enough of blood and tears.”
Is compromise a failure? Aaron thinks not. Others think so.
Is peace a failure? Perhaps it must be. Still it is a resume I dream of reading.
Our failures are not derailments. They are instead opportunities.
Memories of the Wild
Many years ago my family and I camped out in the Negev desert. We drove into Makhtesh Katan, a geological formation dwarfed by Makhtesh Gadol and Makhtesh Ramon. These unique formations are typically translated as a Little Crater, Big Crater and Ramon Crater. The term crater, however, is inaccurate because these were not formed by the explosive force of a meteorite but instead by the slow, painstaking power of water.
Rivulets of water, some as small as a creek and others as large as a river, eroded the rock. Over millennia these maktheshim were formed. When one enters and draws close to the canyon’s walls one is struck by the beautiful and colorful layers of rock. These formations can only be found in the Negev and Sinai deserts.
We slept on the desert floor, each in our own sleeping bags. We attempted to create makeshift pillows from the desert rocks. I heard verses in the night. “He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head, and lay down in that place.” (Genesis 28)
The clear, night sky was awash with stars. “He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down it.”
I awoke early and waited for the sun to peak out above the horizon and for its rays to gently find its way within the rock walls. I remained in my sleeping bag until the desert air began to warm. The desert is surprisingly cold in the evening. Until the sun begins to bake the earth one would think that it is cool, fall morning.
I smiled to myself when I looked at my family, huddled near each other, and arrayed as if they were colorful logs thrown on the desert floor. I lit the fire and began preparing our Turkish coffee. (Ok, to be honest, our guide actually did. But it sounds so much better to say I did it.) The sun was only beginning to peak over the canyon’s walls. Best to get dressed in the sleeping bag, I advised our children. The air is still chilly.
We ate our breakfast and packed up the jeep and set off toward our next destination. The guide spoke about Ein Avdat, an oasis, off in the distance.
After the Israelites hurriedly left Egypt they camped in 42 different places. This week we read, “They set out from Succoth, and encamped at Etham, at the edge of the wilderness.” (Exodus 13)
Scholars suggest that Succoth was probably the site of the ancient city of Tjeku, the capital of the eighth province of Lower Egypt in the eastern part of the Nile delta. This region served as farm land for the Israelites and was the Egyptian gateway to and from Asia. It is apparently one day’s journey from the royal palace in Raamses.
And where is Etham? No one knows.
Isn’t it curious that the first place where the Israelites camped outside of Egypt, the very first place where they camped as free people, we no longer know its exact location?
It was at the edge of the wilderness.
Sleeping within the makhtesh it appeared as if we were making camp at the edge of the universe. The stars served as our companions.
Could I ever find that camping spot in Makhtesh Katan, that figures so prominently in my memories, again? No. I am certain I could not.
But I can always find that story.
Sometimes the memory of a place is even better than the place.
Our story begins at the edge of the wilderness.
Rivulets of water, some as small as a creek and others as large as a river, eroded the rock. Over millennia these maktheshim were formed. When one enters and draws close to the canyon’s walls one is struck by the beautiful and colorful layers of rock. These formations can only be found in the Negev and Sinai deserts.
We slept on the desert floor, each in our own sleeping bags. We attempted to create makeshift pillows from the desert rocks. I heard verses in the night. “He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head, and lay down in that place.” (Genesis 28)
The clear, night sky was awash with stars. “He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down it.”
I awoke early and waited for the sun to peak out above the horizon and for its rays to gently find its way within the rock walls. I remained in my sleeping bag until the desert air began to warm. The desert is surprisingly cold in the evening. Until the sun begins to bake the earth one would think that it is cool, fall morning.
I smiled to myself when I looked at my family, huddled near each other, and arrayed as if they were colorful logs thrown on the desert floor. I lit the fire and began preparing our Turkish coffee. (Ok, to be honest, our guide actually did. But it sounds so much better to say I did it.) The sun was only beginning to peak over the canyon’s walls. Best to get dressed in the sleeping bag, I advised our children. The air is still chilly.
We ate our breakfast and packed up the jeep and set off toward our next destination. The guide spoke about Ein Avdat, an oasis, off in the distance.
After the Israelites hurriedly left Egypt they camped in 42 different places. This week we read, “They set out from Succoth, and encamped at Etham, at the edge of the wilderness.” (Exodus 13)
Scholars suggest that Succoth was probably the site of the ancient city of Tjeku, the capital of the eighth province of Lower Egypt in the eastern part of the Nile delta. This region served as farm land for the Israelites and was the Egyptian gateway to and from Asia. It is apparently one day’s journey from the royal palace in Raamses.
And where is Etham? No one knows.
Isn’t it curious that the first place where the Israelites camped outside of Egypt, the very first place where they camped as free people, we no longer know its exact location?
It was at the edge of the wilderness.
Sleeping within the makhtesh it appeared as if we were making camp at the edge of the universe. The stars served as our companions.
Could I ever find that camping spot in Makhtesh Katan, that figures so prominently in my memories, again? No. I am certain I could not.
But I can always find that story.
Sometimes the memory of a place is even better than the place.
Our story begins at the edge of the wilderness.
Cycling and Jerusalem Dreams
The Giro d’Italia is the 21-day professional cycling Italian grand tour held every year in May. This year the first three days are being held in Israel. Day one is an individual time trial in Jerusalem. Day two travels from Haifa to Tel Aviv. And day three from Beersheva to Eilat. I wish to speak about this event is not only so I get to talk about cycling but because the controversies I feared might happen are beginning to come to fruition. One was expected. And the other, unexpected.
The first comes from expected corners. Palestinian activists accuse race organizers of being complicit in Israel’s occupation. They are critical of the decision to start the race in Jerusalem, a city that they feel is still contested and that they wish to have serve as the capital of a hoped for Palestinian state.
The second controversy comes from an unexpected place, Israeli officials....
The first comes from expected corners. Palestinian activists accuse race organizers of being complicit in Israel’s occupation. They are critical of the decision to start the race in Jerusalem, a city that they feel is still contested and that they wish to have serve as the capital of a hoped for Palestinian state.
The second controversy comes from an unexpected place, Israeli officials....
A Sufi Torah
I have spent the past week reading about the Sufi mystics.
I have always held a special place in my heart for fellow seekers. I have always searched throughout the world’s religious traditions for those, and their teachings, who wish to grow closer to God. That pursuit continues to occupy my thoughts and studies. I reject those who claim that such teachings are only found in their own tradition, and who shut their ears to truths emanating from voices outside their own, or who persecute and murder those whose claims are different than their own.
My heart is broken that, once again, people have been murdered while bent in prayer. This time it was some three hundred worshippers murdered, and over 100 hundred injured, in a Sufi mosque in the Sinai. ISIS claimed responsibility. My heart breaks that these worshippers were murdered in the name of faith, albeit a distorted faith.
The Sinai too holds a special place in my heart. There, I wandered throughout its wilderness, accompanied only by a few friends and Bedouin guides. There I could imagine how our faith was born. It is a stark wilderness. Our guides favored paths traversing the dry riverbeds, wadis, which offered the occasional shade and the lone tree under which we could rest. My frequent thirst and hunger made me more sympathetic to my ancestors’ gripes detailed in our Torah.
In my week’s reading I discovered that the celebrated Jewish thinker Moses Maimonides’ grandson, Obadiah, found his way to Sufi Islam. Obadiah’s father Abraham was the leader of Egypt’s Jews and greatly admired these mystics, believing that one could trace a direct line between Israel’s ancient prophets and his contemporary Sufis. But it was Obadiah who immersed himself most deeply, writing a treatise that sought to incorporate Sufi spiritual practices into Jewish observance. Kabbalah and Hasidism were no doubt influenced by these sacred borrowings.
A forgotten piece of history that too often gets lost in favor of a more linear view of the Jewish story. “Moses received the Torah from God at Sinai. He transmitted it to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets, the Prophets to the members of the Great Assembly…” (Avot 1) History instead moves in a meandering path.
I rediscovered the Sufi poet, Hafiz. A number of his books line my shelves. Living in fourteenth century Iran, Hafiz became the most well-known, and well read, of Sufi masters. He remains the most popular poet in modern day Iran. He writes:
I continue the wrestling match.
My continued act of defiance in the face of ongoing terror attacks is to renew my commitment to learn from others and to strengthen my faith not only by immersing myself in the words of my own tradition but in the teachings of others as well.
There is no such thing as a purity of faith.
There is only all of us. And if not, there is none of us.
