Rosh HaShanah Morning Sermon: Reflections on Race in America and America's Journey for Justice

An edited version of this sermon was delivered Rosh HaShanah Morning, 5776 at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow.

           I awoke early this morning to get a jump start on this thing that I am supposed to do, before the heat of the day takes over and makes the journey too difficult.  I brought my servants, a donkey, and my son, Isaac.  Not my only son, but the one I have left.  Not that long ago, my other son, Ishmael, had to go.  His mother, Hagar, and my wife Sarah didn’t get along so well.  Sarah’s a little territorial; but I can’t blame her.  It took us so long to have this one child.  So many weeks, months, years of waiting, praying to a God that we can’t see.  And finally a son, just as those visitors told us we would have.  And now, this boy, this young lad, has to be given to God.  It’s what we do.  It’s just the way of the world.  I can’t explain it; it’s just the way things are.  Our neighbors send their sons to their gods, so I get it; but I’m not so comfortable with it.

We trekked this morning, looking for just the right place.  Somewhere high up, close to the heavens.  Somewhere that spoke to me.  Somewhere that told me this is the place that God wants.  And I find the perfect place.  High up this dusty, golden hill.  Higher than any of the hills around it.  That feels right to me.  I can’t quite explain it, but I sense that I’m in the right place.  Have you ever had that feeling of just knowing that something was right, like everything was pointing you in that direction?  That’s how this hill feels, like it’s the center of all that has been created.  The hill feels right, and the time of day feels right, and my belief in God feels right.  But what I’m about to do, I still…

I brought everything I needed with me: my knife, wood for the burning, and my son.  He’s so quiet this morning, but he does notice that something doesn’t add up.  “Dad,” he asks, “I see the knife, and I see the wood, but what are we going to give to God?”  He doesn’t really understand the way of the world, yet.  I would have taught him, but it seemed cruel to tell him what was coming, and besides, I don’t want him to be scared.  “Come this way, Isaac,” I say to him.  “Take a moment to rest here on these stones.”  My voice shakes.  Does he know how scared I am?  My hands tremble holding that knife.  How will I go through with this? 

Doesn’t this seem wrong?  That our young people should be killed off like this?  Why would God give me a son only to ask for him back?!  I’m no expert on God, but I know when something doesn’t make sense to me.  But so far, everything that I have been asked, I have done and everything that I have been promised has come true.  What am I supposed to do?  I believe with complete faith that God has my best interest in mind, is looking out for me, for us, for my family.  God was with me in Egypt those many years ago, when Sarah and I, in our youth, traveled there looking for food.  God was with me before that too, on the long journey to this land.  That feeling I first had when we arrived here, that’s the same feeling I have today on this mountaintop.  God called then and I answered then; and that’s all I’m doing now, right?  This is what a father does.  It’s an ordeal we all have to go through.

He’s resting there now, on the stones.  He’s got to know what’s going on.  He must have some idea.  He’s not dumb, that son of mine.  Maybe he doesn’t notice things as carefully as his brother, but he’s not dumb.

It’s time now.  I can’t delay any longer.  The knife is sharpened.  This is God’s design.  I have to hold it strong now, and I need to use, want to use all my strength.  I don’t want him to suffer.  I lift my hand as I look into his innocent eyes, which now belie his utter terror at what I’m doing.  His eyes ask me what I’m doing, why I’m doing it.  They scream out for his mother, but the rest of him doesn’t move.  He has the same resolve as I do.  Or maybe he just doesn’t want to fight me.  I have to do it now.  I have to just plunge that knife and not look back.  I have to just let God’s will play out, right?  Don’t I?  This is what we do?

But that fear in his eyes gives me pause.  In the tears quietly streaming down his face I sense betrayal, not just of his body, but of our relationship, our father-son bond.  I can’t do it!  I can’t make myself do it!  What will Sarah say when I return?  How will I ever look her in the face again?  I need to drop this knife now and gather my living son into my arms.  No God that I believe in would ask this of me!  No God would want a family torn apart by violence, by bloodlust.  No God would value the blood of our children over their breath, their souls.

I look up and see a ram caught in the thicket.  Let that be for God, not my son!  That will serve as a symbol of my trust in God, not my boy.  If God is not content with a man who values human life above all else, I cannot help that!  I only know what is right and I know that dropping this knife now is the right thing.  This I believe with complete faith.

