In 1944, Jewish poet Muriel Rukeyser wrote the
following poem,
“To be a Jew in the Twentieth Century”
To be a Jew in the twentieth century
Is to be offered a gift. If you refuse,
Wishing to be invisible, you choose
Death of the spirit, the stone insanity.
Accepting, take full life. Full agonies:
Your evening deep in labyrinthine blood
Of those who resist, fail, and resist; and God
Reduced to a hostage among hostages.
The gift is torment. Not alone
the still
Torture, isolation; or torture of the flesh.
That may come also. But the accepting wish,
The whole and fertile spirit as guarantee
For every human freedom, suffering to be free,
Daring to live for the impossible.
Daring to live for the impossible. That was an
existential concern for Jews in 1944. To dare to remain a Jew. In the past
century, what did our parents and grandparents choose? What was Muriel
Rukeyser’s choice?
If you don’t know about the poet Muriel
Rukeyser, you should. Rukeyser was an American journalist and
activist all her life. She was arrested while covering the trial of the
Scottsboro Boys in Alabama and witnessed the beginning of the Spanish Civil
War. She spoke out as a feminist and partnered with a woman long before it was
safe. She traveled to Hanoi with poet Denise Levertov on an unofficial peace
mission and was arrested in Washington D.C. while protesting the Vietnam War.
She wrote this poem as a Jewish response to fascism under Franco and under
Hitler.
But
Rukeyser, like most of us, was more complicated than that. Like many activist
Jews of her era, Rukeyser grew up without Jewish observance, as she put it “no stories, no songs, no special food.” Yet
her mother passed on a story to her as a child, a story that gave her a deep
connection to her heritage. Her mother claimed that she was a direct descendant
of one the greatest rabbis of the Talmud, Rabbi Akiba. Her mother described the
famous rabbi as a martyr who resisted the Romans
in the 1st century by teaching Torah publicly, knowing the penalty was death.
She described to her daughter how Akiba was tortured and how he died saying ‘I
know that I have loved God with all my heart and all my soul, and now I know
that I love God with all my life.’ This story shaped Rukeyser’s own
connections to Judaism for the rest of her life.
So here we are, all of us descendants or disciples of Rabbi
Akiba, and we ask ourselves, what does it mean to be a Jew in the 21st
century? Does the experience of being a Jew look different from being a Jew in
the 20st century?
Until a year or so ago, I would have enthusiastically
answered, yes, it does look different. We no longer need to choose to be
invisible. We can walk proudly as Jews in almost every corner of American life.
Yiddish words like schlemiel have entered the American vocabulary. Bagels are
no longer ethnic food. Jerry Seinfeld became a household representative of the
Jewish people: insightful, funny, a bit neurotic, and successful. Moreover, while
some of us have known anti-semitism personally, most of us in this room have never
felt persecuted as a Jew, never been victims of anti-semitic taunts, of
vandalism, of threats to our life and well-being.
But like so many other places where Jews have risen to
prominence: Spain, England, France, Germany, our position is always tentative. Like
so many before us, the Jews of America have safely accepted the illusion that
we can integrate ourselves seamlessly into American culture.
That is, until the dramatic rise in anti-semitic acts
immediately following the election. Until the vandalism in Jewish cemeteries
following the inauguration. Until the shattering of the Boston Holocaust
Memorial this summer. Until Charlottesville.
What changed at Charlottesville was that the
anti-semitism of the tiki-torch-bearers, the assault-rifle-toters, and the marchers
in riot-gear chanting hate slogans—the hatred—came out in the open. Not only
that, the police stood by and allowed it to happen. With the president’s unrepentant
acceptance of support from the Nazis and the KKK and other white-nationalist groups,
their actions appear to be state supported, if not explicitly state-sponsored.
The president’s own rhetoric has given permission for others to do and say what
until now, our government has not dared to do or say. This is what the ADL
refers to as “an unprecedented mainstreaming of hate and discrimination in our
communities.”
After Charlottesville, we have no choice but to
discuss anti-semitism. And to stand up to it wherever we find it.