I have always held a special place in my heart for fellow seekers. I have always searched throughout the world’s religious traditions for those, and their teachings, who wish to grow closer to God. That pursuit continues to occupy my thoughts and studies. I reject those who claim that such teachings are only found in their own tradition, and who shut their ears to truths emanating from voices outside their own, or who persecute and murder those whose claims are different than their own.
My heart is broken that, once again, people have been murdered while bent in prayer. This time it was some three hundred worshippers murdered, and over 100 hundred injured, in a Sufi mosque in the Sinai. ISIS claimed responsibility. My heart breaks that these worshippers were murdered in the name of faith, albeit a distorted faith.
The Sinai too holds a special place in my heart. There, I wandered throughout its wilderness, accompanied only by a few friends and Bedouin guides. There I could imagine how our faith was born. It is a stark wilderness. Our guides favored paths traversing the dry riverbeds, wadis, which offered the occasional shade and the lone tree under which we could rest. My frequent thirst and hunger made me more sympathetic to my ancestors’ gripes detailed in our Torah.
In my week’s reading I discovered that the celebrated Jewish thinker Moses Maimonides’ grandson, Obadiah, found his way to Sufi Islam. Obadiah’s father Abraham was the leader of Egypt’s Jews and greatly admired these mystics, believing that one could trace a direct line between Israel’s ancient prophets and his contemporary Sufis. But it was Obadiah who immersed himself most deeply, writing a treatise that sought to incorporate Sufi spiritual practices into Jewish observance. Kabbalah and Hasidism were no doubt influenced by these sacred borrowings.
A forgotten piece of history that too often gets lost in favor of a more linear view of the Jewish story. “Moses received the Torah from God at Sinai. He transmitted it to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets, the Prophets to the members of the Great Assembly…” (Avot 1) History instead moves in a meandering path.
I rediscovered the Sufi poet, Hafiz. A number of his books line my shelves. Living in fourteenth century Iran, Hafiz became the most well-known, and well read, of Sufi masters. He remains the most popular poet in modern day Iran. He writes:
I return to the Torah. I am reminded that we become Israel when we struggle with God. That is the essence of our name. “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have wrestled with God, and with people, and have prevailed.” (Genesis 32) Thus the name Israel means to wrestle with God.You should have been invited to meetThe Friend.No one can resist a Divine Invitation.That narrows down all our choicesTo just two:We can come to GodDressed for Dancing,OrBe carried on a stretcherTo God’s Ward.
I continue the wrestling match.
My continued act of defiance in the face of ongoing terror attacks is to renew my commitment to learn from others and to strengthen my faith not only by immersing myself in the words of my own tradition but in the teachings of others as well.
The Torah was born in a stark, and beautiful, and most certainly parched, wilderness. It is my poem. It is not, however, the only poem.Again the words of my teacher, Hafiz:A poet is someoneWho can pour Light into a spoon,Then raise itTo nourishYour beautiful parched, holy mouth.
There is no such thing as a purity of faith.
There is only all of us. And if not, there is none of us.
Fashioning the Sacred
What follows is my Yom Kippur Evening sermon about the challenges found at our holy sites.
This past summer I was fortunate to travel to Israel and in particular Jerusalem where I studied at the Shalom Hartman Institute. I remain grateful for my congregation’s recognition of how important it is for its rabbi to renew his learning. During the course of my two weeks I had occasion to visit the Western Wall, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and Al-Aqsa Mosque. In fact I visited them all in one morning, one right after the other. I continue to reflect on that morning’s visits.
First a bit of history and context. Al-Aqsa Mosque is the silver domed mosque that sits next to the golden domed Dome of the Rock. It figures prominently in virtually every photograph of Jerusalem’s Old City. According to Muslim tradition it is the place where Ishmael was nearly sacrificed by Abraham and to where Mohammed was transported from Mecca on the night journey. In the early days of Mohammed’s life his followers directed their prayers toward Jerusalem. This mosque is therefore the third holiest site in Islam, after Mecca and Medina. This is not meant of course as a discourse on the history of Islam. Instead I wish to convey what I experienced when visiting this site.
It is a vast and expansive complex. When first ascending to this plaza one is stunned by its size. The geometric designs on the outside of the Dome of the Rock are breathtaking. And yet our experience was less than uplifting....
This post continues on The Times of Israel.
This past summer I was fortunate to travel to Israel and in particular Jerusalem where I studied at the Shalom Hartman Institute. I remain grateful for my congregation’s recognition of how important it is for its rabbi to renew his learning. During the course of my two weeks I had occasion to visit the Western Wall, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and Al-Aqsa Mosque. In fact I visited them all in one morning, one right after the other. I continue to reflect on that morning’s visits.
First a bit of history and context. Al-Aqsa Mosque is the silver domed mosque that sits next to the golden domed Dome of the Rock. It figures prominently in virtually every photograph of Jerusalem’s Old City. According to Muslim tradition it is the place where Ishmael was nearly sacrificed by Abraham and to where Mohammed was transported from Mecca on the night journey. In the early days of Mohammed’s life his followers directed their prayers toward Jerusalem. This mosque is therefore the third holiest site in Islam, after Mecca and Medina. This is not meant of course as a discourse on the history of Islam. Instead I wish to convey what I experienced when visiting this site.
It is a vast and expansive complex. When first ascending to this plaza one is stunned by its size. The geometric designs on the outside of the Dome of the Rock are breathtaking. And yet our experience was less than uplifting....
This post continues on The Times of Israel.
Jerusalem, Manchester and Concertgoers
Our hearts are again saddened and sickened, and terror stricken, by yet another murderous attack. This time against children, and youth, enjoying a concert in Manchester England. We stand in solidarity with the people of Manchester. We pray for healing for those injured. We pray for solace for those whose lives have been taken. We pray for justice!
Lost among this week’s news was the word that 34 people, again mostly children, drowned in the Mediterranean. These refugees were attempting to reach Italy when their overcrowded boat capsized. They were fleeing Libya. The same murderous hatred that propels these refugees to flee their homes targets concertgoers. And yet the victims of the Arianna Grande attack find our sympathy. They could be us. We have taken our children to concerts. We have attended shows at the Garden, Jones Beach and Met Life Stadium.
We are separated from these refugees by two or three generations. They could have been my grandparents. Is our compassion only a matter of generations? I am called to have sympathy for all human beings. All of life is sacred. A murderous hatred, wrapped in the guise of Islam, seeks to engulf the world. It drowns and murders children. It targets the freedom to gather, to revel in music and speak our mind. We must be vigilant. We must be compassionate. I pray for peace.
Yesterday's Yom Yerushalayim, Jerusalem Day, marks the 50th anniversary of Israel's victory in the 1967 war. It is a complicated day. While it commemorates Israel’s victory, it also marks the stalemate that has existed for the past fifty years. Peace between Israel and the Palestinians remains a distant dream. I hope and pray that President Trump’s efforts prove successful. Will moving the US embassy to Jerusalem, for example, advance the peace process?
Today, I do not wish to focus on such questions. Instead I wish to dwell on the following. I have never known a Jewish world without the State of Israel. I have been privileged to witness, and celebrate, many of its milestones. I have been privileged as well to debate many of its controversies and even swim in its contradictions. I have also been fortunate enough to travel there frequently.
I have only known a Jerusalem since 1967. I have read about Jerusalem’s no man’s land that separated Jordanian forces from Israel’s, and that now is home to Mamilla Mall. Many have walked through this corridor of shops and restaurants as they make their way to the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. No area of Jerusalem has ever been no man’s land to me.
Years ago I attended a concert in this very area. I then attended the opening of the Jerusalem Film Festival in this very spot. Here is that story from the summer of 2007. It illustrates what modern day Jerusalem represents. It tells a story that we will not read about in our newspapers.
We sat in Jerusalem’s outdoor amphitheater, Sultan’s Pool. Now Sultan’s Pool is no ordinary theatre. It was constructed by the Ottoman ruler Suleiman, nearly 500 years ago, who also rebuilt the Old City’s walls. It is a magnificent amphitheater that sits outside the Old City. Prior to 1967 it marked what was once the heart of no man’s land. The theatre sits in the valley of Hinnom, a valley referred to by the prophets of old, a valley whose ancient practice of child sacrifice gave rise to the Jewish image of hell, Gei-Hinnom, the Valley of Hinnom. The prophet Jeremiah’s harsh words and Amichai’s lyrical poems swam through my heart.