*          *          *

Each year on Rosh HaShanah morning, we hear this famous story.  We heard it this morning, so beautifully chanted, the story of Abraham who is called by God to sacrifice his son Isaac as a test of fidelity.  The story is usually referred to as Akedat Yitzchak, the binding of Isaac.  The climactic moment of this story is the moment when, as the knife is about to be plunged into the boy, something stops Abraham in his tracks.  The Torah tells us that it is an angel of God who stays Abraham’s hand by calling out “Abraham, Abraham!”  This moment of divine intervention makes it clear to Abraham that what he is about to do is not what God wants.  Abraham senses that what he is about to do is not the right thing.  What he is about to do is actually abhorrent to God.  Abraham looked around him, at what his neighbors were doing, and said enough is enough: I am not going to sacrifice my son because it’s the thing that’s done.  That voice that called out to Abraham was indeed divine, but it may have come not from the heavens, but from a place deep in Abraham’s soul, in his conscience, that place that told him that this thing which was asked of him was not right – that thing which was just happening all around him was not the way the world should be. 

Abraham understands at that moment, but not until that moment, that God doesn’t want a child sacrifice.  It’s not until he sees his son beneath him and sees the life in Isaac that this epiphany comes to Abraham.  Abraham has a moment where he senses that just because the world works a certain way doesn’t mean it’s right, fair, or ought to continue.

In his breathtaking and crushing book Between the World and Me, Ta-Nahesi Coates describes the world as it is for black men living in America in 2015.  His book is written as a letter to his son, Samori, who at age 15 comes to a realization that the world is not as it should be.  Coates writes to his son:

That was the week you learned that the killers of Michael Brown would go free…would

never be punished.  It was not my expectation that anyone would ever be punished.  But you were young, and you still believed.  You stayed up till 11pm that night, waiting for the announcement of an indictment, and when instead it was announced that there was none you said: “I’ve got to go,” and you went into your room and I heard you crying.[1]

Coates’ son has a difficult epiphany about our great nation, and Coates uses his epistle to his son to explain that the reality of our nation is that racism is real, it is powerful, and it is engrained.  Coates book focuses on the fear Black parents have for their children and about their children.  He focuses on the origins of the racial issues in our nation, not to complain, but to recognize the reality and share what he has learned with his son, the way that his parents shared it with him.  Coates is, at this moment, a father who is desperately trying to save his son, though he does not have the ability to do so.  He is not the one wielding the knife.  He is not the one who established the system as it is, though as any father would, he sees it as unfair and not right.  The way of the world is not right.

            Coates goes on to describe a moment when he came to realize and recognize the injustice which still plagues this nation.  In the second half of his book, he recounts the story of another young Black man, gunned down in the prime of his youth.  A man named Prince Jones, whom Coates’ knew from their time at Howard University.  Prince Jones was killed yards from his fiancée’s home by an undercover police officer outside of jurisdiction.  He was shot eight times, five in the back, a result of a barrage of 16 bullets.  Coates describes his reaction to hearing the news: “I cannot remember what happened next.  I think I stumbled back…What I remember for sure is what I felt: rage and the old gravity of West Baltimore.”  Here, Coates is referring to his upbringing in difficult and dangerous neighborhoods of Baltimore.  The neighborhoods of Coates’ youth are the result of years of discriminatory policies around mortgages, (add more here)  The legacy, Coates realizes, of that neighborhood, always seems to pull a person back.  That gravitational pull… Even though Prince Jones’ family did everything supposedly right – Jones’ mother is a self-made physician, the family saved and moved to a safe neighborhood, and Prince was sent to the best schools and brought up to achieve the American middle-class dream – even this man, whose family did everything that they were told, hoping to gain entrée into a different life, even this man was not immune from overzealous and racially motivated policing.

           What is truly heartbreaking when reading Coates’ words is seeing that even with all the progress that has been made, the lesson Coates had to learn about how his life is valued by our nation is the same lesson he watches his son learn.  In the same way Coates came to understand in 2001 that the institutionalized racism of the past continues to have ramifications today, his son, in 2015, also learns.  There may not be Jim Crow any longer, but we are still a far distance away from true equality and equal justice under the law.  In some ways, we can perhaps relate to the first time we each learn and understand that anti-Semitism persists.  For us, however, anti-Semitism was never enshrined in the laws and customs of this nation.  Jews were never constitutionally considered less than humans.  Jews were not bought and sold and treated as property for centuries.

If you recall, last year, I spoke about race from this very same spot, and about how the shooting of Michael Brown was a wake-up call for me and was indeed a wake-up call to all of us and this entire nation.  Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha’Olam pokeach ivrim, praised are You Eternal Our God for giving sight to the blind.  We have woken up; but as our eyes opened, we wiped the sleep away only to see that the true scope of the problem is much broader than most of us understood.  The Black community has known what has been happening.  They have been telling us, but we have not listened.  They have been telling us that their children are being killed, that their mothers and fathers are being taken away and incarcerated at rates much higher than white Americans, though statistically they don’t commit more crimes than white Americans.  They have told us that their rights are being violated and that they are stuck in a system that neither values their lives nor seeks to help undo the ramifications of generations of discrimination.  They have demanded fair and unfettered access to the voting booth and have been told by the High Court that the problems of the past are no longer problems.

