The Sermon I Am Always Giving (i.e. Why Be Jewish):
This time in the context of a world that would rather we go into hiding
Last night, I spoke about antisemitism, a sermon I thought I would never have to give. I spoke about how it feels like we have come to the end of a Golden Age of North American Jewry; how we are justifiably anxious about the troubling instances and statistics surrounding the rise of antisemitism in Canada, and about how to begin answering the question of how we can be proactive about our reasonable concerns while also ensuring we don’t lose ourselves to the panicked responses of of inherited trauma and to the over-identification with 1930’s Germany, which is perhaps not yet as real as it seems.
Jacob L. Freedman, a psychiatrist who writes about Judaism and anxiety explains that, “the idea of remaining rational in times of distress and fear, is a very Jewish one indeed.”
On the one hand, this means that our anxieties are grounded in a very real history of genocide, persecution and othering. On the other hand, it means that we know how to survive such things. If there’s one thing Judaism teaches us, it is how to be resilient. We are survivors. But more than that, we are victors over a past that should have seen us wiped off the face of the earth centuries, if not millenia ago.
One of my all-time favorite quotes about Judaism, comes not from a famous Jewish philosopher, rabbi or author, but from Mark Twain, back in 1899, who penned a famous essay entitled, Concerning the Jews.
In it, he wrote these timeless and oft-quoted words:
The Egyptian, the Babylonian, and the Persion rose, filled the planet with sound and splendor, then faded to dream-stuff and passed away; The Greek and the Roman followed, and made a vast noise, and they are gone; other peoples have sprung up and held their torch high for a time, but it burned out, and they sit in twilight now, or have vanished. The Jew saw them all, beat them all, and is now what he always was, exhibiting no decadence, no infirmities of age, no weakening of his parts, no slowing of his energies, no dulling of his alert and aggressive mind. All things are mortal but the Jew; All other forces pass, but he remains.
What is the secret of his immortality?
I have thought a lot about this question over the years. Is the secret-sauce of the Jewish people merely that we’ve learned how to survive through difficult, impossible, horrific times? Or is there something more to it?
Jewish author Sarah Hurwitz explores a similar question in her book Here All Along: Finding Meaning, Spirituality, And a Deeper Connection to Life -- in Judaism (After Finally Choosing to Look There). Her book received much attention when it came out back in 2019. It has been described as, “a story of self-discovery” tracing her propulsion from something of a lapsed, passive Jew, to realizing the depths of this tradition that she had made light of for so long.”
In her second book, As a Jew: Reclaiming Our Story from Those Who Blame, Shame and Try to Erase Us, Hurwitz goes a lot deeper into, “what it means for Jews today to inherit that story more effectively from the past, and to be prepared to bequeath it more effectively to the future.”
Hurwitz’s central claim is that she had discovered, to use her words, that, “something was a fraud in terms of her Jewish identity,” As she writes, “I'd always thought my cultural, ethnic, social justice, be a good person, Holocaust remembrance identity was empowering. A reflection of how I was boldly charting my own freely chosen path as a modern Jew.”
On a recent podcast with the Shalom Hartman Institute’s Yehudah Kurtzer, Hurwitz expanded on this description.
“...for years as a young person . . . I would go around (putting) my Judaism into one of these five categories. I would say, oh, I'm Jewish, but I'm just a cultural Jew. And (there) are Jews who engage deeply with Jewish history, languages, literature, (and) art. . . (but) I knew zero about any of that. I more meant like I'm kind of anxious. . . I have an edgy sense of humor.
Or I said … social justice is my Judaism. And (there) are Jews who engage deeply with Judaism through the lens of social justice. And they know a great deal about what (Judaism) says. . . (but) I knew nothing about (that). I more meant like, I think we should help the poor, which is really kind of what everyone says.
Or I said … Judaism is about being a good person . . .But I didn't know what Judaism specifically said about being a good person. In a way, I was just sort of articulating my own opinions (and) attributing them to Judaism.
