We Can't Breathe

A story:

Shmuel Yankel Isserles was prepared to emigrate to America.  His nephew, Mordy, was much more worldly, and coached Shmuel Yankel on the things he would need to know when he arrived on the shores of the Goldene Medine.  They had determined that Shmuel Yankel would Anglicize his name and become Sam Israel, and so Mordy had carefully instructed his uncle, “When the clerk says, ‘Name?’, you will reply, ‘Sam Israel.’”
 Throughout the week of the steamship voyage, Shmuel Yankel rehearsed the exchange in his head.  But as the passengers disembarked, he grew flustered at the enormity of the crowd and the ensuing chaos.  And so it was that when the clerk asked him his name, he found that he had completely forgotten what to say.  Thus, Shmuel Yankel Issereles began his life in this country as “Sean Ferguson.”

 To understand the joke, you need to understand that in Yiddish, the phrase for "I've forgotten" is "shon fergessen," which, of course, sounds much like "Sean Ferguson."

These past few weeks, I’ve been thinking about that little joke (told in a slightly different form in The Big Book of Jewish Humor, edited by William Novak and Moshe Waldoks).  With the failure of the grand jury in Ferguson, Missouri, to hand down an indictment in the death of Michael Brown, the country is once again polarized around the issue of race.  And we all run the risk of being Sean Fergusons…we all run the risk of forgetting what Ferguson, or Staten Island,  or any of the other racially tinged cases that continue to make news around our country, really mean.

There's a Hebrew phrase that comes to mind when I think about such issues: Noge'a ba-davar.  Literally, it means "touched by the matter," but colloquially it's usually used to state that one is not impartial when it comes to an issue.  One might say, "I think my children are the most brilliant and beautiful in the world, but I am noge'a ba-davar," or, "I can't offer an opinion on this argument between my friend and my spouse, because I am noge'a ba-davar."  I think the phrase also applies to us as Americans.  When black people are dying at a far greater rate than whites, when different standards of justice are applied for a person with dark skin than for a person with light skin, our nation has a race problem.  And we are all culpable.  We are all noge'a ba-davar.

As a Jewish man, it's part of my upbringing (or even part of my innate makeup) to be hyper-vigilant against acts that discriminate against someone on the basis of race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, etc.  After all, at multiple junctures in our people's history, there have been those who have feared us because of our differences, and who have sought to destroy us.  Having felt the sting of persecution, how can we sit idle as our neighbors bleed?

And yet our Jewish experience does not directly correlate to that of our African-American brothers and sisters.  With few exceptions, we as Jews do not bear external clues that proclaim our identity to others.  Though I have on occasion been subject to epithets or other injustices, no one has ever crossed the street to get away from me, or refused to board an elevator with me, or made assumptions about my motives when I walk into a store, simply because of my religious identity.  But our friends and neighbors of color face such indignities as part of their daily reality.  And since we are all noge'a ba-davar, we must stand in solidarity with them to ensure that this reality changes.

Since the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner and Tamir Rice came at the hands of police officers, many have expressed a growing distrust in law enforcement personnel.  While that sentiment is understandable as we grieve over such losses, I believe it is wrong.  There are many compassionate men and women working under very stressful conditions to ensure the public safety.  At the end of the day, they are still human, relying on split-second instincts to help them determine whether an individual is a threat.  And like all humans, at times their judgment will fail them, and they will be wrong.  Some may act in a manner that is willfully malicious; others will make mistakes in the pressure of the moment.  Certainly there are reasons to seek improved training, and to advocate for reforms of our justice system.  But to paint every officer of the law as inherently biased or unjust is narrow-minded and unfair.  Rather, I believe that we must work together within our communities to create an atmosphere of love AND justice for all.

In this week's Torah portion, VaYeshev, we find the interesting tale of Judah and his daughter-in-law Tamar.   If you're interested in the full story, you can read it in Genesis 38, or here.  Tamar finds that she must resort to trickery in order to make Judah grant her what is rightfully hers.  When she proves her claim in court, Judah is left to admit, tzadkah mimeni, "She is more righteous than me."