Yehuda Amichai writes:
The film festival began with a few speeches. First a petite 90-year-old woman, Lia Van Leer, chair of the festival spoke about her passion for Jerusalem and film and how especially proud she was that next year the festival will mark its 25th anniversary. An achievement award was presented to Avi Lerner and Danny Dimborf, Israeli born producers who have made it big in Hollywood. Their company has produced such classics as “Delta Force—1, 2, 3 and 4.”
The final speech was delivered in broken English by the chair of the Berlin Film Festival, Dieter Kosslick. He spoke about his long time friendship with Mrs. Van Leer, making some embarrassing slips because of his command of English, telling the crowd of nearly 10,000 how he looks forward to sleeping with Lia when they both attend Cannes. (I presume it sounds more appropriate in German.) He laughed when he realized his gaffe and then told this story.
When he was a young boy he witnessed the rise of Nazism and the devastation this ideology brought to the world and his country. He spoke about how the Nazis once burned Jewish books in his native Berlin. Because his birthplace saw the destruction of Jewish books he vowed to rectify this wrong. Every year Mrs. Van Leer brings him a gift. It is a book written before 1933 and written by a German Jewish author, a book that is tattered and worn, a book that seems beyond repair and that can no longer be read. Every year he lovingly takes this book and has it restored by a bookbinder in his native home. Every year books that would have been burned by the Nazis return to their native home and are there restored and I imagine thereby restore a piece of this man’s tattered soul. There was silence and then a standing ovation.
He declared the festival open and we watched the opening film, “Ratatouille.” Yes that’s right. Only in Israel would the Jerusalem Film Festival open in an ancient Turkish pool with speeches by an elderly Jewish woman and a repentant German and culminate with a Disney movie. In Israel one of the greatest compliments you can offer is: “This is American.” Israelis’ love of everything American is proof that an important part of Zionism is: “Let’s just fit in.”
On the other hand, unlike any other nation, Israelis feel that their everyday actions redeem the atrocities of a former century. On that cool desert evening I participated in redemption. I witnessed a German man publicly offer atonement. I watched a Disney film in an ancient pool and declared, along with 10,000 other Jews: “We can laugh and play just like you.”
Yes indeed, we can still laugh and play.
Perhaps that is the justice we seek. Perhaps that is the peace that so eludes us.
Lost among this week’s news was the word that 34 people, again mostly children, drowned in the Mediterranean. These refugees were attempting to reach Italy when their overcrowded boat capsized. They were fleeing Libya. The same murderous hatred that propels these refugees to flee their homes targets concertgoers. And yet the victims of the Arianna Grande attack find our sympathy. They could be us. We have taken our children to concerts. We have attended shows at the Garden, Jones Beach and Met Life Stadium.
We are separated from these refugees by two or three generations. They could have been my grandparents. Is our compassion only a matter of generations? I am called to have sympathy for all human beings. All of life is sacred. A murderous hatred, wrapped in the guise of Islam, seeks to engulf the world. It drowns and murders children. It targets the freedom to gather, to revel in music and speak our mind. We must be vigilant. We must be compassionate. I pray for peace.
Yesterday's Yom Yerushalayim, Jerusalem Day, marks the 50th anniversary of Israel's victory in the 1967 war. It is a complicated day. While it commemorates Israel’s victory, it also marks the stalemate that has existed for the past fifty years. Peace between Israel and the Palestinians remains a distant dream. I hope and pray that President Trump’s efforts prove successful. Will moving the US embassy to Jerusalem, for example, advance the peace process?
Today, I do not wish to focus on such questions. Instead I wish to dwell on the following. I have never known a Jewish world without the State of Israel. I have been privileged to witness, and celebrate, many of its milestones. I have been privileged as well to debate many of its controversies and even swim in its contradictions. I have also been fortunate enough to travel there frequently.
I have only known a Jerusalem since 1967. I have read about Jerusalem’s no man’s land that separated Jordanian forces from Israel’s, and that now is home to Mamilla Mall. Many have walked through this corridor of shops and restaurants as they make their way to the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. No area of Jerusalem has ever been no man’s land to me.
Years ago I attended a concert in this very area. I then attended the opening of the Jerusalem Film Festival in this very spot. Here is that story from the summer of 2007. It illustrates what modern day Jerusalem represents. It tells a story that we will not read about in our newspapers.
We sat in Jerusalem’s outdoor amphitheater, Sultan’s Pool. Now Sultan’s Pool is no ordinary theatre. It was constructed by the Ottoman ruler Suleiman, nearly 500 years ago, who also rebuilt the Old City’s walls. It is a magnificent amphitheater that sits outside the Old City. Prior to 1967 it marked what was once the heart of no man’s land. The theatre sits in the valley of Hinnom, a valley referred to by the prophets of old, a valley whose ancient practice of child sacrifice gave rise to the Jewish image of hell, Gei-Hinnom, the Valley of Hinnom. The prophet Jeremiah’s harsh words and Amichai’s lyrical poems swam through my heart.
Yehuda Amichai writes:
An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion
And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy.
An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father
Both in their temporary failure.
Our two voices met above
The Sultan’s Pool in the valley between us.
Neither of us wants the boy or the goat
To get caught in the wheels
Of the “Had Gadya” machine.
Afterward we found them among the bushes,
And our voices came back inside us
Laughing and crying.
Searching for a goat or for a child has always beenIt was a cool evening and blankets were given away to help keep out the chill of Jerusalem’s desert evening. The Old City’s walls were awash with lights. I remembered sitting in this very spot some twenty years prior with my then girlfriend Susie (Susie and I met in Jerusalem) and watching Santana perform. There were no seats then, only the ancient stones of the pool—and Santana jamming and talking about peace. “I say to these walls, man, let there be peace.”
The beginning of a new religion in these mountains.
The film festival began with a few speeches. First a petite 90-year-old woman, Lia Van Leer, chair of the festival spoke about her passion for Jerusalem and film and how especially proud she was that next year the festival will mark its 25th anniversary. An achievement award was presented to Avi Lerner and Danny Dimborf, Israeli born producers who have made it big in Hollywood. Their company has produced such classics as “Delta Force—1, 2, 3 and 4.”
The final speech was delivered in broken English by the chair of the Berlin Film Festival, Dieter Kosslick. He spoke about his long time friendship with Mrs. Van Leer, making some embarrassing slips because of his command of English, telling the crowd of nearly 10,000 how he looks forward to sleeping with Lia when they both attend Cannes. (I presume it sounds more appropriate in German.) He laughed when he realized his gaffe and then told this story.
When he was a young boy he witnessed the rise of Nazism and the devastation this ideology brought to the world and his country. He spoke about how the Nazis once burned Jewish books in his native Berlin. Because his birthplace saw the destruction of Jewish books he vowed to rectify this wrong. Every year Mrs. Van Leer brings him a gift. It is a book written before 1933 and written by a German Jewish author, a book that is tattered and worn, a book that seems beyond repair and that can no longer be read. Every year he lovingly takes this book and has it restored by a bookbinder in his native home. Every year books that would have been burned by the Nazis return to their native home and are there restored and I imagine thereby restore a piece of this man’s tattered soul. There was silence and then a standing ovation.
He declared the festival open and we watched the opening film, “Ratatouille.” Yes that’s right. Only in Israel would the Jerusalem Film Festival open in an ancient Turkish pool with speeches by an elderly Jewish woman and a repentant German and culminate with a Disney movie. In Israel one of the greatest compliments you can offer is: “This is American.” Israelis’ love of everything American is proof that an important part of Zionism is: “Let’s just fit in.”
On the other hand, unlike any other nation, Israelis feel that their everyday actions redeem the atrocities of a former century. On that cool desert evening I participated in redemption. I witnessed a German man publicly offer atonement. I watched a Disney film in an ancient pool and declared, along with 10,000 other Jews: “We can laugh and play just like you.”
Yes indeed, we can still laugh and play.
Perhaps that is the justice we seek. Perhaps that is the peace that so eludes us.
Open the Door!
The Bible proclaims: “There shall be one law for the citizen and for the stranger that dwells among you.” (Exodus 12:49) Moreover, the Bible commands, no less than 36 times, “Love the stranger.”
Many are the strangers who wish to make this great nation their home!
And yet America remains divided. There are those who wish to open our country’s borders to immigration. On the other side, there are those who wish to secure our borders, afraid that Muslim immigrants in particular will bring terrorist attacks.
In case there is any doubt, I stand with those who wish to open our doors. I stand against President Trump’s recent Executive Order banning immigration from seven Muslim countries for four months and in the case of Syrian refugees, indefinitely. In this great country of ours we are not meant to discriminate. And so on Saturday afternoon, I joined the protesters at JFK airport to raise my voice in support of my Muslim brothers and sisters. (You can read more about my experience.)
