There is Nothing Holier than Embracing Life

We closed our synagogue last Wednesday. There will be no more prayers services until the coronavirus goes away.

In hindsight it was an easy decision to make. But at the time it was anything but.

I was part of multiple conference calls with other rabbis about whether or not synagogues will close. Many were extremely resistant to closing. Even those who closed their synagogues found it extremely painful to do so. This anguish is understandable. To close a synagogue feels like a betrayal of Jewish history. Jews have always taken pride in their resilience and determination in the face of crisis. Even in the worst of times Jews have surreptitiously gathered for prayers in hidden corners, quietly defying their persecutors. Just this past Rosh Hashanah, our synagogue used a remarkable shofar that was sounded in Auschwitz, and smuggled out during a death march. Even holding the shofar would have been a death sentence for anyone caught. Yet with enormous heroism and determination these people held prayers in the shadow of death. And now here I was, a Rabbi, canceling prayers and locking people out of the synagogue. What sort of Rabbi does that?

Retreating into one's home is not something we would ordinarily consider heroic. As one internet comic put it: "Your grandparents were called to war. You are being called to sit on your couch. You can do this.". But today, there can be nothing holier than social distancing, because life comes first.

We have closed our synagogue to protect the health of our members. But more than that, we have closed our synagogue to do our part in slowing the spread of this disease. Social distancing is not just a good prophylactic, it is an ethical imperative to help others. 

In Halakhah, preserving life is the most important commandment. Maimonides writes that it is the leaders of the community must be the first to violate Shabbat to save lives, and in the face of a danger to life, we treat Shabbat as an ordinary weekday. 

But the priority we give life in halakha is not simply a pragmatic concept; it is a profound Jewish value. We consider life to be sacred. Each morning we read a prayer, אלוקי נשמה, that says:

"My God, the soul that you placed within me is pure. You created it, You formed it, You breathed it into me, and You preserve it within me."

Life is a gift from God, and it is absolutely sacred. And it is this the reason why closing the synagogue is not just a concession to practicality, but an absolute imperative. And if closing a synagogue will protect life, we shall do so immediately. 

Some time in the future, we will return back to KJ. But I hope the lesson of this time remains with us well: that there is nothing holier than embracing life.

   

The Gathering Storm 3/15

The Coronavirus is coming.

A week ago we held to the illusion that with a few simple precautions we could continue to live our normal lives. Now we realize that quarantine is no longer the fate of the unfortunate few, but will probably be more or less the reality for everyone. As we huddle in our homes, the worries begin to pour out: How bad will this plague be? Will it touch someone close to me? How long will it last for?

It would be wonderful to make believe these questions don't exist; but denial is a luxury we can't afford in challenging times. Yet we are uncertain about almost everything. Vacillating predictions echo through our minds, and our hearts bounce between hope and worry.  And it is this constant change of outlook that creates a sense of anxiety.

Anxiety is not fear. Anxiety is the loss of our sense of control, because you don't know what the outcome will be. Uncertainty is more destabilizing than fear. There is an old rabbinic saying "there is no joy like the undoing of doubts"(אין שמחה כהתרת הספיקות), because anxiety only exists in the realm of doubt.

Anxiety is particularly difficult for contemporary man. One of the great illusions of modernity is that somehow we can overcome any obstacle that comes in our path. And modern man has done an incredible job of taming the cosmos. We have found a way to overcome disease after disease, we have created technology after technology which enhances life, and we seem to have a solution for almost everything. But now we have the Coronavirus, and, (for the time being), are out of solutions.

This is a profound challenge for a generation that has not faced any existential threats. The previous generation faced a Holocaust, a World War, and the struggles of immigration; and our generation has been the lucky inheritors of their success. We have never before dealt with anything like the Coronavirus, and we are anxious. And that anxiety actually undermines our own self identity; we realize we are no longer in complete control of our destiny. Two weeks ago we all saw ourselves as far more powerful and in control; now we recognize our own fragility.

But I am not writing this to be depressing or frightening. On the contrary, we will find that this crisis can inspire us. As Rav Soloveitchik reminds us, it is at this time of our own defeat that we find a new strength. We begin to recognize that even the vulnerable can make moral choices that are heroic. We can always love, we can always hope, and we can always dream. We may be facing a threat we don't fully understand, but one thing we do know for certain: the human soul is stronger than anything else.