But what works in the Torah does not always work in real life.  For no one of us is more righteous, more deserving of justice and liberty than another.  Until we make that realization and until we each embody that principle in each and every one of our interactions with one another, true justice cannot be served.

We can't breathe.  Our brothers and sisters, our neighbors and friends cannot breathe.  And we are all noge'a ba-davar.  It is incumbent upon us to demand change.

This Land Was Made for You and Me

I was born late in 1970; I missed the heyday of the folk music movement in this country.  But the genre has always been one of my favorites,  Influenced in part by my parents' musical tastes, I grew up listening to Pater, Paul, and Mary; the Weavers; the Chad Mitchell Trio; and other giants of folk music.  While all of these acts made seminal contributions to the field, perhaps the dean of them all was Pete Seeger, who died last week at the age of 94.

Seeger, like so many of the other voices of his era, identified and spoke to the changing zeitgeist of America: the longing of a generation steeped in the civil rights movement and the anti-Vietnam movement; a longing for peace, justice, equality, and brotherhood.  It's no wonder that if you examine the early songbooks from NFTY (the Reform Jewish youth movement) or UAHC (now URJ) camps, you'll find songs like "Follow the Drinking Gourd," "If I Had a Hammer," "Blowing in the Wind," and "Tom Dooley" almost as frequently as you will find Hebrew songs.  They were a natural part of that time period.

But the folk songs continue to be part of the Jewish canon up to this day, and I think that speaks to certain specific aspects of the Jewish experience.  I remember, for instance, attending rallies in the mid-1980s in support of Soviet Jewish refuseniks, and later in support of Ethiopian Jews.  At one, Mary Travers (of Peter, Paul and Mary), led the crowd in "Blowing in the Wind;" at another, Peter Yarrow (of the same group) introduced his anthem "Light One Candle."  We were able to co-opt these lyrics and melodies to fit the causes and passions of the day.  Their messages were universal, as was the conceit that kol Yisrael arevim zeh ba-zeh, all Jews are responsible for one another.

This Shabbat, we read from Parashat Tetzaveh.  Among other details, it describes the priestly vestments to be worn by Aaron and his sons.  These include a breastplate with twelve precious stones (each stone representing a different tribe of Israel) and a frontlet to be worn on the forehead that would read "kodesh la'Adonai- holy to Adonai."  Now, some might argue that these articles of clothing served to create a caste system, to separate the priests from the rest of the Israelites and mark them as "holier-than-thou."  But I think that these clothes actually drew the priests closer to their fellow citizens.

Think about it: the clothes (at least, the headband) would mainly be seen by the people as they drew near to the priests to offer sacrifices, not by the priests themselves.  The people could look at these garments and not only be moved to reflect on the status of the priests, but they could also gaze upon the stones and read the inscription on the frontlet and think, "I, too, am holy to Adonai."  And at the beginning and end of the day, as Aaron and his sons put on or removed these garments, they could reflect upon their meaning, asking themselves, "Did we do our best to serve the people represented by these stones?  Did we act in a way that amplified our holiness before Adonai?"

There's been some controversy stirred up in recent days by an advertisement that Coca-Cola ran during the Super Bowl this year.  It features a montage of a diverse group of Americans while the song "America the Beautiful" is sung in a number of different languages (and, of course, copious amounts of Coke products are being enjoyed).

Some people objected to the idea of this tune being broadcast in a language other than English, and/or to the depiction of Jews, Muslims, gays, or immigrants as valid contributors to the fabric of America.  But I think the message of the commercial (besides selling Coke) is similar to that of another classic Coke commercial from 1971:

That ad, also showing that we can come together as a multi-national, multi-ethnic community (and enjoy a Coke while we do so), echoes the sentiment of our Torah portion: all of us contribute to the well-being of our society, all of us are holy to, and beloved by, Adonai.  And that in turn echoes a little ditty that is perhaps one of the most well-known songs of the folk era.  The words and music are originally by Woody Guthrie, but they were popularized by many other giants of the genre, including Pete Seeger.