Or I said … I remember the Holocaust. I want to fight anti-Semitism. . . But being an anti-anti-Semite is a pretty thin version of being a Jew. . .
I really thought,” she concluded, “that all of this was me being a modern Jew. (That I was) choosing my own path forward, and (that I wasn’t) too Jewish. That's essentially what I was saying. I'm not like those really Jewy Jews.
But what if I was? Would that be a problem? And I think that (in) that constant caveating, apologizing, excusing, diminishing, I was trying to say, look, I'm just like you. . ."
Last night, I alluded to a story I was told by one of our new Am Shalom members about a Jewish family that goes to the same school as their child but who do not want to be known to be Jewish in the school community where they seem to be one of only two Jewish families. They’re afraid. They want to protect their child from antisemitism, and as we discussed last night, it’s hard to blame them, given the current Canadian statistics on antisemitic hate-crimes.
But I’d like us to consider that while they may have the best of intentions in protecting their child from emotional or physical harm, they may also be doing damage to their child’s sense of Jewish pride, as well as to their own.
Contrast this to a conversation that I had with one of our other new Am Shalom members (Welcome to all of our new members by the way!)
I asked her why she and her family chose to join Am Shalom and she spoke about how important it was for her to give her children the gift of Jewish community, knowing that in a small city, they would be unlikely to have many Jewish friends in their secular schools.
How beautiful! How fantastic for us at Am Shalom! We’ve done something right in creating a space where Jews can meaningfully connect with other Jews, where children can make Jewish friendships
that will hopefully last a lifetime.
(As an aside: I found myself writing this sermon while sitting in the library of my own childhood synagogue, Temple Har Zion, in Thornhill, where my own childhood best-friend is now their Executive Director. We met in Har Zion’s religious school when we were about 10, so I will be the first to confirm that joining a synagogue and ensuring that your children have a Jewish community to call their own, absolutely matters.)
But I want to nudge us, again, a little bit farther. Because believe it or not, joining a synagogue and showing up is not enough.
In the podcasted discussion between Sara Hurwitz and Yehuda Kurtzer, she goes on to talk about the perceived failures of Jewish education and the argument that, “Hebrew school is the problem”.
“Hebrew school is not the problem.” She says. “You cannot make a child Jewish in two hours a week …no matter how talented and brilliant (of an educator) you are. Parents make children Jewish,” she stated. (And I would add to that, GRANDPARENTS make children Jewish).
Hurwitz goes on to acknowledge how hard this is, because, in her words, “so many parents never became adult Jews. Like me”, she continues, “I had never gone beyond my childhood Hebrew school education. So I was stuck back in … probably second or third grade Jewishly. And if I had had children, I would have thought, I can't make these kids Jewish. (I’d) better outsource this to a Hebrew school teacher...”
I can definitely relate to what Hurwitz is describing. I’ve seen plenty of Jewish adults resign themselves to the pediatric Judaism of their childhoods, never making the effort to find out what Judaism might have to say to them as adults - about navigating the realities that we are protected from as children - political realities, global realities, financial realities - but Judaism has so much to teach us about all of these things, as well as about the various relationships we navigate as adults - with our parents, our children, our extended families, our lovers, our coworkers, our neighbours and friends.
Sara Hurwitz sums this up in her interview where she says, “actually, to be a Jew is to think very differently” For example, think about, “our approach to visiting the sick, and caring for mourners.” What Hurwitz is pointing at here, is Jewish values.
On one of his recent podcasts, my dear colleague, and someone you all know well, Rabbi Micah Streiffer, brings up Jewish values as part of his answer to the questions: “What do you do when the world seems to be going mad? When it feels like society is falling apart around you?”
Rabbi Streffer discusses this past week’s Torah portion, Nitzavim, Where Moses is sharing with the Israelites that at some point their society - the one they are about to build together in the Promised Land - will fall apart. Moses quickly reassures the Israelites however, sharing these words: Umal Adonai Elohecha et levavcha, “Then God will open up or circumcise your heart.”