I learned some of this from reading Coates’ book, but I learned more in Columbia, South Carolina, where last month, I participated in a Civil Rights March organized by the NAACP.  This year marks the 50^th anniversary of the Voting Rights Act, which was brought to national attention by a march on Selma, AL led by Martin Luther King.  The march that I participated in began in Selma on August 1 and this week – tomorrow, in fact – the march will end in Washington, DC.  This almost 1000-mile-long march is the longest civil rights march in American History.  Traversing Alabama, Georgia, South and North Carolina, Virginia, and then Washington, DC, the march’s aim is to bring to light the myriad issues that still surround race in this nation.  If last summer’s violence and protests in Ferguson, Missouri were a wake-up call that there are still problems in this nation, this summer’s march seeks to make clear what the issues are, how complicated they are, and how long the road toward justice actually is.  It seeks people to proclaim that just because the world is one way doesn’t mean that’s how it needs to stay.

America’s Journey for Justice, as the march is called, aims to make the nation aware of the reality of being black in America, and why it is a markedly different reality than being white in this nation.  As a part of their endeavor, the NAACP reached out to the Reform Rabbis’ Association, the CCAR, hoping to find 40 rabbis to march alongside them, one a day, carrying a Torah the entire way.  As of last count, more than 174 rabbis, primarily but not exclusively from Reform congregations, will have participated over the 40-plus-day journey. 

It was a powerful experience to march through South Carolina’s capitol: to know that the absence of a Confederate flag was a new reality, to walk alongside so many who hope that the ideals of this nation be met.  And that’s what it was really all about.  We were required to march two by two, in straight lines, to keep us safe and in one lane of traffic.  As we marched the 13.5 miles in the heat of the South Carolina summer, I was struck by how varied the experience was.  There were moments of meditative prayer.  There were moments of learning.  And there were moments of epiphany.

A moment of meditative prayer: At one point during the day, all I could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other and staying in line.  It was all I could do to keep going.  Not from being tired or from any pain, but from the heat and the redundancy of walking for hour after hour.  Sometimes, when our bodies begin to move on autopilot, it frees up our minds.  In my mind, at that moment, as my feet rose and fell, the words of the prayer r’tzei came into my head: Retzei Adonai Eloheinu, b’amcha Yisrael u’tfilatam b’ahavah t’kabel.  Accept our prayers with love, O God! Running through my head.  

But I wasn’t praying, at least not in the typical manner of prayer.  I was praying in an entirely different manner.  I was actually living the words of Abraham Joshua Heschel, who, after marching at Selma, famously declared that he felt as if his feet were praying.  Every footfall of each of the marchers was a prayer.  Every step toward our goal, for that day, for the march, and for the future was a prayer.  It was a step in the right direction.  And from somewhere within my soul, I prayed that my steps would be accepted lovingly by God as prayer and that those prayers would one day be answered.

A moment of learning: At one point, I was marching alongside my 13-year-old niece, Arbel.  She and I struck up a conversation with one of the march marshals, named Jemiah.  Jemiah asked Arbel if she understood why she was marching.  Being 13, her answer was something like: “Well, my uncle is a rabbi, and he wanted me to come.”  That wasn’t quite what Jemiah was asking, but ok.  Jemiah went on to explain some of the difficulties that black people in America have endured in the past and continue to endure.  I knew that under segregation, black people were not allowed in hospitals, or were only allowed in black-run hospitals.  

I never really stopped to think about all the ramifications of those policies and laws, which were in existence as recently as 50 years ago, well within the lifetime of many here today.  So, I didn’t put together that not being admitted to a hospital meant that women could not give birth in a hospital.  If you were not born in a hospital, you did not get a birth certificate.  This means it is extremely difficult to obtain any kind of ID.  I had known about the discrimination.  I hadn’t stopped to consider its effects or what segregated hospitals might have to do with voting.  Voter ID laws, aside from policing a problem that doesn’t really exist, disproportionately affect black Americans.  I learned at that moment, how truly complex and enduring the repercussions of racism really are in this nation.  If we haven’t lived it, we can’t fully understand it. And, just because there are laws against it, doesn’t mean that it’s over.

A moment of epiphany:  Early in the day, shortly before I carried the Torah for the first time that morning, I looked up from my position in the phalanx and before me were people marching behind an American flag and the Torah.  Both of these objects are symbols which hold important meanings for me.  I never considered what they have in common.  I am a firm believer in the separation of synagogue and state, but I could not help but begin to realize what these two have in common.  They are twins, I realized.  They may be fraternal twins, but they are twins.  They both represent aspirations of freedom.  They both represent aspirations of justice. 

