A Sermon on Charlottesville and Hatred

This week’s Torah portion is Parashat Re’eh. It begins with a warning:

^11:26 See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse— ²⁷ the blessing if you obey the commands of Adonai your God that I am giving you today; ²⁸ the curse if you disobey.

What follows is a directive to stop worshipping in other places, places that were holy to the people of the land, important to other religious traditions. Only worship in Jerusalem.

Seek the place that Adonai your God will choose from among all your tribes to put his Name there for his dwelling. To that place you must go.

We usually leave this part of the Torah portion at that. But this week, the details are a bit more relevant.

12 These are the decrees and laws you must be careful to follow in the land that Adonai, the God of your ancestors, has given you to possess—as long as you live in the land. ² Destroy completely all the places on the high mountains, on the hills and under every spreading tree, where the nations you are dispossessing worship their gods. ³ Break down their altars, smash their sacred stones and burn their Asherah poles in the fire; cut down the idols of their gods and wipe out their names from those places.

⁴ You must not worship Adonai your God in their way. ⁵ But you are to seek the place Adonai your God will choose from among all your tribes to put God’s name there for God’s dwelling. To that place you must go.

It’s a call for a purging, the destruction of the religious sites of others, the obliteration of the past. We usually read over it as if it is just a minor attachment to the command to worship in the place where Adonai chooses to place God’s name, which was understood already at the time to be Jerusalem.

We have generally assumed that directive to be about opposing other religious traditions. Then there were the events of this past weekend, centered on a protest against the removal by the City of Charlottesville, Virginia of a large statue of Robert E. Lee commissioned in 1917 and forged in 1924 that was placed in a city park named for the Confederate General, Lee Park. The entire sculpture, including its pedestal, is 26 feet high, 12 feet long, and 8 feet wide.

There are reasons that people argue in defense of historical markers and memorials. There is a value in remembering not only things that make us happy and proud, but things that remind us of what could have been and what was not good. If we are to avoid the mistakes of the past, it is important to remember the past. Yet, some reminders are painful, ones that poke open wounds or perhaps reopen healing ones. Rabbis have noted that one reason to argue for the removal of the pagan shrines was so that former idol worshippers would not be reminded of their old ways, perhaps made to feel inferior if they joined themselves to the Israelite people instead of being born an Israelite, nor tempted to follow harmful paths.

Some reminders, we might not want to have in places that we walk by every day or go to picnic with our children.

That is the discussion that took place in Charlottesville, Virginia over the past several years concerning the Robert E Lee statue, which the city council decided to remove from the site. But what actually happened in Charlottesville this weekend went far beyond protesting the removal of a statue.

First, there was what happened a week ago tonight. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am big fan of candlelight vigils. People sometimes hold candles and walk with them, often in support of peace. Such vigils can be quite beautiful. More than seven-hundred of us stood in solidarity in Cowles Commons on Monday evening. If there was no sound and no close up pictures of angry faces, the videos of the lights being carried through the University of Virgina Campus could have been part of another sort of demonstration… But there was sound and the close up images belied the lights amid the darkness.

The flames took on a different meaning and recalled memories of times that we would rather remain a part of the past.

As I noted at the vigil on Monday:

We Jews have seen those hate-filled faces before, marching with torches through many generations in many countries. Too often, historically, those torches have entered Jewish neighborhoods and set synagogues, businesses, and homes aflame. Most of the time, a small percentage of the local population was involved in the violence. The vast majority, including the local authorities, stood by and watched.

And so we come to what happened this past Shabbat morning.

In an article published by the Union for Reform Judaism on its website, Alan Zimmerman, the President of Beth Israel Synagogue in Charlottesville, Virginia described the events:

For half an hour, three men dressed in fatigues and armed with semi-automatic rifles stood across the street from the temple. Had they tried to enter, I don’t know what I could have done to stop them, but I couldn’t take my eyes off them, either. Perhaps the presence of our armed guard deterred them. Perhaps their presence was just a coincidence, and I’m paranoid. I don’t know.

Several times, parades of Nazis passed our building, shouting, “There's the synagogue!” followed by chants of “Seig Heil” and other anti-Semitic language. Some carried flags with swastikas and other Nazi symbols.

A guy in a white polo shirt walked by the synagogue a few times, arousing suspicion. Was he casing the building, or trying to build up courage to commit a crime? We didn’t know. Later, I noticed that the man accused in the automobile terror attack wore the same polo shirt as the man who kept walking by our synagogue; apparently it’s the uniform of a white supremacist group. Even now, that gives me a chill.

When services ended, my heart broke as I advised congregants that it would be safer to leave the temple through the back entrance rather than through the front, and to please go in groups.