It’s easy to decry the KKK and the Nazis. But what
happens when the hatred comes from someplace closer to home, from people we
consider allies?
Many of us were
heartbroken to hear earlier this summer about the Chicago Dyke March, an annual
Gay Pride event, where three Jewish women were asked to leave the March because they were carrying rainbow flags with Stars of
David. According to one of the women, they were shouted over, cursed at, interrogated, and ultimately forced
out by organizers. Later, March leaders issued a statement asserting that
the Chicago Dyke March was explicitly “anti-Zionist” and stated “Zionism is an
inherently white-supremacist ideology.”
Banning people for
carrying a Star of David flag is not anti-Zionist. It is anti-semitic. These
women were not there as spokespeople for Israel. They were Jewish lesbians who
had attended the march for years, who were told that by expressing their
identity as Jews, they were promoting a white-supremacist ideology.
No matter what our
views on Israel and Palestine, we need to pay attention to this painful story. When
we hear familiar anti-Semitic tropes, such as the claim that Jews are in
control, we need to be prepared to decry those attacks as vigorously as we
decry the alt-right. It is one thing to criticize a country, even Israel, if
you believe it is failing to live up to its human rights obligations. But as
Rabbi Jill Jacobs of T’ruah, The Rabbinic Voice for Human Rights, argues, “if you think Israel is the cause of all of the world's
problems, that Zionists are pulling strings everywhere, you're in anti-Semitism
territory.”
With anti-semitic rhetoric coming from the people we
thought were our allies as well as people we despise, we might indeed refuse the
gift, wishing to be invisible.
I want to share a story that illustrates this lose-lose
situation. It took place in a different time, in a small Tennessee town. I’ll tell
the story as recounted by the author years later, in 1968.
“As a result of state legislation, the local buses had
just been integrated. A city statute, however, sought to defy the state and
force Negroes to sit only in the rear of the buses. Testing segregation, a few
Negroes sat in the front of the bus and they were arrested. Someone put up the
required bail money and they were released.
“In the lobby of the whites-only hotel in that town,
this is what you could hear from more than one patron: ‘Don’t go to Cohen’s Department
Store. Cohen is the one who bailed them out.’ (Alas, Cohen was in the Bahamas
at the time and was not involved in any way.)
That same day, however, you could walk across the
street to Cohen’s Department Store and this is what you would have seen: Negro
pickets parading in front of the store with signs reading: ‘Don’t patronize
Cohen’s Department Store! Cohen’s has a segregated lunch counter.’”
This story came from activist Rabbi
Robert Marx. Founder of Chicago’s progressive Jewish Council
on Urban Affairs and a founding board member of Interfaith Worker Justice, Rabbi
Marx is still considered one of the most important leaders in strengthening
relations between the Jews and Blacks of Chicago for fifty years.
Obviously, we would claim that the picketers in front
of Cohen’s store had adequate cause to protest, while the patrons in the hotel
had none. As Marx described it, the two perspectives on Cohen's Department Store
provide an example of how Jews can be depicted as the enemy of both parties to
a social conflict. In telling the story Rabbi Marx wanted to point to the
subtle ways in which the Jewish community plays both sides in a conflict.
The story comes from his 1968 essay, “The People
in-between,” where Rabbi Marx offered a compelling
analysis of the Jewish condition. Just as the story demonstrates, Jews have
been the target of attacks from all sides throughout history, all of whom see
Jews as Other.
He explains, “The Jewish community was truly
interstitial, truly located between the parts of the social structure of
western societies. Neither a part of the masses nor of the power structure,
Jews were uniquely positioned so that they fulfilled certain vital yet
dispensable functions. They discovered that they were totally dispensable in
the society in which they lived…. Interstitiality… may open a path to the gas
chamber or it may lead to prophetic heights that enable the Jewish people to
rise above parochialism or nationalism.”