Freedom and justice are important concepts in our Torah.  We began the morning of the march by reading from the Torah a brief excerpt from Shirat HaYam, the song of the sea, which the Israelites sing with Moses and Miriam after their liberation from slavery, a freedom song.  This idea of freedom is so important to us as Jews that we sing the most famous line from that song each day, the Mi Chamocha, so that we never forget that freedom is a precious and divine gift. 

The Torah also commands us to pursue justice, as it proclaims Tzedek Tzedek Tirdof: Justice, Justice shall you pursue![2]  Why is the word justice repeated?  Because we are to seek justice for ourselves, and justice for others.[3]  We are to look at our sacred words and aspire to reach the goals they set out for us.  Likewise for the American flag.  It is a symbol of liberty and equal justice under the rule of law.  Though much of our nation’s history has seen us fall short of that goal, it is an aspiration toward which we must all work.  That aspirational nature of both our Torah and of our nation is why I love both – because they both call us to be better.  They both demand that we work to make the world what we want it to be, what it ought to be, when we look around and see the world not as it should be.  Like Abraham, we have to hear that divine within us and answer the call to look around and say that the way things have been done is not ok, that the status quo is no longer acceptable, and that as Jews who live in America, we take all minority rights seriously and that we believe that black lives matter in the same way we believe that all lives matter because we are a religion who believes in the sanctity of living beings.  God gives us the choice.  God sets before us life and death, good and evil, and God commands us to choose the side of life.  Be a people who values life, like the Eternal values life.

Marching in South Carolina was a way to live the values of freedom, justice, and life which are required of both our Torah and our citizenship.  Learning from those marching the entire 1000 miles was even more important because we all must start to learn about what’s really happening in our nation if we want to be able to fix it.  We have made tremendous progress in this nation.  Fifty years ago, it was state troopers who attacked the marchers in Selma.  This year, the NAACP march is escorted by state troopers in each state, clearing the way, stopping the traffic, ensuring safety and order.  That progress is important and it is critical to recognize and be thankful for it, but we cannot become complacent.  We must keep working, there are more steps ahead.

I have been invited to participate in the formation of a Black Jewish Coalition for Justice on Long Island, and while I don’t yet have much information, I will keep you informed about other ways to be involved.  If you are interested in racial justice, please be in touch with me.  We must work to meet with those whose lives and experiences are different from ours.  It is my hope that this coalition will serve exactly that purpose. 

Beyond grassroots local meetings, we can also advocate for change nationally.  Last year’s Supreme Court Decision, Shelby v. Holder, which undid a critical piece of the Voting Rights Act, may have been appropriate according to certain principles of law.  The day after the decision, many states introduced legislation to test just how far they could push the law.  The suggestion is not to flout the decision; that is not how this country works.  We must speak out against it by supporting new legislation to replace the overwhelmingly bi-partisan supported Voting Rights Act.  To that end, this past June, the Voting Rights Advancement Act was introduced in both the House and the Senate.  This new law would serve to reestablish, following the Supreme Court’s guidelines, certain provisions of that landmark legislation.  This new act, among other aims, seeks to ensure that last-minute voting changes won’t adversely affect voters, particularly people of color and language minorities.[4]  This is an important piece of legislation that we should favor vocally by contacting our representatives and letting them know that as Jewish Americans, voting rights and minority rights are important to us. 

In a few moments, we will hear the calls of the Shofar, the ram’s horn.  These calls are to be reminders of the willingness Abraham had to sacrifice his son to God.  These calls are supposed to awaken our souls to turn toward the good in the new year.  This Rosh HaShanah, as we hear the calls echo around us, let the sound arouse in us the voice of the divine which commands us to work to make the world as it should be and not settle for the world as it is. Let the calls pierce our souls and bring each of us to work toward the cause of Freedom, Justice, and Life, the cause of this nation, the cause of our Torah.

Shanah Tovah!           

---

[1] Coates, Between the World and Me, p 11

[2] Deut 16:20

[3] Based on Rabbi Lawrence Jackofsky and David Toomin (RJ website)

[4] Info from RAC one-pager

"The Last Mile" Reflections on joining America's Journey for Justice

On Tuesday, August 25, 2015, I had the privilege to join the NAACP Journey for Justice march in Columbia, SC, alongside many colleagues, my 13-year-old niece, and many marchers making the entire 860-mile trek from Selma to Washington, DC.

I was lucky to carry the Torah for the final mile (which turned out to be closer to a mile and a half). The symbolism of the finish line for the day being continually further than anticipated was not lost on me.

Below is a poem I wrote as a reflection on the day, that last mile, and the important purpose of the march.

The last mile

We began that morning

just past the State House in Columbia,

just past the Confederate Monument,

the warmth of the sun on our faces,

radiating from the asphalt.

Learning with every step,

feeling with every footfall the long journey

made up of so many steps before us

and many to come after.