My stance should come as no surprise to those who have heard my sermons and read my writings. I remain deeply committed to the ideal that America is first and foremost a nation of immigrants. My family was welcomed here. I in turn must welcome others....
Many are the strangers who wish to make this great nation their home!
And yet America remains divided. There are those who wish to open our country’s borders to immigration. On the other side, there are those who wish to secure our borders, afraid that Muslim immigrants in particular will bring terrorist attacks.
In case there is any doubt, I stand with those who wish to open our doors. I stand against President Trump’s recent Executive Order banning immigration from seven Muslim countries for four months and in the case of Syrian refugees, indefinitely. In this great country of ours we are not meant to discriminate. And so on Saturday afternoon, I joined the protesters at JFK airport to raise my voice in support of my Muslim brothers and sisters. (You can read more about my experience.)
My stance should come as no surprise to those who have heard my sermons and read my writings. I remain deeply committed to the ideal that America is first and foremost a nation of immigrants. My family was welcomed here. I in turn must welcome others....
Responsibility to Protest
The signs stood as my accusers.
A young woman held a hastily scrawled placard, “They warned me about this in Hebrew School.” Another held, “Remember the St. Louis.”
On Saturday I found myself at the impromptu protest rally at JFK airport. The anger was palpable. The indignation continues to simmer. It boils over on social media. It is heard from other nation’s capitals. A few lawmakers speak out. Governors weigh in. More and more raise their voices.
I had spent the better part of Saturday afternoon reading the newspaper about Friday’s executive order. I became increasingly agitated. Soon I heard about the rally forming at Terminal 4. I thought, “I will go next time. It’s not in today’s plans.” I read some more. I grew enraged. I paced back and forth. I became indignant. I put on a warmer pair of socks, grabbed some gloves and headed for the door. I drove to JFK. I wondered if I would be able to find what I expected to be a small group of hundreds.
As soon as I pulled into the parking garage I heard the shouts....
A young woman held a hastily scrawled placard, “They warned me about this in Hebrew School.” Another held, “Remember the St. Louis.”
On Saturday I found myself at the impromptu protest rally at JFK airport. The anger was palpable. The indignation continues to simmer. It boils over on social media. It is heard from other nation’s capitals. A few lawmakers speak out. Governors weigh in. More and more raise their voices.
I had spent the better part of Saturday afternoon reading the newspaper about Friday’s executive order. I became increasingly agitated. Soon I heard about the rally forming at Terminal 4. I thought, “I will go next time. It’s not in today’s plans.” I read some more. I grew enraged. I paced back and forth. I became indignant. I put on a warmer pair of socks, grabbed some gloves and headed for the door. I drove to JFK. I wondered if I would be able to find what I expected to be a small group of hundreds.
As soon as I pulled into the parking garage I heard the shouts....
Miles of Indifference and Cruelty
4.1 miles is the distance that separates the Greek island of Lesbos from Turkey. Between 2015 and 2016, 600,000 people traversed this distance in efforts to save themselves, and rescue their families primarily from their war ravaged Syrian homes.
Leon Wieseltier once observed:
Watch this documentary!
Leon Wieseltier once observed:
[T]he most conspicuous characteristic of [refugees] is that they love life, and that they are prepared to endure unimaginable hardship, so as to preserve life, their lives and the lives of their loved ones, and the lives of their traditions and their communities. Nobody imperils their children in dangerous sea voyages, and treks across mountains unless they believe they are rescuing their children from an even greater danger that certainly awaits them.To believe otherwise is to be indifferent. To act otherwise is to be cruel. Under President Obama we were indifferent. Under President Trump we are now cruel. I do not wish to be either.
Watch this documentary!
Refugees Still and Again!
Just because today's news reports focus on the presidential campaign does not mean that the flood of refugees has ebbed or that their plight has improved. There is increasing evidence that it worsens. The conflict in Syria continues to produce unfathomable human misery. To date 500,000 people have been killed. 7 million people remain internally displaced. 4 million more have fled Syria's borders. Most live in makeshift refugee shelters, primarily in Jordan and Turkey. Too few have made their way to freedom. A mere 2,500 have found a home in the United States.
Listen to their stories. Hear their voices. Take note of their pain. The second of the refugees, Kassem Eid, gives powerful voice to these feelings of abandonment. (He begins at minute 18.) His words sting.
Elie Wiesel reminds us about the meaning of our past sufferings and our current duty to speak out. The disadvantaged and oppressed have few else to serve as their voice. Wiesel states:
I do not know how else to read this story but through the prism of Jewish history. We too have known suffering and wandering while the world turned an indifferent eye.
I am the son of refugees. My parents were Polish Jews who survived the Holocaust and came to New York in 1947. I grew up among refugees, and until I was seven or eight, refugees were the only adults I knew. I just want to say a few things that I've learned from my experience about who refugees are.
The first thing I will say about refugees, the most conspicuous characteristic of them is that they love life, and that they are prepared to endure unimaginable hardship, so as to preserve life, their lives and the lives of their loved ones, and the lives of their traditions and their communities. Nobody imperils their children in dangerous sea voyages, and treks across mountains unless they believe they are rescuing their children from an even greater danger that certainly awaits them. So the first thing I learned from my parents and my cousins and the community in which I grew up, is that refugees love life.
...I also learned that refugees are people who have felt abandoned by the world. It is a terrible, terrible feeling I can report, as the son of people who felt abandoned by the world. And all the rescue efforts, and all the resettlement efforts that will be made, and God knows, there are very, very few for us to boast about, will not erase, ever, that feeling that at some point the world abandoned them.And I would add that I continue to remain haunted by this abandonment and my acquiescence to it. Their abandonment has now become my doing, or undoing. I stand among those who have abandoned others, who have turned away from the suffering of my fellow human beings. I go about my ordinary days as others imperil their lives. These days I go out to restaurants, I watch movies while others run for their lives--literally. They risk their lives so their children might have a morsel of bread, so that they might know life. I am consumed by my banalities.
And this leads to my final point, and this was the thing about the refugees that I knew, that most pained me; it is that they are people who feel that if the entire world had been destroyed, when my parents' world was destroyed, it would have been coherent; it would have been apocalyptic, but it would have been coherent. But what happened was that only their world was destroyed and the rest of the world went along on its course, and so not only were they confronted with the magnitude of the indifference of the world to the destruction of their world, but they also, after death, as it were, had to have a second life, and after had to pick themselves out of the ashes, and then they had to do completely banal and trivial things. Like in my mother's case, run a candy store, and in my father's case run a furniture shop, and then have children, and then buy their children clothes, and then find schools for their children, all the while remembering that everything that they loved had died, had been destroyed. And this was something about my parents and those refugees that I will never forget. There was this haunted quality.
Listen to their stories. Hear their voices. Take note of their pain. The second of the refugees, Kassem Eid, gives powerful voice to these feelings of abandonment. (He begins at minute 18.) His words sting.
Elie Wiesel reminds us about the meaning of our past sufferings and our current duty to speak out. The disadvantaged and oppressed have few else to serve as their voice. Wiesel states:
Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must – at that moment – become the center of the universe.We dare not turn aside. We dare not return to our trivialities.
Vayetzei, Paris and Fears
Fear is insidious. It wears at our hearts. It gnaws at our loves. This is the goal of terrorists. Those who murder in their metastasized faith’s name seek to destroy our values and our enjoyments by these random acts of horrific violence. They attack the ordinary and everyday.
We mourn the brutal murders of over 129 souls in Paris, and 43 in Beirut, as well as the daily slaughter of innocents throughout the Middle East and Africa. We must not forget that what was perpetrated in Paris occurs on a daily basis in Syria. Over 100 people are killed every day in that country’s civil war, often in a similarly gruesome fashion. In Israel Palestinian terrorists continue to attack with knives. Today in Tel Aviv two Jews were murdered while praying and another three elsewhere in Israel.
We live in frightening times. Terror can be debilitating...
We mourn the brutal murders of over 129 souls in Paris, and 43 in Beirut, as well as the daily slaughter of innocents throughout the Middle East and Africa. We must not forget that what was perpetrated in Paris occurs on a daily basis in Syria. Over 100 people are killed every day in that country’s civil war, often in a similarly gruesome fashion. In Israel Palestinian terrorists continue to attack with knives. Today in Tel Aviv two Jews were murdered while praying and another three elsewhere in Israel.
We live in frightening times. Terror can be debilitating...
This post continues on The Times of Israel.
In addition I continue to remain steadfast in believing the words and prayers I offered at a recent 911 Memorial Ceremony.