This morning when I was saying the tachanun prayer my eyes were drawn to the first verse which is a quote from the book of Samuel:

וַיֹּ֧אמֶר דָּוִ֛ד אֶל־גָּ֖ד צַר־לִ֣י מְאֹ֑ד נִפְּלָה־נָּ֤א בְיַד־יְהוָה֙ כִּֽי־רַבִּ֣ים רחמו [רַֽחֲמָ֔יו] וּבְיַד־אָדָ֖ם אַל־אֶפֹּֽלָה׃

“David said to Gad, “I am in great distress. Let us fall into the hands of the LORD, for His compassion is great; and let me not fall into the hands of men.”

King David is a powerful king. But one day that power is taken away from him; and his only prayer is that he be left in the hands of God. There are days when we recognize that some things are out of our hands; our human hands are just too short to do the feats of God. And that is exactly the time when we need to reach deep into our souls for something more than brute physical power.

Anxious times require more love. Anxious times require more prayer. Anxious times require more hope. And that is where we must turn now.

I am deeply inspired right now by how many people have asked me how they can help. They want to know how they can help the vulnerable, they want to know how they can help their friends, they want to know how they can help their Rabbi.

Nothing gives me greater strength in these anxious times than the spirit of our community.

A Glimpse of the Future, Here in Synagogue Today A Sermon Given for Parshat Beshalach 2020

At a pidyon haben in 1982, Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik offered a dvar Torah that was later published under the title “The First Jewish Grandfather".

Rav Soloveitchik notes that in the Tanakh the Jews are only referred to as Beit Yaakov (The House of Jacob) or Beit Yisrael (the House of Israel), but never as Beit Avraham or Beit Yitzchak. The Rav wonders: why is it that Yaakov is the only patriarch given this distinction? Why is it that only Yaakov, rather than his father and grandfather, is seen as the foundation of the Jewish people?

Rav Soloveitchik makes a remarkable claim. He says that Jacob is given this distinction because he is the only one of the patriarchs who established a direct relationship with his grandchildren, when he meets with Ephraim and Mennasheh.

But why is that so important? Rav Soloveitchik explains that the greatest challenge to the future of Judaism is the possibility of a generation gap; and when a grandfather can connect to his young grandchild, that generation gap disappears. Yaakov found the secret of Jewish continuity, and for this reason the nation is named for him.

Worries about continuity are foundational to the Jewish worldview. We are reminded each day to teach the Torah to our children, and each year dramatically retell the Exodus story to our children. In medieval Europe, children were brought to synagogues and even Rabbis would sit with children on their lap. Rav Yitzchak of Vienna, in the Or Zarua (2:48), records a 13th century custom to have all the children go up and kiss the Torah after gelilah; this he says will inspire these children to connect to Torah for the rest of their lives.

The elders of the community have always carried the responsibility of reaching out to the younger generation. And this is the crux of Rav Soloveitchik's idea: the future of the Jewish people depends on our ability to bridge the generation gap.

This idea is particularly relevant this morning. We are honored to have with us the members of the Kesher minyan, our young people's minyan. The challenge for the rest of  us is how we will receive them.

Unfortunately it has happened too many times in this synagogue that a younger member is pushed from place to place, because it is someone else's “seat”.

It has happened too many times in the past that when children come to synagogue, the parents are shamed by others for bringing in children who might make noise.

But that needs to stop. And it needs to stop now.

Not just because it is rude. But because it actually undermines the Jewish future.

Our ability to survive, not just as a synagogue but as a people, depends on how we reach out to the next generation. When they come to synagogue are they welcomed? Are they given a seat? Do we receive the children that come to KJ with joy or with annoyance?

Today is a day to erase the generation gap and bring our tradition into the future.

To reach out to the next generation is not an annoyance, is not a nuisance, and is not even a hardship.

It is our responsibility.

And it is not just a responsibility, but a joy.

And it is not just a joy, but actually a miracle.

Let me explain. The Talmud in Sanhedrin (91a) makes a homiletical remark about the Song at the Sea. It notes that the first words of the song, “az yashir”, could be understood in the future tense, as if they are referring to a future song. The Talmud says that when Moses sang the Song at the Sea, he was also looking forward to the future Messianic redemption. I’d like to offer a homiletical  interpretation of my own to this Talmudic passage; perhaps when Moses sang the Song at the Sea, he was looking forward to every future song of redemption. And at those moments, we hear echoes of Az Yashir, and hear the sounds of triumph.

