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.

Surely, God Was In This Place and I, I Did Not Know

I'm not the biggest of sports fans.  I don't mind watching sports, but I don't rabidly follow any team, and  I don't make a point of keeping up with players or statistics in the manner of a true fan.  But, when I was growing up in Miami, in an era before the Marlins or the Heat, one could not help but have some awareness of the Miami Dolphins.

The Dolphins came back on my radar screen recently when they made an unfortunate leap from the sports pages into national news.  Richie Incognito, a leader of Miami's offensive line, was accused of harassing his teammate, Jonathan Martin, an offensive tackle.  Apparently, the abuse was so upsetting to Martin that he took a leave of absence from the team to seek treatment for "emotional distress."  In recent days, recordings have surfaced showing that Incognito racially harassed and intimidated Martin. Incognito has been suspended from the team indefinitely, and will likely be cut.  There is some evidence that other players besides Martin were victims, and that coaches may have encouraged Incognito's actions.

Some sports fans will argue that Martin needs to "toughen up," that such "hazing" comes with the territory when one chooses to play professional sports.  I'd rather, though, that we called it what it is: bullying.  Bullying has no place in any setting, even among "tough men" who play football (refreshingly, this high school coach in Utah agrees).

Unfortunately, our patriarch Jacob was also a bit of a bully, at least in his younger years.  True to the etymology of his name (Ya'akov comes from the Hebrew word meaning "heel" and the pun works in Hebrew as well as in English) Jacob is indeed a "heel."  He fights with his twin brother Esau in the womb; he takes advantage of Esau's hunger and compels him to relinquish his birthright; he tricks his elderly father in order to secure the blessing that should have been reserved for the firstborn.

But in this week's Torah portion, Vayetze, Jacob comes to a crossroads, literally and figuratively.  Having fled his home, he finds himself in the desert.  He has his famous vision of "Jacob's Ladder," and when he awakes, he proclaims: אכן יש יי במקום הזה ואנכי לא ידעתי- Achen Yesh Adonai BaMakom HaZeh Va'Anochi Lo Yadati, Surely God was in this place, and I, I did not know.  The majesty of this apparition shakes Jacob out of his self-centeredness, and he is able to finally acknowledge that others around him have needs and feelings.  Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, in his book God Was in This Place & I, i Did Not Know, parses the meaning of the seemingly extraneous "I" that appears in the Hebrew through the lens of different rabbis from Jewish history.  Kushner cites the work of Rabbi Menachem Mendl of Kotzk to teach that until we let go of our own "I"- our ego- we cannot possibly make room for God.

In addition to the continuing unfolding of the story from the Dolphins' locker room, another story has more quietly made its way through the internet this week.  On the Q train in New York City, a young black man boarded the train, lay his head on the shoulder of the Orthodox Jewish man sitting next to him, and fell asleep.  When a fellow passenger offered to wake the man, the other man replied, "He must have had a long day; let him sleep.  We've all been there, right?"

The other passenger, moved by the sight, snapped a picture with his camera phone.  It made its way through various social media sites until someone finally identified the Orthodox Jew as Isaac Thiel.  Thiel's daughter was quoted as saying that this was not out of character for her father.  She noted, "Who [else] lets a random stranger sleep on his shoulder in germ-filled New York City?"

But, as some commenters have pointed out, perhaps this should not be such an out of the ordinary occurrence.  Perhaps we should be more willing to open up to others around us with compassion.  As Richard Renaldi discovered in his photos that I wrote about previously, sometimes all it takes is forcing ourselves to go beyond our comfort zones to recognize the humanity and innate value in others.  The Thiel story intrigued people because of the race and backgrounds of the two individuals, but it really could have been (and should have been!) any one of us.

When we learn to open our hearts and minds to others, then we can come to recognize, as Jacob did, that God is among us- and hopefully, we will know it.

There Are No Strangers Here, Only Friends Who Have Not Yet Met

Greetings, all.  It has been quite a while since I last posted.  I'm going to try to get more consistent with my posting.

I have, in the past few years, started giving my sermons in a fairly extemporaneous fashion.  I like the feeling of having a few notes, but otherwise "working without a net" and seeing where my mood takes me.  One difficulty with this style, however, is that if someone likes a particular message and asks me for a copy, I'm unable to oblige them.  So, I've gotten this idea of writing blog posts based on my sermon notes.  They may express the same ideas as my sermons, or they may veer off into completely different territory.  Hopefully the experiment will work...