This vulnerable position of being somewhere in-between
the powerful and the powerless started with Joseph serving as Pharaoh’s viceroy
in Egypt, and continues even today. To join with the powerful can offer a
promise of protection, as Joseph was able to save his family from famine. But
when the powerful change, or simply change their minds, we are left more
vulnerable than before, subject to a king “who did not know Joseph.” That story
ended in the enslavement of Joseph’s descendants, only to be liberated by
another outsider, Moses, who was raised in the palace despite being a Hebrew. On
the other hand, to join with the powerless may appear to weaken us, but in the
end, such alliances strengthen all who are oppressed.
Just as the poet invites us to accept or refuse the
gift, in every age our ancestors have been forced to decide: Do we ally
ourselves with the powerful to gain protection for our people? Or do we ally
ourselves with the powerless so that together we become powerful?
Even though not all Jews are white, we have benefited
from white privilege in America, being lifted up the economic ladder while
people of color were kept down. Yet you and I know that we are not as powerful
as those who hate us believe. One of the characteristics of anti-semitism is the
belief that Jews have outsized power. As researcher and organizer Eric Ward has
said, “In oppression, identity is forced on you.” In his recent essay, “Skin
in the Game: How Anti-Semitism Animates White Nationalism,”
Ward describes how White nationalists see Jews today. Having studied White
nationalism for almost three decades, Ward tells us, “White nationalists argue
that Whites are a biologically defined people and that, once the White
revolutionary spirit awakens, they will take down the federal government,
remove people of color, and build a state … of their own.” He asserts that
“antisemitism forms the theoretical core of White nationalism.” Surprisingly,
Eric Ward claims, to White nationalists Jews are not white.
Ward tells us, “Jews function for today’s White
nationalists as they often have for anti-semites through the centuries: as the
demons stirring an otherwise changing and heterogeneous pot of lesser evils.” These
evils, he explains, include civil rights, gay rights, and women’s rights. In the
eyes of White nationalists, Jews are at the heart of a vast international
conspiracy, controlling “television, banking, entertainment, education, and
even Washington, D.C.” Furthermore, according to Ward, they believe that Jews
have brainwashed white people into giving up their own race consciousness by
supporting non-whites and other marginalized groups.
What has changed after Charlottesville is that white Jews
can no longer depend on our white privilege to protect us. While American Jews
have benefited from oppression of people of color, we are also the targets of oppression.
Understanding our place as the
in-between people, our fate depends on forming alliances with all targets of
oppression. Our oppression is linked inextricably to the oppression of people
of color in this country. And the marchers in Charlottesville made that link
explicit, along with the oppression of women, Muslims, and the LGBTQ community.
If we choose to deny that link, if we abandon our
common struggle for justice, then we are complicit in handing victory to those
who can only gain by dividing those they oppress.
Terrifying as the story of the Dyke March is, the threat
of anti-semitism from individuals on the left cannot be compared to the dangers
of institutional anti-semitism. As Robert Marx says, “anti-semitism on the part
of a minority group is not nearly as dangerous as when a majority group seizes
upon it as a way of maintaining power.
To be a Jew in the 21st century, we must speak
out against anti-semitism in all its forms, whether from friend or foe. When we
makes claims on our allies, we help them recognize what we have come to
understand: that we all bound together in the struggle for justice.
To be a Jew in the 21st century is to be
given a gift. The gift, however, neither allows us to be invisible, nor does it
require that we close ranks, us against the world. The gift is to make a choice
that brings honor to the Jews and justice to the world.
We live in a world of complexity, where diversity does
not only exist on the outside, it lives within each of us. Our community is
comprised of Jews as well as their Christian and Muslim and Hindu and UU family
members. We are white and brown and black. We are individuals who hold many identities
inside one body. We are each a combination of privileges and oppressions,
victims and oppressors. Just as the Torah insisted that we advocate and care
for the orphan, the widow, the stranger, and the poor among us, today we must
continue to open our doors to those on the margins. Our response to oppression as
a Jewish community must likewise be complex and nuanced.