I just saw a moment of “az yashir”, right here on this bimah, just over a week ago. We just had the Ramaz Chagigat Siddur right here, the week of January 27th.

I told the parents at the siddur celebrations that it was particularly moving that the celebrations took place during the week in which the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz took place. To see Jewish children, our Jewish future, holding siddurim high 75 years later is nothing short of a miracle.

At the end of the week there was a particularly moving moment. At the last chagigat siddur, the entire first grade came up to this bimah to sing the prayer for the soldiers of Israel. I had tears in my eyes, but I was not the only one. Everybody in the audience had tears in their eyes.

We had tears in our eyes because it was an “az yashir” moment of redemption, when we all could catch a glimpse of the Jewish future. And that is what all of us are experiencing today, as the Kesher Minyan and their children are in the Main Sanctuary.

Right in front of us is the Jewish future; and that is a miracle. Please cherish it.

See Different and the Ramaz Story

See different.

This is not just a catchphrase, but a foundation of Jewish identity. Jews are called upon to see the individual, society, and our mission differently.

A perfect example of this is Moses. When God appoints him to liberate the Jews from Egypt, he refuses, and refuses again. He actually refuses God seven times.

Many wonder: how is it that Moses could refuse so many times? But in actuality, Moses is correct; he looks at his resume and recognizes that he is unqualified. Moses has been completely disconnected from the Jews since he was a little child, and he is at that moment married to foreign woman, and living in a foreign country. He is a shepherd, not a politician. Shepherding is a caring and nurturing profession, but a poor background for the realpolitik of confronting a powerful tyrant. And then of course Moses stutters, which makes him wonder how he can persuade anyone of his mission.

So if Moses is unqualified, why does God choose him? Perhaps the answer is that Moses is specifically chosen because of his weaknesses. Moses will have to see himself differently, to take on a different mindset to become a leader; and in doing so, he will teach an entire people, by his personal example, that they too can change themselves.

Carol Dweck, a professor of psychology Stanford University, has done groundbreaking research on how one's mindset determines a student's success. In her book “Mindset: The New Psychology of Success,” she explains that there are two types of mindsets, a “fixed mindset” and a “growth mindset.” With a fixed mindset, you look at yourself as “what you see is what you get.” People with fixed mindsets see failure as the end of the road, and something that indicates the limits of their abilities. A growth mindset is very different; instead, each person sees themselves as capable of constantly changing and getting better. For people with growth mindsets, failure is simply another challenge to be overcome.

God's challenge to Moses is that he needs to see himself differently. The most important aspect of a person’s abilities, the ability to grow, will never be found on their resume. Moses needs to believe in his ability to transform himself, and recognize that with enough effort, even a stuttering shepherd can become an eloquent teacher and statesman.

Once Moses has seen himself differently, he becomes the perfect role model for a nation that needs to see themselves differently. The Jews were at that point had been enslaved for 400 years. The entire world accepted slavery as the norm; but now they could see a different path, a path to freedom.

With this begins a revolution; and at Mt. Sinai, the Jews are taught to see differently again. They learn to say no to paganism, no to slavery, no to selfishness, and instead bring a vision of ethical monotheism into the world. And this revolution still continues, 3,300 years later.

In our community, we are privileged to have an institution that has always seen things differently. The Ramaz School has been revolutionary from its very beginning.

When Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik gave a lecture at KJ in 1972, he said that building a Jewish day school on the Upper East Side in the 1930s was nothing less than heroic. And it truly was.

The synagogue was in debt. The board didn't want to start a school because America was just coming out of the Great Depression. And more important, why would a family who had achieved sufficient success to move to the Upper East Side leave well respected educational institutions and send their children to a Yeshiva instead?

And yet Ramaz opened. And it grew. And it flourished.

And through the years Ramaz has always seen things differently, and it has trained its students to see differently. In 1958, two 15-year-old students changed Ramaz’s curriculum permanently. At the time, girls only studied Talmud through sophomore year of high school. In their junior and senior years, they were to take typing and home economics.  Vivian Eisenberg (Mann z”l) and classmate Shira Naiman insisted they could learn typing and home economics on their own and said they wanted to continue their Talmud study. They saw things differently, and because of that, things changed.