But that day, it was our turn

to march toward freedom

to pursue justice.

Justice

always just in front of us.

American flag waving

Torah at its side.

Fraternal twins, held aloft at the front,

conducting

a group gathered from distant towns and congregations –

heeding the call,

demanding a change in the world –

Freedom and Justice

leading the way

heralding the cause.

Two by two

We march toward a world washed clean,

cleaned but not forgotten –

that world of

separation and supremacy –

toward a more perfect version.

Too many babies gone,

disappeared,

their lives cut.

Too many mothers and fathers gone.

Taken

without justice,

without cause or process

denied freedom.

Taken by fear

of difference

of pigment

of myths and falsehoods of the generations

and of this great nation.

The fear of an age thought gone,

easy to miss

and ignore

but always present.

Along the route,

phones at the ready,

minds curious,

hands cheering,

heads nodding,

catching a moment of the long parade

of black and white,

old and young.

Walking though the suburbs,

neighborhoods change before us,

economics on full display.

Through the stopped traffic

horns of support and shouts of praise

ask questions

hear stories

cause walls to tumble.

Did you know?

No, I did not.

Did you realize?

No, I had no idea. I mean –

I didn’t not know,

I never put that together.

It’s so complicated.

How are we not discouraged?

How are we not overwhelmed?

How are we not stunned to inaction,

to stop moving

to give in to the reality

that there is more work than we few can accomplish?

If we stop moving,

stop taking steps,

marching toward,

those behind us have nowhere to go,

no path to follow.

If we stop now,

there can be no,

will be no next step.

Each step leads to the next:

one foot in front of the other

two by two,

one behind the other

on the asphalt

baked in South Carolina sun

of late August.

But that bridge will be our last step.

Tomorrow more will come

To start at that bridge

To take up the steps

To carry, support, learn.

To walk alongside those whose feet and will carry them the entire journey.

Begun at Selma,

today achieves 500

from the starting point,

far from the finish.

That last mile,

made up of steps like all that came before.

That last mile

the weight of the Torah

muscles burn

bodies drip

eyes sear

lungs labor.

A flag waves in the breeze of our progress.

The weight of Torah

awakens

souls yearn

being exults.

The sun on our backs.

We reach the point!

We keep going.

That last mile is longer.

A trick of the mind?

A trick of the traffic.

Freedom?

More steps,

just past the bridge.

Justice?

More steps,

just past the turn.

Security?

More steps,

just down the hill.

Dignity?

More steps,

just after the tree.

Equality?

More steps.

The last mile is the longest.

YK Morning 5775 - Our Legacy

This past December, a friend and I traveled to Austin, Texas.  Neither of us had ever been to Texas before, and so we decided to take a trip to see a part of the country we had never before had the chance to see.  And so, we went down to Texas, explored the area, tasted of the local delicacies, met up with a colleague, and had a chance to see the important sites, including a brief sojourn to San Antonio in order to see The Alamo.  Among our first stops upon our arrival in Austin was the LBJ library and museum on the campus of the University of Texas at Austin.  The building is quite imposing and its place on the University campus unmistakable.  A behemoth of a white rectangular building, up on a slight hill, surrounded by paved courtyards with the giant football stadium in the background, the Presidential Library and Museum walks a visitor through the life and career of LBJ.  From his humble beginnings in rural Texas teaching immigrant children, to the Oval Office, I learned much about LBJ and his legacy.

And that is what a museum is all about isn’t it, legacy?  What is it that a person did which is worthy of keeping forever?  What is it that a person made or painted or sculpted that society has decided is worthy of preservation?  In the case of LBJ, his legacy is clear, at least according to the museum.  The museum makes the case that were it not for the historic legislation that LBJ caused to be passed, President Obama would never have been elected.  Now, the museum doesn’t go so far as to say that, but the video clips and the thrust of the permanent exhibit make it clear that the curators and preservers of LBJ’s legacy believe, and want us to believe, that a distinct line of this nation’s progress as relates to race can be drawn from LBJ to Barack Obama.

And what a legacy that is.  Our nation has seen itself torn in two, again and again, over the issue of race.  Today, the museum tells us, things are better.  Today, the museum tells us, thanks to LBJ, the race issues which plagued our nation are more a thing of the past than the present.  LBJ was, after all, responsible for the passing of the Civil Rights act, the Voting Rights Act and the Great Society Legislation, which gave aid to education, Medicare, Medicaid, and fought against poverty.  The LBJ Museum wants us to know that it’s thanks to LBJ that we have many of the laws and rights we take for granted.