Mattot-Masei, History, Hope and Worries about Iran
On the day that images from Pluto were beamed back to earth from 3 billion miles away, we are debating the inner workings of something far closer to home, the intricacies of the human heart. It is around our view of the heart that the arguments about the recent Iran nuclear deal spin.
President Obama appears to believe that within every human being there is a seed of evil and that therefore all people are redeemable because all are sinful. It is this view that colors his foreign policy decisions and in particular his approach to Iran. Prime Minister Netanyahu by contrast believes that some are unredeemable, that there are those so inclined toward evil that we can only say, “Do not cross this line.” While hope might be on Obama’s side, history stands on Netanyahu’s.
I do not trust the intentions of Iran’s leaders...
President Obama appears to believe that within every human being there is a seed of evil and that therefore all people are redeemable because all are sinful. It is this view that colors his foreign policy decisions and in particular his approach to Iran. Prime Minister Netanyahu by contrast believes that some are unredeemable, that there are those so inclined toward evil that we can only say, “Do not cross this line.” While hope might be on Obama’s side, history stands on Netanyahu’s.
I do not trust the intentions of Iran’s leaders...
Mishpatim, Prayer Breakfasts and Moral Clarity
Mahatma Ghandi famously said: “An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.”
Ghandi’s life was of course the living embodiment of the pacifist tradition. He preached against taking up arms and called others to turn away from seeking the revenge that the Torah’s words imply. Ghandi, and the vast majority of commentators, however misunderstand the Bible’s intent.
This week’s portion states: “But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.” (Exodus 21:23)
Scholars suggest that an eye for an eye is a poetic way of expressing the idea, also enshrined in American law, that the punishment must fit the crime....
Ghandi’s life was of course the living embodiment of the pacifist tradition. He preached against taking up arms and called others to turn away from seeking the revenge that the Torah’s words imply. Ghandi, and the vast majority of commentators, however misunderstand the Bible’s intent.
This week’s portion states: “But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.” (Exodus 21:23)
Scholars suggest that an eye for an eye is a poetic way of expressing the idea, also enshrined in American law, that the punishment must fit the crime....
Martin Luther King and Dreaming Big
What follows is the sermon I delivered this past Shabbat.
As you know Martin Luther King gave his most famous speech in August of 1963 standing before Washington DC’s Lincoln Memorial and in front of the thousands who marched there to further civil rights.
In that “I Have a Dream” speech, he said:
Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.After a particularly dark week, when despair grips us, when we see clear evidence of what happens when antisemitism goes unchecked, when terrorism again frightens us, I want to reflect not on these evils, but instead on the importance of dreams. Faith in general and Judaism in particular is built on the dream that tomorrow can be better than today. For the religious person dreams are not fantasies. They can be felt. They can be touched. Dreams are as real as the earth and sky. We tenaciously hold on to dreams despite what happens around us. We remain undeterred by tragedy. We do not veer because of evil.
And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today!
Let us take but one example from history. For nearly 2,000 years we prayed, “Next year in Jerusalem!” I am certain there were times when some laughed at such statements, when there were even Jews who lost hope, who despaired and scoffed at such dreams, calling them perhaps fantasies. We have lived through unimaginably dark days and yet we continued to sing, we continued to shout, “We will return!” And now we have returned. Jerusalem is rebuilt; it is a teeming, thriving, modern city. Israel certainly faces its challenges—and that is perhaps an understatement—but let us take heart in the realization of our dream.
Do you think that Zionism could have been successful if not for that ancient hope, that Jewish dream that every child heard at their Seder tables? I don’t think so. Better realities are built on ancient dreams. That is what today’s Jerusalem should loudly proclaim to every Jewish child.
The person of faith does not dismiss dreams. The religious personality does not scoff at visions. They instead embrace them and take them into their hearts. At the darkest times, they don’t resort to cynicism. Instead they sing louder.
Sure there is a lot of work still to be done to realize Martin Luther King’s dream; we always fall short of dreams. Far too many African Americans do not share the opportunities my children take for granted. We can argue about the whys, but that fact remains unaltered. And yet my children really don’t judge others by the color of their skin or by their religion or by their sexual orientation. They look instead to the content of their character. In 1963 few could have imagined such a different reality could be realized within a lifetime.
Hatred, racism, antisemitism still exist; in some corners they even thrive, but we have traveled far. The civil rights dream is not yet fully real but we are so much better because we dreamed. During some days even dreaming is an act of courage! Sure we have to keep working harder to repair a great many things. But we traveled this far because of a dream. That is what must always be held before our eyes. We must keep dreaming. That is the answer.
And finally there is the dream of peace that we must continue to speak of. We don’t dismiss it because of a week marred by unspeakable evils. I admit, on this day this dream could not seem more distant. After this week the dream of peace cannot seem more elusive. What is the person of faith to do? Abandon dreaming? Abandon speaking of visions of a better tomorrow? Never! We continue to sing for peace.
Faith is the stubborn response to human frailty, to human flaws, and to the world’s imperfections. We do not ignore reality. Instead we refuse to be defeated by it. We continue to sing; we continue to dream.
The prophet Isaiah declared:
Let us go up to the Mount of the Lord,Part of the answer to our times, the response of faith is to dream. We restore hope by dreaming. We continue to sing: “Nation shall not take up sword against nation. They shall never again know war!”
To the House of the God of Jacob;
That He may instruct us in His ways,
And that we may walk in His paths.”
For instruction shall come forth from Zion,
The word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
Thus God will judge among the nations
And arbitrate for the many peoples,
And they shall beat their swords into plowshares
And their spears into pruning hooks:
Nation shall not take up
Sword against nation;
They shall never again know war. (Isaiah 2)
Vaera, Terrorism and the Hardened Heart
This past week was a painful and harrowing week. The attacks in Paris at Charlie Hebdo and the kosher supermarket remind us once again of terrorism’s reach. In this age of terror the daily routine of going to a supermarket and what should be the uneventful drawing of cartoons become courageous. Ordinary, everyday acts, become acts of bravery.
What do we do? We muster our courage and steel our hearts by saying that it could never happen here. We say, “Paris was heading in this direction.” Or, “I don’t frequent places that are likely to be attacked?” Make no mistake. Shopping at the local kosher butcher is no more dangerous than the frequenting of the nearby Whole Foods. Terrorism instills fear in its randomness.
While terrorism may appear to be directed at harming lives its greatest danger is how it attacks the heart. And it is within the heart that we can achieve victory. Here is how the heart must respond.
First we must come to recognize that there is unmitigated evil in this world. Much of it comes from radical Islam. Calling our current struggle a war against terror is unhelpful. Terrorism is a tactic. It is not an ideology. Just as we once waged war against Nazism so must we battle Islamism. We must therefore wage a war of ideas against this ideology of hate.
Our military and police can prevent attacks and stop the advance for example of ISIS and Al Qaeda, but the war will be won in our hearts. And so we must hold fast to our commitment to a pluralistic society. We must continue to preach the democratic ideal that competing beliefs can not only coexist but also give rise to beauties that we might be unable to see if only surrounded by like-minded believers. In difference, and disagreement, holiness can be realized.
We must not harden our hearts against Muslims or those who are different. The ideas of pluralism and openness are what make us great. This is part of the allure of Paris. Holding such freedoms forever in our hearts is the first response.
The second is also a matter of the heart. We must never lose hope. Hope is the root of faith. Judaism continues to believe that tomorrow can be better than today. Despite the world’s tribulations we defiantly believe that it can be redeemed. The world can be made better.
For two thousand years our people, for example, refused to let go of the hope that one day we would return to our ancient land. Every summer I for one reassert that hope when I board a plane to travel to Jerusalem. Today’s Jerusalem is a modern city built on an ancient hope. That is what our faith is made of.
We waited a long time for the realization of this dream. We witnessed some of the darkest years history ever witnessed. Still hope remained secreted within our hearts.
This is our faith. No matter how vicious evil becomes hope will triumph. “I believe in perfect faith in the Messiah’s coming. And even though the Messiah is delayed, I will continue to wait every day.” One day the idea that harmony will exist in the midst of differently held, and even competing, beliefs will rule the day.
That is a battle of the heart.
This week my heart grows hard. It becomes increasingly inured to death and pain, terror and fanaticism. It responds with statements of distance, “It can’t happen here.”
“The Lord said to Moses: “I will harden Pharaoh’s heart…” (Exodus 7:3)
Can my heart traverse the distance? Can my heart achieve victory?