In the 1970’s and early 80’s, students at Ramaz didn’t just study from books; they would learn what Jewish responsibility was by going to protests. Led by Rabbi Haskel Lookstein, the struggle on behalf of Soviet Jewry became part of Ramaz's mission. To quote the words of Natan Sharansky: “demonstrations were part of the Ramaz curriculum.” And with a curriculum like that, you see things differently.

In 1982, a group of Ramaz students, including Andy Lassner, Josh Rochlin and Lenny Silverman, asked for permission to organize a Minyan for Shacharit outside the Russian Consulate. They were allowed to go with a teacher. The first day there were 21 students, and then the next day there were 33, and the next day there were 50. On the 24th day, the students were praying with Avital Sharansky, the police came and arrested 67 students and teachers from Ramaz, including Rabbi Lookstein. These arrests were covered on the news around the world, and brought powerful attention to the cause of Soviet Jewry. All of this because a handful of students decided to see different.

This tradition continues each and every day. Former Ramaz students spearhead Israel programs on college campus, launch fundraising drives, and stand on the front lines of Jewish history. When the Chasidic Jews of Jersey City and Monsey are under attack, it is Ramaz that organizes rallies against anti-Semitism, and brings Chanukah presents to the grieving community.

Ramaz has been part of the Jewish revolution for 83 years, because it has always seen things differently. Perhaps it can best be summed up by the words of the founder of Ramaz, Rabbi Joseph Lookstein. In an article from 1960 on “The Goal of Jewish Education” he concludes with the following words:

"A beautiful Midrash describes Abraham walking with his son Isaac towards Mount Moriah. There are other companions on this journey.  Abraham turns to them and asks, “What do you see?”  Their answer is, “We see nothing but wilderness.”  He then asks of Isaac, “What do you see?” And Isaac responds, “I see a beautiful mount with a cloud over it.”  It is at that moment that Abraham abandons his companions and, clasping his son’s hand, they walk together toward Moriah.

There are those who, when they reflect upon Jewish education, see in their pessimism only wilderness and desolation.  There are those who see the beautiful mount beckoning in its grandeur even though enveloped by clouds of hardship and difficulty.  It is with such as these that we can walk towards the educational Moriah of our hopes.”

Ramaz has always seen the beauty on the top of Mount Moriah, and has always, and will always, see different.

Where the Battle Against anti-Semitism Begins

This was in the Jerusalem Post this week - click here.

The distance from my synagogue on the Upper East side to the Jewish community of Jersey City is both 10 miles long and a culture gap wide. We both practice Orthodox Judaism, but our experiences of modernity are very different. In Jersey City, the Hasidic community teaches their children in Yiddish and they retain a centuries old style of traditional dress; while on the Upper East side, the children are prepared for Ivy League schools and dress in contemporary fashions. While there are certainly personal relationships between members of the two communities, they are somewhat uncommon, and usually based on business associations and family relationships. And if there is a chasm between our Orthodox community and that of the Hasidic Jews in Jersey City, the social and personal distance between the Hasidic community and those in non-Orthodox denominations is even larger.

Last week, after an anti-Semitic attack murdered four people in Jersey City, the distance became smaller. Violence against Hasidic Jews has been occurring for several years now; in New York City alone, there were over 30 violent attacks on Hasidim in the last year. But this has gone unnoticed, even by much of the leadership in the Jewish community. Part of this has to do with the uncomfortable fact that many of the perpetrators are African American, and these leaders worry that calling out extremists in the African American community will cause a rift between the Jewish and Black communities. But a large part of it has to do with the fact that Hasidic Jews are often ignored, even by their Jewish brethren. 

After the tragedy in Jersey City, it is impossible to ignore violence against Hasidim.  This attack killed a 24 year old Hassidic man, whose body was riddled with hundreds of bullets, a 32 year old mother who left three children orphaned, along with police officer who was a father of five, and a heroic Ecuadorian immigrant who in his last minutes saved another man's life before losing his own. Now, all segments of the Jewish community have begun to pay attention to attacks against Hasidic Jews.