And we need to remember that as frightening as it is,
anti-semitism in America does not have the force of racism, which is baked into
American history, pervading every aspect of society from education to housing
to criminal justice to jobs. Anti-semitism is not systemic in America. The
threats to Jews and Jewish institutions are the result of American terrorists,
not government policy. When we stand with our allies against oppression,
against intolerance, against hatred, it is not out of a shared sense of fear,
but a shared sense of justice.
This summer’s events could mark a turning point in uniting
those who stand against hate in all its forms. You may be aware that tomorrow, September
30th, the March for Racial Justice will take place in Washington DC.
When Jews first learned that the planned march coincided with Yom Kippur,
accusations of anti-semitism inundated social media. Fortunately, thoughtful
Jewish leaders including Rabbi Jill Jacobs of T’ruah decided to take a
different route. They reached out to the organizers to ask questions and to
share the concerns of the Jewish community, many of whom did not want to make a
choice between Yom Kippur and standing for Racial Justice.
The March organizers explained that this date was
chosen for its symbolic meaning to the African-American community. It recalled
the Elaine Massacre on September 30, 1919, one of the deadliest racial attacks
our country has known. White mobs in rural Arkansas attacked and slaughtered over
200 black men and women, many of whom had recently returned from military
service in World War I. The date harkens back to events that eerily resemble
today’s racial animus.
After hearing from Jewish leaders directly, the March
organizers spent some time considering how to respond.
Three days after the Charlottesville
clashes, on August 15, the organizers of the March for Racial Justice issued a
lengthy public apology. I’d like to share some key sections from that apology,
because they demonstrate the power of dialogue, of relationships, and of
seeking to work together rather than standing apart.
The statement reads: “The March for
Racial Justice is committed to standing for racial justice with allies from
across all races, ethnicities, and communities. We believe that none of us are
free until all of us are free.
“The organizers of the March for Racial
Justice did not realize that September 30 was Yom Kippur when we were factoring
… other considerations and applying for permits.
“Choosing this date, we now know, was a
grave and hurtful oversight on our part. It was unintentional and we are sorry
for this pain as well as for the time it has taken for us to respond. Our
mistake highlights the need for our communities to form stronger relationships.
“…We have learned from our Jewish
friends that Yom Kippur is a day of making amends and of asking and receiving
forgiveness. We hope that our sincere apology will be received with compassion,
and that we will build a stronger relationship among all our communities as a
result….
“We are marching in solidarity with our
Jewish brothers and sisters who are observing the holiest of days on the Jewish
calendar. Holding fast to Jewish tradition is also an act of resistance, in the
face of growing anti-Semitism.”
The organizers taught us
an important lesson about teshuva,
worth sharing on this holy day, and worth responding to with compassion.
They also taught us another
lesson many of us had forgotten:
“Holding fast to Jewish tradition is also an act of
resistance.”
Which brings us back to Rabbi Akiba. Just as Rabbi
Akiba continued to teach and practice Judaism publicly knowing it meant a death
sentence, we can proudly hold fast to Jewish tradition as an act of resistance.
Praying together is an act of resistance.
Taking time for Shabbat is an act of resistance.
Becoming knowledgeable Jews is an act of resistance.
Teaching our children is an act of resistance.
Being authentic and true to our heritage is an act of
resistance.
The main difference I see between Jews of the 20th
century and Jews of the 21st, is that today we know that we cannot
build our identity on fear of persecution. In a pluralistic society, we cannot build
our Jewish lives in isolation. And we also know that we cannot be invisible
allies. It is not enough to show up; how we show up matters. Proudly as Jews,
as a Jewish community, we hold fast to our values, to our teachings, and to our
practices. We do not trade away what is precious and timeless for what is
fleeting. When we form alliances, we bring our full selves, as people of Torah
and mitzvot, without shame or fear. And when we need to, we speak our truth.
To be a Jew
in the twenty-first century is a gift.
May we all
find the courage, the dedication, and the wisdom to accept that gift, even with
the torment that comes along with it.
As the poet
wrote,
The whole and fertile spirit as guarantee
For every human freedom, suffering to be free,
Daring to live for the impossible. Ken yehi ratzon.