And his legacy endures, in some ways.  This year was the 50^th anniversary of the signing of the Civil Rights Act.  The desk on which LBJ signed the legislation into law is on display at the Museum, as is the pen he used.  50 years ago, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 outlawed discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.  It removed obstacles to voting and removed segregation in schools, places of business and public institutions.  50 years ago, the Civil Rights Act changed this nation and moved us toward a more perfect union, toward a better society.  And, in truth, LBJ’s legacy endures in these landmark pieces of legislation that continue to form the backbone of racial equality in this nation.

With 50 years working toward racial equality in this nation under our belts, one would think that this nation would be more evolved when it comes to race.  The Library and museum seem to tell us we should be.  And yet, in the last months, and most prominently this summer, our nation’s old wound was opened again.  Michael Brown, an African American young man, was shot fatally by a police officer in Ferguson, Missouri, just outside of St. Louis.  If only this were a solitary incident.  Closer to home, on Staten Island, Eric Garner died in police custody after a choke-hold was used to subdue him during an arrest.  Last month, in South Carolina, at a seemingly routine traffic stop, Levar Jones, an unarmed black man was shot multiple times by a police officer after he went back into his car to retrieve his license, as instructed by the police officer. 

This is not an indictment on the police.  The overwhelming majority of police officers work hard and put their lives in danger and in harm’s way each and every day to keep their communities safe.  They are family men and women, who show kindness, compassion, bravery and care on a day to day basis, as they face more complicated threats and more and more lenient gun legislation.  There are some questions about the particular police officers involved in these incidents and the amount of force and firepower that is becoming commonplace among police departments, but more striking, and more important for our nation to grapple with, is the fact that in each of these incidents, and the many others over the last many years, the victim was unarmed and was black.

It has been 50 years since LBJ signed the civil rights act into law, and we, as a nation, still have some soul searching to do about what we value and what we believe civil rights and equality really mean.  It has been 50 years since the Civil Rights Act became law, and there is still a wide gap between what it means to be white in this nation and what it means to be something else.

As modern Jews in 21^st century America, we have been subsumed into white culture.  Or maybe, we pushed ourselves in and demanded a place.  Yes, Jews are still distinct, but the fact of the matter is, we are a minority primarily living and working as a part of the majority.  But it wasn’t so long ago that signs reminded us of who we weren’t.  No Dogs or Jews allowed, the signs told us.  As a minority, the rights of other minorities ought to be as important to us as our own.  And, we have a legacy of being a part of the solution to societal inequality that we ought not forget.

“The Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were drafted in the conference room of Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism [in Washington DC], under the aegis of the [Southern Christian] Leadership Conference, which for decades was located in the RAC's building.  During the Civil Rights Movement, Jewish activists represented a disproportionate number of whites involved in the struggle. Jews made up half of the young people who participated in the Mississippi Freedom Summer in 1964.”[1] Among those Jews were Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner, of blessed memory, who gave their lives, alongside James Charney, in the fight for freedom and equality in what has come to be known as the Mississippi Burning.

“Leaders of the Reform Movement were arrested with Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in St. Augustine, Florida, in 1964 after a challenge to racial segregation in public accommodations. Most famously, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel marched arm-in-arm with Dr. King in his 1965 March on Selma.”^[2]  As Jews, and as Reform Jews in particular, we have a legacy of working toward equality in this country and doing whatever we can in order to further the causes of life, liberty and happiness for all.  Of late, however, our voices have been too quiet.  Of late, we have not spoken out enough about the issues of race that continue to plague our nation. 

These United States, from the outside, seemed to be doing better than ever in terms of race.  After all, the first family is African American.  Doesn’t that mean we are post-racial, even if the election of the president brought out the worst among some of our countrymen?  No.  It doesn’t.  It means we’ve made progress, but there is much more to do.  This summer’s protests in Ferguson in reaction to the shooting death of Michael Brown and the other young black men in this country show us exactly how far we are from being post-racial, how far we are from having race be a thing of the past.  They show us that the mask of tolerance and acceptance under which we go about our daily lives is only just that, a mask, hiding the reality of inequality based on race that continues to this day.  An inequality that is systematized into the penal code and played out in incarceration rates and policies like Stop and Frisk.  An inequality that tells the authorities that they can, and indeed should, be listening in on calls and communications just because someone happens to be Muslim.  An inequality that plays out in employment rates, graduation rates and access to loans and mortgages.  An inequality that continues to try to disenfranchise voters.  An inequality that persists even as the Supreme Court rules that voting rights and discrimination are no longer at issue, as they gut the preclearance elements of that same Voting Rights Act that LBJ signed into law.

Fifty years after the Civil Rights Act and 49 years after the Voting Rights Act, the inequality in our land cries out to us, and it demands that we work to create a new legacy for the next generation.  A legacy of equality and justice for all.  A legacy which puts into action the motto of this great nation: out of many, one.