Jewish solidarity has both its critics and admirers in the non-Jewish world. There are those who see it as a form of unnecessary clannishness, and this critique is often magnified into the conspiracy theories of anti-Semites. On the other hand there are those who admire a scattered, persecuted people who with great determination have always found a way to pull together.  However, for Jews solidarity is a foundation of our identity. Its roots are found in the Bible, where the Jewish people are referred to as the "Children of Israel", a metaphor that implies a familial relationship between all Jews. This sense of being a family writ large is described by the 12th century Rabbi, Moses Maimonides, as "The entire Jewish people, and all those who attach themselves to them, are as brothers...". Solidarity is part of Jewish identity.

This solidarity has varied at times. During the Holocaust, it was scandalous how little American Jews did to support the Jews of Europe. Decades later, the opposite occurred: American Jews stepped up forcefully to take the lead of the Soviet Jewry movement.  In recent years the pendulum has swung back again, and there seems to be more disagreement than unity in the Jewish community, particularly when anti-semitism involves partisan politics.

But a crisis makes solidarity easy. As George Elliot, at the end of The Mill on the Floss, notes: “What quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity…?” The shared challenges of Jewish History have forged within Jews a profound sense of mutual responsibility; and after three murderous attacks on American Jewish institutions in 13 months, the Jewish community is once again recognizing the importance of solidarity. 

It is clear that this resurgence of anti-Semitism is with us for the long term, and it will demand us to fight it each step of the way. It is not a simple fight, because contemporary anti-Semitism arises in many different ideologies, from extremists inspired by white nationalism, anti-Zionism, Islamic fundamentalism and Black nationalism. But before mobilizing against anti-Semitism, the Jewish community must first mobilize itself for unity.

Up until now, many of the Jewish responses to anti-Semitism have been colored by politics. The partisan divide between Republicans and Democrats has dramatically affected the way the Jewish community talks about anti-Semitism. After the attack at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, some of the earliest op-eds in Jewish newspapers were devoted to spinning the tragedy in a partisan fashion. Instead of worrying about the threat of anti-Semitism, too many Jewish Republicans and Democrats worried first  about their own political affiliations.

Now that seems to be changing. Slowly, the Jewish community has turned to support the Hasidic Jews in Jersey City. Jews, whatever their political affiliation, have recognized that they need to put the fight against all types of anti-Semitism first. And this is critical; before going to battle against anti-Semitism, the Jewish community must unify itself, and not allow sectarian divisions to undermine their efforts. 

A few days after this attack, a group of adults and students from my congregation, and from the Ramaz School on the Upper East Side went to visit their counterparts in Jersey City and brought them Hanukkah gifts. These two sets of Jewish students would never have met had it not been for this tragedy. Now they were coming together as brothers, recognizing a truth the Jewish people always have known: we cannot survive if we do not unite. 

This vision needs to be adopted by the entire Jewish community. Before we can fight against anti-Semitism, we need to recognize that the battle begins at home, in bringing our community together first.

The Universalism of Jewish Particularism

The Universalism of Jewish Particularism

There is a Jewish tradition dating back to the Book of Jeremiah^[1] to pray on behalf of the local government. Today, most contemporary Siddurim contain a text known as Hanoten Teshuah, which is a prayer on behalf of the government.

One of the earliest records of this prayer^[2], in translation, is found in a 1655 pamphlet written by Mannaseh Ban Israel entitled To His Highnesse the Lord Protector of the Common-wealth of England, Scotland, and Ireland the humble addresses of Menasseh ben Israel, a divine, and doctor of physick, in behalfe of the Jewish nation. Jews had been expelled from England in 1290, and Menasseh Ben Israel wrote this pamphlet, addressed to Oliver Cromwell, to advocate for their return.  Concerned that the Expulsion from Spain 160 years earlier might imply that Jews had been disloyal to the Spanish crown, Menasseh ben Israel offers proof of Jewish patriotism by quoting the Hanoten Teshuah prayer in English translation. He added that every Jewish community prays for the local government, even before praying for their own community.

Manasseh is engaging in what is called apologetics, in this case a defense of the Jews against accusations hurled at them. Apologetics is one of the recurring themes in Jewish History; and in the modern era, a fair amount of Jewish apologetics have been about loyalty and patriotism.