What do we do? We muster our courage and steel our hearts by saying that it could never happen here. We say, “Paris was heading in this direction.” Or, “I don’t frequent places that are likely to be attacked?” Make no mistake. Shopping at the local kosher butcher is no more dangerous than the frequenting of the nearby Whole Foods. Terrorism instills fear in its randomness.
While terrorism may appear to be directed at harming lives its greatest danger is how it attacks the heart. And it is within the heart that we can achieve victory. Here is how the heart must respond.
First we must come to recognize that there is unmitigated evil in this world. Much of it comes from radical Islam. Calling our current struggle a war against terror is unhelpful. Terrorism is a tactic. It is not an ideology. Just as we once waged war against Nazism so must we battle Islamism. We must therefore wage a war of ideas against this ideology of hate.
Our military and police can prevent attacks and stop the advance for example of ISIS and Al Qaeda, but the war will be won in our hearts. And so we must hold fast to our commitment to a pluralistic society. We must continue to preach the democratic ideal that competing beliefs can not only coexist but also give rise to beauties that we might be unable to see if only surrounded by like-minded believers. In difference, and disagreement, holiness can be realized.
We must not harden our hearts against Muslims or those who are different. The ideas of pluralism and openness are what make us great. This is part of the allure of Paris. Holding such freedoms forever in our hearts is the first response.
The second is also a matter of the heart. We must never lose hope. Hope is the root of faith. Judaism continues to believe that tomorrow can be better than today. Despite the world’s tribulations we defiantly believe that it can be redeemed. The world can be made better.
For two thousand years our people, for example, refused to let go of the hope that one day we would return to our ancient land. Every summer I for one reassert that hope when I board a plane to travel to Jerusalem. Today’s Jerusalem is a modern city built on an ancient hope. That is what our faith is made of.
We waited a long time for the realization of this dream. We witnessed some of the darkest years history ever witnessed. Still hope remained secreted within our hearts.
This is our faith. No matter how vicious evil becomes hope will triumph. “I believe in perfect faith in the Messiah’s coming. And even though the Messiah is delayed, I will continue to wait every day.” One day the idea that harmony will exist in the midst of differently held, and even competing, beliefs will rule the day.
That is a battle of the heart.
This week my heart grows hard. It becomes increasingly inured to death and pain, terror and fanaticism. It responds with statements of distance, “It can’t happen here.”
“The Lord said to Moses: “I will harden Pharaoh’s heart…” (Exodus 7:3)
Can my heart traverse the distance? Can my heart achieve victory?
The Heart Knows: Why We Do the Things We Do
What follows is the written text of my Yom Kippur evening sermon exploring human motivation and in particular the motivation for good.
Most people did not know until some time after his death that not only was he Jewish, but Israeli. He made aliya to Israel in 2005. In a letter written in May and smuggled out to his parents, he wrote, “Please know that I’m ok. Live your life to the fullest and fight to be happy. Everyone of us has two lives. The second one begins when you realize you only have one.” The second one begins when you realize you only have one. That is what I would like to explore on this Yom Kippur. Not the evils that surround us but instead the motivation for good that can emerge from each of us. We can learn much when it blossoms forth especially from a young man held in captivity. If we are to confront this evil, part of the answer must certainly be that we can pledge to do good. How can we make doing good more of our everyday lives? The other piece is of course that our leaders, most especially President Obama, must fight to keep the evils such as ISIS in check. It seems clear that our president now understands that reason alone cannot bend the arc of history. More about that tomorrow morning. This evening I want to talk about us and the motivation to do good. I wish to ask, where can hope be found?
People do not know this but the reason we remained unaware of Steve Sotloff’s Jewish identity is that soon after his capture, some 150 of his friends scrubbed his online identity removing all mention of his being Jewish or Israeli. I have been thinking about these unnamed friends this past month. I admit, sometimes it is hard to do so amidst the chaos and destruction, but that is what I wish to dwell on. Why did they do this? Why did they devote themselves to this task, spending countless hours scouring the web? It was because Steve was their friend and they wanted to do whatever they could to save his life. Even though their efforts proved unsuccessful I draw hope from their motivation. I am stirred by their actions. The Talmud counsels: “Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.” (Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a) It was worth the hours. It was as if the entire world rested in their hands, and depended on their efforts. Friendship calls us to action. We will run in charity events for friends. We will volunteer for boards because friends ask us. We will sit in front of our computer screens hoping and praying that our efforts might save a life.
Then again I am appalled that the mere mention of a person’s Jewish identity would further endanger him. We have seemingly moved backward in time. Is it possible that publicly declaring one’s Jewish identity might once again mark someone for death? The world appears as if it is propelling back toward medieval times? Then again, can an identity be erased? It was reported that during Steve Satloff’s captivity he went to great lengths to observe his Jewish traditions, secretly fasting on Yom Kippur and surreptitiously praying towards Jerusalem. The second life begins only one you realize you have one. What courage! What inspiration! What motivation.
Many of us participated in the recent ALS ice bucket challenge. Why did we pour ice cold water over our heads? Because our friends asked us to. Or more exactly because our friends cajoled us to do so by publicly challenging us. The ALS foundation raised over $60 million. I hate to be a cynic on this our most holy of days but how many people poured ice water over their heads for the entertainment of their friends, and the appearance of doing good, but never sent in a donation and how many quietly made a donation to the ALS Foundation but never did anything with ice water except to drink it on the warmest of days? Which act is more worthy? The unheralded donation or the public pronouncements? There is nothing of course wrong with the ice bucket challenge as long as it leads to the good of giving tzedakah. The ice bucket challenge is not a good unto itself, except perhaps in how it increased awareness about ALS. Of course one could argue that in an age of limited resources this popularized challenge sidetracked resources from other worthy charities. So I challenge you that if you participated in the ice bucket challenge and gave to the ALS foundation for the first time then be sure that this does not divert you away from your other tzedakah commitments. I continue to wonder about why we do what we do. Sometimes we give because we want to, and other times we give because friends cajole us. Sometimes we give because we are told to, and other times we give because our heart inspires us. Judaism teaches that the act is more important than the inspiration, that a good deed redeems even the basest of motivations.
This is why the tradition gives us a list of commandments and not a code of feelings. Virtue is not found in motivation, but action. True the inner intention, the kavvanah, can help to inspire action, but it must never come to replace the deed. How do we know what is right? We consult our tradition. As Reform Jews we believe that our inherited tradition must always have a voice, but never a veto. We also explore this path in the context of community. The group is the corrective to individual wants and desires. This is why our ideal prayers are said with others. We are more apt to ask for the right thing when standing with others. We look to our right and to our left, and see, for example, the pain of others, and then discover that our mundane goals of a new, larger house might not be as important as their restored health. We even recount our sins with others. On this day, we say “For the sin we have committed…” It is not that we believe that every one of us did every one of these wrongs but instead that we are strengthened by our joint words. We gain courage to repair our lives and mend our ways by attaching our words to our neighbors’. The tradition offers us a path. It gives us a road in which to locate ourselves. We walk together.
Why? So that we might add a measure of good to the world. I admit, sometimes we do things for the sake of a reward. People like posting pictures and videos of themselves. People like the accolades and approvals of others. Do you know that there are only two commandments in the entire Torah in which a reward is attached to them, specifically the reward of a long life? They are: #1. Honor your father and mother. The Torah states: “Honor your father and mother that you may long endure on the land that the Lord your God is assigning to you.” (Exodus 20:12) #2. “If, along the road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with your young. Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you fare well and a have a long life.” (Deuteronomy 22:6-7)
I have often wondered about these mitzvot. Why are they so important that they only offer the promise of reward? I wonder not so much about the honoring parents so much as the bird’s nest. The commentators ask what is the connection between these two commands. They draw a connection between the fact that both commandments deal with the relationship between parents and children. We are commanded to show compassion to parents. Love is not commanded, but care. There is another connection. More often than not no one knows if you observe these commandments or not. I know that this is not so likely, but it you were to happen upon a bird’s nest, perhaps a wounded animal, do you look to your right or left to see if anyone is watching or do you look above and recall God’s commands? Behind closed doors, when, for example, your mother or father are sick and in need of care, or perhaps if you are younger when they discipline you, do you speak to them with words of compassion or of frustration? It is not an easy mitzvah, but that is exactly why it is a command.
No one knows if you were kind to an animal. They cannot speak. They cannot report on you. And this is why there is a reward attached. In the quiet of your homes, amidst the humdrum of daily life, I challenge you to honor your father and mother. Take up that challenge. Show concern for even the animals that surround us. That would be but two more measures of good added to our world. Long life perhaps. Good most certainly.