But this summer, as the mask of a post-racial America was torn off another mask was torn off as well.  How can we focus on race in this country, while throughout this nation and in other nations, the ugly face of anti-Semitism was front and center again.  We focus on it because the Anti-Semitism whose resurgence we witnessed with shock and dismay, and which infiltrates quickly due to the New Media is related to the racism which we see continuing in this nation.  They are related because this summer we have had the opportunity to witness that we as a species are not as evolved as we had hoped to be by 2014.  We are not as open to others and differences as we would have thought in the aftermath of the disastrous conflicts of the 20^th century.  We haven’t learned our lesson yet, as humans on this earth, and we seem to forget too easily that we are more alike than we are different.  That we are all created in the same image.

In response to the war between Israel and Gaza many protests against Israel included, in commonplace incidents, placards, posters, and chants the likes of which we have not seen in many years.  Throughout Europe’s capitals, those bastions of tolerance and culture, riots and protests against Jews continued, putting Jewish communities in danger and on high alert.  But the posters and the slogans weren’t the extent of the violence.  Jews in Europe and even here in America, faced violent attacks.  Antiemetic incidents were so prevalent that a Twitter and a Tumblr feed were started called “Everyday Anti-Semitism” which tried to catalogue the numerous attacks in print, at protests, and which people reported. 

But the war in Gaza was simply pretense.  In Brussels, in May, well before the war began, four tourists were shot at the Jewish Museum in that city.  This is the kind of incident with which we have become all too familiar.  Whether it was the Chabad in India or the attack on the JCC in Argentina, we are used to a certain number of lone wolf attacks, and perhaps we will never rid our world of this danger. 

But this summer, we saw more than just an isolated incident.  Jewish-owned stores and a pharmacy in Paris were firebombed and destroyed.  Synagogues in Germany have been firebombed, Jews in Sweden attacked and bludgeoned, a Synagogue in Paris besieged and its members forced to defend their place of worship from violent anti-Semitic protests posing as anti-Israel protests.  In London, shouts of “Death to the Jews,” or “Hitler was right” among other chants, were heard as a part of the more than 100 reported anti-Semitic attacks in England in July.  Posters depicting Israel as equal to the Nazis were commonplace.  And even on New York’s Upper East Side, a Jewish couple was harassed and attacked.  More recently, a rabbi in Mississippi was asked to leave a restaurant because he was Jewish and took offense to the waiter’s description of a “Jewish salad,” though that incident is disputed by the restaurant's owner.

There are, of course, differences between what is happening now and what happened in the Europe of the 1930's.  The Anti-Semitism today is not state-sponsored as it had been for many centuries.  In fact, many leaders of Europe, notably France, Germany and Italy, have publicly and loudly condemned the attacks and have done their best to try and stop them.  In Germany, a country for which firebombing of a synagogue dredges up memories of a hate-filled past that nation has worked hard to overcome, a rally against hate and against anti-Semitism drew thousands of people and was headlined by the Chancellor and Prime Minister.

None of this is meant to be alarmist nor to scare us into staying at home or force us all to decide to move to Israel.  But it is important that we are aware of what is happening in the world.  According to an Anti-Defamation League poll[3] completed over the last year, fully 26% of adults worldwide harbor anti-Semitic attitudes.  That number jumps to 34% in Eastern Europe and 74% in the Middle East.  The numbers are much lower closer to home.  Only 9% of Americans and 19% of people in the Americas harbored negative views of Jews.  None of this is surprising.  Anti-Semitism has existed for as long as there have been Jews.  It existed before the conflict in Gaza, and sadly, it will exist even after a true and enduring peace is established, may it happen in our days.

I have been studying Sefer HaYashar with some colleagues over the last few months.  Sefer HaYashar is a midrashic collection, which means that it takes the stories of the Bible and elaborates on them to fill in the gaps and answer some of the questions that come up when reading the Bible.  For example, what was Abraham’s childhood like?  This question is raised because the Torah introduces Abraham as an adult with no description of his youth.  Sefer HaYashar answers some of these questions.  And, since this collection most likely dates from a post-crusader time frame, the stories take on a slightly different cultural resonance.

Sefer HaYashar talks at length about Abraham and why he left his land to go to Canaan.  The Torah tells us that it is because God told him to go with the famous words “Lech Lecha”.  But that’s only part of the story, according to this Midrash.  Sefer HaYashar posits the young Abram as a believer in the one God, as opposed to the rest of the population, especially Nimrod, the King of Ur.  The King makes multiple attempts to kill Abram including by throwing him in a furnace and by shunning him.  None of these work, and Abram hides from the king for many years, taking refuge in Noah’s home, and continuing to learn the ways of God. 