May we each come to recognize the holiness in ourselves and in one another.  May we come to celebrate the fact that this land, and indeed our whole world, was made for you, for me, for everyone.

A Tribe I Don't Want to be a Part Of

Remember "Members Only" jackets?  In the 1980s, they were all the rage, perhaps because of the aura of exclusivity connoted by the brand name.  We often covet that which seems off-limits or forbidden to us.


Maybe that's the explanation for the dismayingly out-of-touch decision announced recently by the Boy Scouts of America (BSA) to continue denying membership and leadership positions to LGBTQ individuals.  Maybe the leadership of BSA feels that this exclusionary policy will position them as an elite organization and lead to a dramatic increase in people seeking to affiliate with local troops and dens.


I wish I could believe that were true.  Instead, I think that the BSA is being ensnared by the bull-headed bigotry of some individuals in its leadership, and thus are missing opportunities to embrace and train a whole cadre of future leaders with excellent potential.  The BSA reaffirmed its position (which has been in place since 2004) after a closed-door two year "policy review."  In spite of the fact that a number of board members have publicly repudiated the policy, the review panel chose to maintain the status quo within the BSA.


I think that the skill set that young men derive from being part of the boy scouts is laudable.  I have had the honor of serving as an advisor to young men seeking their "Aleph" and "Ner Tamid" badges (two of the Jewish emblems available to scouts).  I have written letters of recommendation for individuals who are applying to be Eagle Scouts.  I admire the leadership, responsibility, community service, and character that these candidates embody.  I don't condemn the boys who choose to involve themselves in scouting.  I don't even condemn the institution of scouting.  Rather, I condemn the leadership of the movement that continues to believe that "homosexual conduct is inconsistent with the obligations in the Scout Oath and Scout Law to be morally straight and clean in thought, word, and deed."

The Scout Oath states, "On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight."  The Scout Law, in turn, states, "A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent."  I know gay people who could very ably uphold all those tenets, just as I know many heterosexuals that would not fit that bill.  Sexual orientation provides absolutely no litmus test for the content of one's character. 


The rabbis of the Mishnah spent quite a bit of time trying to define what exactly it was that determined an individual's moral makeup.  Simon Ben Zoma, a second century sage, taught, "Who is wise? One who learns from every person...Who is honored? One who honors others."  Perhaps if we could learn from such precepts; perhaps if we could stop fearing those who might be different from ourselves; perhaps if we could learn to honor all of humanity, then the world would be a better place.


This Shabbat, we conclude the reading of Bamidbar with the double portion Matot-Masei.  In it, we get some insight into the workings of the Israelite tribes.  Rarely, if ever, were the twelve tribes of Israel completely united in peace and harmony.  More often than not, they were a loose confederation, unified by some sense of historical kinship and the memory of a shared exodus experience.  So, when the tribes of Reuben and Gad (and half of the tribe of Manasseh) see desirable, arable land on the east side of the Jordan, they petition for the right to settle there, rather than cross into Canaan.


Moses is understandably upset by this request.  In essence he says, "This is not the kind of Israelite community I want to be a part of: one in which brother abandons brother in a quest for personal gain and comfort."  His scolding comes with negotiation, and in the end the two-and-a-half tribes agree to enter Canaan alongside their fellow Israelites, helping to secure the land for them before returning to their desired homesteads.


I believe we are called to act in a similar manner when we face unjust situations such as the BSA decision.  We should say, "This is not the kind of society we want to live in: one based on bigotry, discrimination, and fear."  We should work to educate and advocate so that all may have the opportunity to participate fully in the institutions that contribute to the fabric of our nation.


To paraphrase the words of the old Gates of Prayer, we pray that the day may come when narrow-minded injustices "shall give way to integrity and goodness, when superstition shall no longer enslave the mind...O may all, created in Your image, become one in spirit and one in friendship."


Ken Y'hi Ratzon.  May this be Your will.