Then again we care deeply about what others think. How else can one explain the near frenzy with which the ice bucket challenge raced throughout the country? Are such communal expectations and pressures really so bad? Some of us had the pleasure of examining a beautiful story on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. It is found in the Talmud Yerushalmi and is the story of Shimon ben Shetah. (Jerusalem Talmud, Bava Metzia 8a) Here is my rendition of that story. Rabbi Shimon ben Shetah traded in cotton. (It is a modern innovation for rabbis to be paid as full time rabbis. In ancient times they supported their families with their trades.) His students loved him so much that they said, “Master, let us buy you a donkey so you won’t have to work so hard. Then you can spend more time teaching us.” They went and bought him a donkey from a neighbor, from someone who was not Jewish. Lo and behold, they found on the donkey a precious stone. They ran to their teacher and exclaimed, “Now you won’t have to work at all.” Shimon asked them, “Does the owner know of your discovery?” They said, “No.” Their teacher admonished him, “Go and return it.” They argued, “But we did not steal the stone. We bought the donkey for a fair price. The law allows us to keep the donkey and anything we find on it.” Some even argued, “Besides we bought it from a non-Jew.” When hearing this, Shimon became enraged and shouted, “Do you think I am a barbarian? I would rather hear, ‘Blessed be the God of the Jews’ to all the riches of the world!”
Too often in our own age we discount the opinions of others. “Do what you think is right? As long as you are happy it is ok.” are our mantras. Shimon ben Shetah rejects this. It does matter what the world thinks. It does matter what others think. We cannot just say, “What’s fair is fair. As long as it is legal is good enough for me.” This rabbi’s desire was to bring more people to Judaism. That demanded of him an even higher standard, a more scrupulous code. He believed that his actions must bring praise to the tradition he so loves. He imagined that people would look at what he does each and every day and exclaim, “Blessed be the God of the Jews.” Imagine for a moment what the world might look like if we paused and asked ourselves, “Will this bring blessings to my faith, praise to my people and honor to my family?” Imagine for a moment how filled with peace our world might be, and especially the Middle East, if every person who professes a deep faith, if people who proclaimed themselves to be religious, were to ask, “Will this bring honor to my religion?” There is more to life than “Do what you think is right.” Ask instead, “Will this bring honor to Judaism? Will this add merit to the Jewish people?” I am given to such dreams.
Many people have asked me about this summer’s trip to Israel. They ask me if it was hard to be there for the start of the war. To be honest it is not the first time that I was in Israel during a war, although please God may it be the last time. I did leave before the start of the ground war when the Israeli psyche shifts so perceptibly. They ask me what it was like to have to run to a bomb shelter. They search for pain in my answers. They ask me, “What was the most difficult moment?” They are often surprised to find out that the most difficult moment was not even the discovery three boys’ bodies, z”l. Their kidnapping and murder by Hamas was the beginning of this summer’s hostilities. That day was indeed a tragic day. And yet the most painful moment was instead the discovery of the young Arab boy’s body and the realization, which I shared with the majority of Israelis and Jews, that his murderer was also a Jew. The police soon captured the perpetrator and I recall the image on my TV screen as he was led away in handcuffs. He covered his face. And I shouted at the TV, “Cover your tzitzit. Take off your kippah. You barbarian!” I continue to dream. Will my actions bring honor to my faith?
All of these young boys were buried with tears and accompanied to their final resting places with shouts of pain. Some of my friends visited the mourning tent of Mohammed’s family. I recall the funeral for the three Jewish boys: Gilad, Naftali and Eyal. Naftali’s mother, Rachel, spoke at the funeral. She said. “Rest in peace, my child. We will learn to sing without you. We will always hear your voice in our hearts.” I could not begin to fathom her courage. And so I read more about Rachel Frankel. Apparently she is a widely admired teacher among Orthodox women. She is a reasoned voice for women’s participation and inclusion in Jewish life. According to traditional Jewish law a woman is not obligated to say kaddish. She is not required to observe positive, time bound mitzvot, except of course the lighting of Shabbat candles. She would not lead public prayers in a mixed group of men and women because she is not required to pray and so cannot help carry a man’s obligatory prayers. Such is the ideology of my more traditional brethren. And then I witnessed the most remarkable of things. Her son’s body was placed in its grave. The moment for kaddish arrived. And Ruth lifted herself out of her seat and stood and said, “Yitgadal v’yitkadash…” with a full voice. And then an even more remarkable thing happened. Israel’s chief rabbi, David Lau, said, “Amen.”
I wonder. Did he forget his ideology? Did he ignore his beliefs? Perhaps. I doubt he paused to think. His heart said Amen to her prayer of pain. How could he say anything but Amen, I believe, I stand with you? In an age filled with ideologies of terror and death, perhaps the heart needs to teach. I imagine that many have forgotten about funerals. There have been far too many since. And yet they remain imprinted on my soul. I imagine that each of these families continue to relive those days each and every moment of their lives. During a summer filled with violence and bloodshed, murder and death, there was hope to be found in one word: Amen. Perhaps the heart can rescue us. Yitgadal v’yitkadash. Magnified and sanctified is God’s name. Amen. There is hope in one word. There is hope in friends. The second life begins when you realize you only have one.
The prophet Ezekiel lived through extraordinarily tumultuous times. He witnessed the destruction of the Temple and much of Jerusalem by the Babylonians in the sixth century BCE. He lived in exile and looked to the land of Israel from afar. His initial prophecies fill his contemporaries with vivid images and stern warnings. Later he preaches of a restored and renewed Israel. He proclaims: “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit into you: I will remove the heart of stone from your body and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 36:26) Perhaps he is still right. This is what is required. Lev hadash, a new heart, a heart not hardened by ideology and not closed to the pain of others, a heart that is no different than our neighbors. A new heart. Yitgadal v’yitkadash. Magnified and sanctified may God’s name be. Amen v’amen.
Reeh, Friends and Enemies
In the traditional haggadah we read the following prayer when opening the door for Elijah: “Pour out your fury on the nations that do not know you, upon the kingdoms that do not invoke your name, for they have devoured Jacob and desolated his home. Pour out your wrath on them; may your blazing anger overtake them. Pursue them in wrath and destroy them from under the heavens of Adonai!”
Added to the haggadah during the murderous Crusades, these words seem out of step with our modern, universal values. Even though we are sympathetic to the origins of this prayer, our liberal haggadahs have deleted it from our Seders. We speak instead about the messianic peace that Elijah will announce rather than the vengeance he might exact.
This week’s portion echoes these sentiments and begins with a similar refrain. Here it is not a prayer but a command. “You must destroy all the sites at which the nations you are to dispossess worshipped their gods, whether on lofty mountains or on hills under any luxuriant tree. Tear down their altars, smash their pillars, put their sacred posts to the fire, and cut down the images of their gods, obliterating their name from that site.” (Deuteronomy 12:2-3)
Again this appears contrary to everything we believe. Destroying non-believers and their places of worship contradicts everything we hold dear. How is this any different from the hate filled words of the Hamas’ charter or the savagery of ISIS? How are our Torah’s words different from those who read their tradition’s words as a mandate to murder and destroy?
And yet we live in a time when suggesting we have no enemies is equally problematic. Thus we are trapped between those who are unable to name our real enemies and those who see enemies everywhere and anywhere. A.B. Yehoshua, a leading Israeli novelist, recently argued that this is in fact the crucial dilemma facing Israel. The failure to call Hamas an enemy rather than a terrorist state prevents Israel from confronting Hamas and its rockets and tunnels. The fight against terror is never ending. Confronting an enemy by contrast offers two clear options: negotiations or war.
Yehoshua writes: “Let us not forget: The Palestinians in Gaza are our permanent neighbors, and we are theirs. We will never halt the bloody destruction by talking of ‘terror.’ It will require negotiation, or a war against a legitimate ‘enemy.’" (“Israel Needs to Stop Calling Hamas a Terrorist Organization,” The New Republic, August 13, 2014)
Terrorism is a tactic. And the so-called war on terror is an unhelpful euphemism that avoids the challenge of naming our enemies. Only by naming our enemies can we truly confront today’s struggles.
Our times need not be so confusing. Those who wish to destroy us and proclaim it in such unmistakable terms, those who revile the pluralism for which this country stands, are most certainly our enemies. We must not be afraid to say such words. Our world has real enemies. Does that make such prayers legitimate? Does that make such commands meaningful? I recoil from these words. Better perhaps that we should pray for peace rather than seeking vengeance. Still we must remain forever on guard and vigilant.