Rabbi Streiffer notes that although all of society - the collective, as it were - has fallen apart, this description about opening up your heart, comes to the individual. This means, he teaches that, “our job is to open up our own heart to living a life of meaning and ethics. When society goes astray, one of the most powerful things that you can do is to stay true to your values. . .to focus on living your best values-based life, and making your voice heard, so that you can inspire others to live their best values-based life. . . . Umal adonai Elohecha et levavcha, God will help you open up your heart - lema'en chayecha, so that you may live.”
Rav Chaim Friedlander, in the 19th century, also teaches about the heart. He had a statement: the essence of an act of chesed (an act of kindness) is the heart that is put into the deed. In other words, it is not the deed itself - the mitzvah - that matters, so much as the heart that goes into it. As I heard another rabbinic colleague recently explain, “there (is a kind of) intentionality. I'm choosing to care about you. I'm choosing to bring my whole self to this (act of kindness).” I'm here when you call me. . . I’m not scrolling (on my phone). [I’m present.] I'm here.”
Judaism teaches us to open our hearts to one another; to show up for one another. We can’t do that if we’re in hiding. If we’re afraid to actively engage in the Jewish values-based living that Rabbi Streiffer is talking about.
Another Canadian rabbi, Rabbi Kliel Rose in Winnipeg, also recently spoke about how to live through difficult times on the Canadian Jewish News podcast, North Star Rabbi Rose came with a different perspective,
bringing forward a verse from Psalms: Ivedu at Hashem besimcha - Worship God in joy!
He said, “I think that [leaning into joy] is probably the best antidote to the fear that's rising and the anti-Semitism that we (are) seeing. . . People say to me, you walk around with your yarmulke on your head? I said, ‘what else would I do?’ I want to be out there and be proud.”
In the conversation between Sara Hurwitz and Yehudah Kurtzer, Kurtzer mentions a teaching from Maimonides about how a person who turns their back on their Jewish community should be exiled and excommunicated. It’s a harsh teaching, and an outdated one.
When I think about that family, the ones who are afraid to be out and proud about their Jewish identity because they are afraid for the safety of their child, I don’t think of them as turning their back on us. I don’t feel angry. I just feel sad.
I want to reach out to them and bring them through the doors of this special Jewish community and say:
Come and see - there is more to being Jewish than fear. And maybe you didn’t get a chance to learn when you were younger, so you think that the only thing you have to pass on to your children is a legacy of persecution and trauma. But it’s not so. Judaism can be so much more - for you, and for them!
It can teach them about life. About relationships. About love.
It can teach them about resilience and about resistance.
It can teach them about the values that ensure we will be good people,
It can open our hearts and remind us to take care of one another no matter what is happening around us.
Judaism can bring meaning and it can bring joy!
I want to say to that family:
I understand why you’re afraid. I’m afraid too.
But you don’t have to be afraid alone.
I don’t know if that family is here today. I suspect they are not. But I imagine that we all know a family or a person that feels similarly. Someone who is moving away from Judaism and Jewish community right now, instead of toward it - toward us. I wonder if you can help me carry this message to them:
Come. Join us. Be safe with us. Be joyful with us. Be proud with us.
Learn what Judaism has to offer beyond the pains of the past. And teach your children how to carry into the future the best of what our tradition has to offer.
In this new year, 5786, may this be what we keep at the forefront, a love of being Jewish and not a fear of being Jewish. Let us move though this year secure in the knowledge that Judaism can and does give us the tools we need to navigate life - in good times, and more importantly perhaps, in the most difficult of times.
Let us wear our Jewish stars prominently. Let us hold our heads high.
Let us show those who want to send us back into hiding that we have nothing to be ashamed of (come back on Kol Nidrei to hear more about that).
We are here, we are proud, we are Jewish. May it always be so.
Kein Yehi Ratzon.