At a certain point in time, the king has a dream which is interpreted to mean that Abram will cause the king’s death and destruction to the kingdom.  Abram hears of this and says the following: “Let us arise and go to Canaan, out of the reach of injury from [the king], and serve the Eternal…and cast away all the vain things.” (Sefer HaYashar, ch. 12)

It is Abraham who makes the decision to flee Ur, making it as far as Haran.  And he flees because the powers that be don’t like the religion he practices.  By putting Abraham in the same position which the Jews of the Middle Ages found themselves, namely forced to flee on account of their belief, this Midrash makes a point to say that as Jews we have always had to deal with this.  Since Abraham, we have had to contend with people who dislike us merely because of who we are and what we believe.

From this story, we see that in the Middle Ages, Jews projected the animosity they felt back in time, believing it to be something we have no choice but to contend with.  The ADL survey makes the same point.  Anti-Semitism exists and we need to be aware of it, and work to combat it in every way we can.  Just because it exists, though, doesn’t mean that Jewry is necessarily in danger.  One of the many legacies that has been passed down to us is a resilience of the Jewish people: a legacy of endurance even in the face of difficulty, even in the face of hatred.

Anti-Semitism persists, just as racism persists.  And this summer we witnessed a shattering of our complacency and the breaking of a sense of security we may have felt, as we recognized that the Gaza protesters weren’t talking about Israel, or just about Israel, but they were talking about Jews, all Jews.  They were talking about us.  They were talking about you.  And they were talking about me.

And so what can we do?  How do we combat these pernicious elements of our world that seem to never be abated?  There are a number of actions we can take. 

First, let us recognize what we are already doing.  By being a part of a congregation, and bringing your family here with you, you help to foster a strong Jewish identity in yourself and your family.  Don’t underestimate this.  Recognize the gift that you are giving your family: the gift of Jewish community.  The gift of Jewish community is a gift of finding pride in who we are.  And regardless of what others think, we can counter that with our pride and our sense of self.  Studies show that once Jews are no longer an abstract to people, meaning that after someone meets and befriends a Jewish person, their opinion of Jews in general tends to be more positive.  How much more so will this be the case if we exhibit a tremendous and unabashed pride in who we are.

Next, we can support worldwide Jewry by making our voices heard as a part of the upcoming Zionist Congress, though our votes and our donations.  The Zionist Congress distributes billions of dollars annually to fund Jewish education and shape the Jewish nature of Israel and communities worldwide.  Every Jewish adult is eligible to vote.  By voting, we make known that we care about what happens to Jews all over the world, and that we will not abide living in a world where Jews are under attack and threat.  By voting we put into action the axiom “kol Yisrael arevim zeh l’zeh,” that all Jews are responsible to one another. 

Next, we must look inside ourselves.  We ought to take care with the words we use and work to combat any latent prejudices we might harbor.  It is not easy to look inward, but if this day, this Yom Kippur, can teach us anything, it is that we have the ability to look inside ourselves, find those parts of us we wish to make better and then resolve to make those parts better.  In our public confessional, we comment on the ways we have harmed others, whether by baseless hatred or xenophobia.  Let us work every day against these most base parts of who we are.  Let us also speak out against hate speech.  Hate speech is destructive and if left unchecked easily adopted as normative.  And it is not just hate speech against Jews we ought to concern ourselves with.  We can follow and continue the legacy of the previous generations of Jews who fought and died to make this nation better and more tolerant for everyone, regardless of race, religion, national origin, gender, or sexuality.

We can hold our officials to task.  If we believe in Voting Rights, we need to tell our representatives.  If we believe in non-discrimination policies, we need to make our voices heard.  We may not have the ability or time to put our lives on hold and get on a bus to go make change, but we can all pick up the phone or send an email to our congressperson or senator, both state and national.  By speaking up for what we believe, we work toward what we thought we had all along.  We work toward a nation and a planet neither of which will be putting on airs of tolerance and acceptance, but rather will be veering toward justice. 

Perhaps we thought everything was taken care of because laws have been passed and changed to make this nation more equal, and to provide equal rights for all.  But we forgot what is required alongside legislation like the Civil Rights Act.  When he signed the bill into law, LBJ said the following:

This Civil Rights Act is a challenge to all of us to go to work in our communities and our States, in our homes and in our hearts, to eliminate the last vestiges of injustice in our beloved country…So tonight I urge every public official, every religious leader, every business and professional man, every workingman, every housewife—I urge every American—to join in this effort to bring justice and hope to all our people—and to bring peace to our land.”[4]

Let us continue to join in the efforts to bring justice and hope to all people.  Let us work to ensure a bright future free from hatred and division for the Jewish community worldwide, and for our nation. 

Let that be our legacy.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah

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[1] http://rac.org/Articles/index.cfm?id=21347

[2] Ibid

[3] http://global100.adl.org/

[4] -Remarks upon Signing the Civil Rights Bill (July 2, 1964)http://www.lbjlibrary.org/exhibits/civil-rights#sthash.w7KFMazC.dpuf