One powerful example of apologetics is a pamphlet printed by the  Reichsbund jüdischer Frontsoldaten, The Reich Federation of Jewish Front-Line Soldiers, in 1920, detailing the Jewish sacrifices for Germany.

“To the German mothers! 12,000 Jewish soldiers fell on the field of honor for the fatherland. Christian and Jewish heroes fought side by side and rest side by side in foreign land. 12,000 Jews were killed in action! Furious party hatred does not stop at the graves of the dead. German women, do not tolerate that a Jewish mother is scorned in her grief.”^[3]

Jews in Germany felt the pressure to prove themselves as patriots, and volunteered for front line duty in World War I in a far higher percentage than other Germans^[4]. Despite their sacrifices for Germany, anti-Semites accused them of disloyalty, and Jews had to write articles and books to prove their patriotism once again. This is not unique to Germany; for hundreds of years, Jews in the Western world have had to prove their patriotism in the public arena, and then respond to bigotry and ignorance with apologetics and advocacy.

However, the centuries of apologetics have inverted the Jewish self image. They have left behind a legacy in which Jews spend an inordinate time thinking about what other people want from us, rather than thinking about what we want for ourselves.

This inverted self-image can be seen in the over-emphasis of tikkun olam in the Jewish community. On college campuses and in other enclaves where universalism is valued more than patriotism, Jews now have to defend themselves against charges that they are too narrow and tribal. A tikkun olam theology offers the perfect apologetic argument against this accusation. Instead of being tribal, Jews are emissaries of kindness, out to serve and save the world. For a Jewish community that has marinated in 300 years of apologetics, this is just another pivot in making ourselves understood by the people around us. The problem is that the demands of a tikkun olam ideology can clash with Jewish identity itself.

An excellent example of this is a public debate between Rabbis Danny Gordis and Sharon Brous during Operation Pillar of Defense in 2012. On the surface, it was a highly nuanced disagreement; both agreed on the importance of supporting Israel, and both agreed that the humanity of the Palestinians must be respected. Yet they had a very emotional disagreement, because those nuances speak volumes.

Rabbi Brous, The spiritual leader Ikar in Los Angeles, wrote a congregational letter that said: I believe that the Israeli people, who have for years endured rocket attacks targeting innocents and designed to create terror, instability and havoc, have the right and the obligation to defend themselves. I also believe that the Palestinian people, both in Gaza and the West Bank, have suffered terribly and deserve to live full and dignified lives…. supporting Israel’s right to protect and defend itself does not diminish the reality that the Palestinian people are also children of God, whose suffering is real and undeniable.

Rabbi Danny Gordis of the Shalom center in Jerusalem blogged a furious response to Rabbi Brous’ letter, in which he wrote:

Universalism, Cynthia Ozick once noted, has become the particularism of the Jews. Increasingly, our most fundamental belief about ourselves is that we dare not care about ourselves any more than we can about others. Noble Jews have moved beyond difference…..What I wanted to hear was that Rabbi Brous cares about my boys (for whom she actually babysat when we were all much younger) more than she cares about the children of terrorists. Especially this week, I wanted her to tell her community to love my family and my neighbors more than they love the people who elected Hamas and who celebrate each time a suicide bomber kills Jews. Is that really too much to ask?

It is no secret that on this question my sympathies are with Gordis. Indeed, if your children got into a car crash with a drunk driver, would you run between the two hospital rooms to see how everyone in both cars were doing? There is a hierarchy of responsibilities, and there are times when you must focus on your family, and only on your family.

But this does not mean that we should lightly dismiss Brous’ concerns. The message of universalism is deeply embedded in the Torah. Even at the Passover Seder, we pour drops of wine during the list of the plagues, to show sadness over the deaths of our enemies.

This universalism begins in the first chapter of the Torah, when the world was created without Jews. God created Adam and Eve, and from there, the world is meant to evolve into a universal society. (The prophetic visions of the Messianic era are also universalistic.)  And even after rejecting humanity during the flood, the world is once again restarted as a single society, with the family of Noah.

But then comes God's third attempt to recreate humanity; and this time he leaves the rest of humanity in place, but chooses Abraham alone.

Abraham is tasked by God with creating a new nation, and this new nation will demand intense patriotism and solidarity. This choice is puzzling. Doesn’t God love all of humanity? And if Abraham's descendants create a singular and segregated national identity, how are they going to change the rest of the world?