We must also work to be sure that those with whom we have honest disagreements remain friends. We dare not confuse friend with enemy. Articulating a vision of pluralism and an acceptance of different worldviews is paramount. Let us be clear. When others advocate for our destruction they name themselves as our enemies. We must remain unafraid of saying so in clear and unmistakable terms. We must avoid euphemisms that confuse the moral challenge.
We pray: “May God, who blessed our forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, bless the soldiers of the Israel Defense Forces, who stand guard over our land and the cities of our God, from the border of Lebanon to the desert of Egypt, and from the Great Sea to the Aravah, on land, in the air, and on the sea. May the Lord cause the enemies who rise up against us to be struck down before them. May the Holy Blessed One preserve and rescue our soldiers from every trouble and distress and from every plague and illness, and may God send blessing and success in their every endeavor….” (Prayer for the Welfare of Israel Defense Forces Soldiers)
Pray for peace. Remain vigilant. Fight against our enemies when they rise up against us.
Remain clear-sighted. Know who is an enemy. Remember who is a friend.
Added to the haggadah during the murderous Crusades, these words seem out of step with our modern, universal values. Even though we are sympathetic to the origins of this prayer, our liberal haggadahs have deleted it from our Seders. We speak instead about the messianic peace that Elijah will announce rather than the vengeance he might exact.
This week’s portion echoes these sentiments and begins with a similar refrain. Here it is not a prayer but a command. “You must destroy all the sites at which the nations you are to dispossess worshipped their gods, whether on lofty mountains or on hills under any luxuriant tree. Tear down their altars, smash their pillars, put their sacred posts to the fire, and cut down the images of their gods, obliterating their name from that site.” (Deuteronomy 12:2-3)
Again this appears contrary to everything we believe. Destroying non-believers and their places of worship contradicts everything we hold dear. How is this any different from the hate filled words of the Hamas’ charter or the savagery of ISIS? How are our Torah’s words different from those who read their tradition’s words as a mandate to murder and destroy?
And yet we live in a time when suggesting we have no enemies is equally problematic. Thus we are trapped between those who are unable to name our real enemies and those who see enemies everywhere and anywhere. A.B. Yehoshua, a leading Israeli novelist, recently argued that this is in fact the crucial dilemma facing Israel. The failure to call Hamas an enemy rather than a terrorist state prevents Israel from confronting Hamas and its rockets and tunnels. The fight against terror is never ending. Confronting an enemy by contrast offers two clear options: negotiations or war.
Yehoshua writes: “Let us not forget: The Palestinians in Gaza are our permanent neighbors, and we are theirs. We will never halt the bloody destruction by talking of ‘terror.’ It will require negotiation, or a war against a legitimate ‘enemy.’" (“Israel Needs to Stop Calling Hamas a Terrorist Organization,” The New Republic, August 13, 2014)
Terrorism is a tactic. And the so-called war on terror is an unhelpful euphemism that avoids the challenge of naming our enemies. Only by naming our enemies can we truly confront today’s struggles.
Our times need not be so confusing. Those who wish to destroy us and proclaim it in such unmistakable terms, those who revile the pluralism for which this country stands, are most certainly our enemies. We must not be afraid to say such words. Our world has real enemies. Does that make such prayers legitimate? Does that make such commands meaningful? I recoil from these words. Better perhaps that we should pray for peace rather than seeking vengeance. Still we must remain forever on guard and vigilant.
We must also work to be sure that those with whom we have honest disagreements remain friends. We dare not confuse friend with enemy. Articulating a vision of pluralism and an acceptance of different worldviews is paramount. Let us be clear. When others advocate for our destruction they name themselves as our enemies. We must remain unafraid of saying so in clear and unmistakable terms. We must avoid euphemisms that confuse the moral challenge.
We pray: “May God, who blessed our forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, bless the soldiers of the Israel Defense Forces, who stand guard over our land and the cities of our God, from the border of Lebanon to the desert of Egypt, and from the Great Sea to the Aravah, on land, in the air, and on the sea. May the Lord cause the enemies who rise up against us to be struck down before them. May the Holy Blessed One preserve and rescue our soldiers from every trouble and distress and from every plague and illness, and may God send blessing and success in their every endeavor….” (Prayer for the Welfare of Israel Defense Forces Soldiers)
Pray for peace. Remain vigilant. Fight against our enemies when they rise up against us.
Remain clear-sighted. Know who is an enemy. Remember who is a friend.
The Geneva Deal, History and Fear
Years ago, when studying in Jerusalem, my friends and I hailed a cab and jumped in. One of my companions is blind and was accompanied by his seeing eye dog, a trusted and caring German Shepherd. The driver became agitated. He refused to allow the dog in the car. We grew defensive of our friend. Our indignation soared, "How dare you discriminate!" But our friend understood. The driver was a Holocaust survivor and in his mind, and heart, such dogs were trained for another purpose. He grew increasingly terrified. It took a great deal of coaxing but eventually my ever calm and wise friend persevered. Although blind he sees and understands far more than most. He immediately saw and understood the fear. Perhaps that was all the driver needed: understanding and acknowledgment of his fear, a recognition that despite the fact that it was now over sixty years later, his fears are still real.
I thought of this experience as I begin to analyze the recent agreement brokered with Iran over its nuclear ambitions. President Obama does not appear to understand Israeli (and for that matter, Jewish) fears.
Yossi Klein Halevi remarked in an article, "Israel's Freakout, Explained":
Still I wonder about Prime Minister Netanyahu's insistence that any deal with Iran is akin to Chamberlain's accord with Nazi Germany. If we insist on this comparison there can only be one resolution to today's conflict. History can, and should, be a teacher. But today is not 1938. The past is but one lens. The future cannot necessarily be seen more clearly through the past. History is an imperfect prism.
Also writing in The New Republic, Ben Birnbaum, offers a different perspective, "The Iran Deal is Better Than Nothing--Even for Israel":
I want to remain hopeful. Yet I remain afraid. I take counsel from the prophet Isaiah, "Say to the anxious of heart, 'Be strong, fear not...' (Isaiah 35)
I reread his words. "Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, And the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped...."
I thought of this experience as I begin to analyze the recent agreement brokered with Iran over its nuclear ambitions. President Obama does not appear to understand Israeli (and for that matter, Jewish) fears.
Yossi Klein Halevi remarked in an article, "Israel's Freakout, Explained":
During the first Obama administration, the urgent Israeli question was: Is he is a friend of the Jewish state? That question was largely resolved for many Israelis during the President’s visit to Israel last March, when he won over much of the public by affirming the Jewish roots in the land of Israel and the indigenousness of Israel in the Middle East, as well as Israel’s past efforts to make peace.Israel lives, and thrives, in a terrifying neighborhood. It must remain forever vigilant. It must be strong and resolute. I have never known its fears. Yet they are part of my people's history.
Now, though, Israelis are asking this: After eight years of President Obama, will the Middle East be a safer or more dangerous region for Israel?
For most Israelis the answer is self-evident. The turning point came this summer, when Obama hesitated to enforce his own red line over Syria. That was the moment that he lost the trust of the Israeli public on Iran.
Still I wonder about Prime Minister Netanyahu's insistence that any deal with Iran is akin to Chamberlain's accord with Nazi Germany. If we insist on this comparison there can only be one resolution to today's conflict. History can, and should, be a teacher. But today is not 1938. The past is but one lens. The future cannot necessarily be seen more clearly through the past. History is an imperfect prism.
Also writing in The New Republic, Ben Birnbaum, offers a different perspective, "The Iran Deal is Better Than Nothing--Even for Israel":
Another top Israeli security figure recently noted to me that if the deal taking shape in Geneva were to forestall a nuclear-armed Iran for a couple of years, it would be almost as effective as an Israeli military strike—with none of the consequences, of course. Compared to the current situation, the Geneva deal does not clear that bar. But compared to where the Iranian program would be six months from now without a deal, it could come close.Make no mistake. Iran continues to agitate for Israel's destruction. Fear grows in my heart. We must remain wary of Iranian promises and even suspect of their intentions. Does that mean though that every effort to reach an accord is doomed? Can a compromise with our enemies buy us a measure of security?
I want to remain hopeful. Yet I remain afraid. I take counsel from the prophet Isaiah, "Say to the anxious of heart, 'Be strong, fear not...' (Isaiah 35)
I reread his words. "Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, And the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped...."
History is an imperfect lens. Yet I draw faith from its waters.
And the ransomed of the Lord shall return,Sorrow and sighing flee. Fear and trembling banished from our hearts. And the land might rest secure.
And come with shouting to Zion,
Crowned with joy everlasting.
They shall attain joy and gladness,
While sorrow and sighing flee.