The title above comes from a quote that has made its way around the internet.  As is the case with many  an internet quote, its exact provenance is unclear.  You will find a number of people who claim that it is from William Butler Yeats, but I've found no trustworthy corroboration of that attribution.  I first recall reading it on the wall of an Irish pub called Tommy Nevins in Evanston, Illinois (where I didn't personally find it to hold true, so I never returned...)  It reminds me of a lyric from the original Muppet Movie, in which Gonzo declares, "There's not a word yet/ for old friends who just met."

I've been thinking about the distinctions that we draw between friends, strangers, and family as I've studied this week's Torah portion, Parashat Toldot.  It tells the story of Isaac, Rebekah, and their two sons, Jacob and Esau.  From the moment of their gestation, we read, the boys are at odds with one another; once they are born, their parents only exacerbate matters by playing favorites.

Before the portion has concluded, familial relations will be strained.  Rebekah effectively disowns Esau, Esau swears to kill Jacob if he ever again lays eyes on him, and Jacob feels compelled to flee his home.  It's not exactly a picture of a functional family dynamic.

But sometimes, family is not comprised of those who are bound to us by blood or marriage; sometimes we construct family beyond those conventional confines.  We may have friends whom we embrace as our closest confidants, with whom we feel as comfortable (if not more comfortable) as with our biological family.

Photographer Richard Renaldi has begun a project he calls "Touching Strangers"(see more of the photographer's work here).  It is based on a simple concept: Renaldi stops strangers on the street and asks them to pose with one another as though they knew each other intimately.  At first, some of the subjects appear standoffish.  Eventually, the presence of Renaldi and his large-format camera helps to disarm them, and the images are a striking look at how we can interact with one another on a human level if we are willing to let down our guard.  I do not own or claim any rights to the images below, but I post them here for illustrative purposes:

 

These photos help to drive home for me that, truly, "There are no strangers here, only friends who have not yet met."  Whether Yeats said it or whether it's the fabrication of some anonymous blogger or bartender, the statement still resonates.

There is a rabbinic principle: sever panim yafot.  Most literally translated, it means "Put on a happy face."  But idiomatically, it can be taken to refer to the value of treating everyone with dignity and kindness.  When we work toward this goal, the sharp distinctions between friends and strangers begin to fade, and we better see ourselves as part of one human family.

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.

What's Plaguing You?

Ever since people got the idea of moving beyond the classic Maxwell House Haggadah to jazz up their sedarim in some manner, the question has been posed: "What are the plagues of modern society?"

Many have pondered this, and have come up with answers far more creative and eloquent than I might devise.  So I'm certainly not claiming to be breaking any new ground with this post.  In my opinion, though, one of the greatest plagues of the modern era is our inability to engage in civil discourse.  Whatever your political, religious, or social stripe, I think it is not hard to recognize that there are those in every camp who are so convinced that their manner of thinking represents the only conceivable truth that they are unwilling to permit any dialogue that might run counter to these beliefs.  Certainly it can be admirable to cling to one's convictions in the face of adversity, but our society was made great by the willingness of many in generations to accept a diversity of viewpoints, and to strive toward compromise.

Historian Doris Kearns Goodwin titled her biography of Abraham Lincoln Team of Rivals, based on the courageous decision of our 16th president to appoint those whom he had bested in the 1860 Republican primary to positions of prominence in his administration.  Edward Bates became Attorney General; William Seward became Secretary of State; and Salmon P. Chase became Secretary of the Treasury.  By seeking the counsel of his former opponents, Lincoln strove to overcome divisiveness and welcome the views of those who differed from him.  While an imperfect system, it certainly seems preferable to the gridlock driven by animosity that seems to be the rule of today.

It makes me think of the satirist Tom Lehrer, who sang of National Brotherhood Week, noting that "to hate all of the right folks is an old established rule."

One can go to Egypt today and not encounter blood, frogs, and the like.  Eventually, sanity was restored to that nation.  Similarly, one can hope that we can overcome this modern plague and restore harmony in our lives.