For contemporary readers, God’s choice to fix the world with a chosen nation sounds counterintuitive. Tribalism is seen not just as spiritually inferior, but actually as a cause of conflict. The assumption is that every group that organizes into a strongly connected “us”, will always stand in opposition to others who are “them”^[5]. Tribal solidarity is now viewed with suspicion, and too many Jews contort themselves to fit a universal narrative.

I would argue that Jewish solidarity is actually one of the better ways to improve the world. To turn Cynthia Ozick's phrase on its head, the Jewish approach is "the universalism of particularism".

The Bible tells us that Abraham's name represents the fact that he is an “Av Hamon Goyim”, the “father of a multitude of nations”. But who are the multitude of nations? The 13th century Spanish commentary of the Ramban^[6] says it is a reference to the Jewish people themselves. The Jewish people is not one unitary tribe; even in biblical times there were the 12 tribes of Israel. And those tribes didn't always get along with each other.

This reality remains throughout Jewish History. There are always multiple tribes, Jews from different countries with different ideologies. In our own neighborhood there are Jews from Syria, Poland, Hungary, Morocco, Ethiopia and Germany; and there are Conservative, Orthodox, Reform and unaffiliated Jews, each with a different ideology and culture.

What is remarkable is how Jews can still feel a sense of solidarity with each other, no matter how different they are. Throughout history the multiple Jewish tribes have banded together, despite the dramatic differences between themselves^[7].

This international coalition of Jewish tribes is a reminder that you don’t have to be alike to be a family. The mission of Abraham’s children is to create one nation out of many tribes, and build a model of what the world could be. This is superior to a universalism which seeks to embrace exotic foreigners, but finds it difficult to connect with unenlightened kinfolk in the same country. Truly universal love does not neglect those who are closest to you, no matter how much you disagree with them.

This is why particularism is the Jewish way to universalism.  First of all, because you are allowed to love your family more. But more importantly, learning how to embrace the various tribes of Israel is a perfect way to overcome tribalism.

The State of Israel represents not just the ingathering of Jews, but the ingathering of tribes from all over the world. While there is plenty of friction in Israel, what is remarkable is how these tribes have preserved this powerful sense of solidarity.

One story that I heard from Rabbi Sharon Shalom, (an Ethiopian Rabbi and author) illustrate this quite well. In the late 1970’s, Sharon fled with thousands of other members of the Beta Israel community to the Sudan. There, he was rescued as part of the Mossad’s “Operation Brothers”. The Mossad operated a beach resort called “Arus” as a front, and every few months would smuggle a group of Beta Israel children in middle of the night to the beach. There, they were taken by Israeli commandos to a waiting boat that transported them to the Sinai. Sharon remembers being hugged by a big Israeli commando, who carried him to the boat; and he remembers how the commando had tears in his eyes. Sharon was a young boy, and couldn't understand why the soldier would be crying. Now he understands.

But the story continues. A few years ago, he got a call from a member of the Mossad, who had been the commander of operation that took Sharon to Israel. The Mossad agent said that his daughter was getting married, and he wanted Sharon to be the rabbi at the wedding.

At the chuppah, everyone had a good cry; the Rabbi, the Mossad commander, and the bride and groom. These were the tears of a big family reunion, a reunion that brought together Jews from around the world.

These tears are transformative. They reflect a Jewish commitment to connect with other Jews, no matter how different and distant; and they are a model of how the entire world can transcend their own differences.

---

^[1] Jeremiah 29:7

^[2] See “Hanoten Teshua' The Origin of the Traditional Jewish Prayer for the Government”, by Barry Schwartz, Hebrew Union College Annual, Vol. 57 (1986), pp. 113-120

^[3] https://www.nypl.org/blog/2015/02/12/jews-and-wwi

^[4] Amos Elon, The Pity of It All: A Portrait of Jews In Germany 1743 – 1933, page 338

^[5] See Moral Tribes: Emotion, Reason, and the Gap Between Us and Them, by Joshua D. Greene, Penguin Publishing Group, 2013

^[6] Genesis 17:15

^[7] Yes, there has been more than enough division as well. But that actually proves the point; only a people deeply concerned about unity would constantly worry about divisions and infighting.

The Shofar from Auschwitz

This is a link to my article in the Washington Post. A longer piece is in the works.