This is 2017 in the United States of America…

Local police faced an unprecedented problem that day, but make no mistake, Jews are a specific target of these groups, and despite nods of understanding from officials about our concerns – and despite the fact that the mayor himself is Jewish – we were left to our own devices. The fact that a calamity did not befall the Jewish community of Charlottesville on Saturday was not thanks to our politicians, our police, or even our own efforts, but to the grace of God.

The community’s leadership stood idly by. Most of the rest of the community stood idly by.

Then a man drove his car into a crowd of counter protesters. It certainly appeared to be a significant escalation of the hatred and violence, an act of terrorism. Someone died, Heather Heyer. Many were injured. Then later two police officers who had been monitoring the violence in a helicopter died when it crashed, Berke Bates and H Jay Cullen.

We cried out, along with other targets of the hatred expressed in Charlottesville, to our national leaders, to our President, seeking understanding, seeking action. At first, in the morning, there was generic condemnation of violence on “many sides.”

Some were immediately angered at the equivocation of the protesters and counter protesters. Others responded. “Violence is bad, no matter who does it. Yes. But what of the hateful ideology of these groups? The threats? Isn’t this terrorism? Isn’t one side maybe a bit worse? A bit more, perhaps a whole lot more, deserving of direct and specific condemnation here? How do you respond to their arguments that you support them?”

For a while on Saturday afternoon and then through Sunday, the response was mostly silence. We waited incredulously. Bit by bit, leaders issued statements condemning neo-Nazis and white supremacists.

Finally, on Monday the President issued a statement which he read, condemning them. That was good. Of course, actions speak louder than words and unscripted words tend to be a more accurate representation of actual beliefs than are scripted ones.

The next day, in a press conference, the President, speaking about the violence that occurred in Charlottesville, stated that there were “fine people” on both sides. “Fine people?” Among Nazis and White Supremacists?

Leading white supremacist figures offered their thanks for the sentiments.

People across the normative political spectrum spoke out with incredulity and condemnation, Republicans and Democrats.

While he may well have been speaking without thinking of how his statement could be understood, there is no scenario in which it would be acceptable for him not to have clarified his statement--very, very clearly… believe me… that he in fact does not believe that there are “fine people” among Neo-Nazis and white supremacists. It is a moral and ethical obligation to make certain that no one could possibly interpret his statement in that direction. As several Republican leaders have suggested strongly, it is well past time for moral clarity and this is not difficult. There is nothing easier to do as a politician than to say that Nazis and White Supremacists are bad people.

When people wave Nazi flags & proclaim racist & hateful ideas while engaging in intimidation & violence, they are not "fine people."

It is a statement that could be tweeted. Under 140 characters. I checked.

On Monday, I spoke at the vigil downtown. I said that:

We are all God’s children. Jewish tradition tells us that we are all created in God’s image. Sometimes, too often if you ask me, that image is reflected with more than a bit of distortion, emphasizing the worst aspects of our nature.

It is not only in expressions of hatred and anger. Sometimes, the most problematic characteristic that comes to the fore is a willingness to stand by.

We often cite Maurice Ogden’s poem called “The Hangman,” when talking about standing by. Ogden’s poem is about a Hangman who comes into a town and begins to single out people for hanging. He begins with the weakest minority and then keeps dividing and dividing, singling out and singling out, until the very last person is finally hung upon the gallows.

"For who has served more faithfully?
With your coward's hope." said He,
"And where are the others that might have stood
side by your side, in the common good?"

"Dead!" I answered, and amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me.
"First the alien ... then the Jew.
I did no more than you let me do."

Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
none before stood so alone as I.
The Hangman then strapped me...with no voice there
to cry "Stay!" ... for me in the empty square.

Who helped the most? The one who helped by not helping the others to avoid their fate, the one who stood aside as hatred was raised and the Hangman pursued the weak.

We will not be like the Hangman’s faithful servant. We will not watch silently and allow age old hatreds against Jews to rise again unchallenged. We will not simply look on as Mosques are threatened. We will not stand by and allow people to be attacked because of the color of their skin or their sexual orientation. We will not allow immigrants to be persecuted.

Let us declare that we will not allow ourselves to remain silent as hatred is offered. We will not be cowed into silence. We will not tolerate the torches of hatred marching through our campuses or our streets… even if, as Tiki Torches, they may keep away the mosquitoes.

This is our country. This is our home. May it always be truly both the land of the free and the home of the brave… and let us be brave.

Speak out. Stand up.

We will not stand idly by. No more. Never again. 

Shabbat Shalom

The Interrupted Journey

This week’s Torah portion begins our narrative, not the narrative of creation, not the narrative of humanity, but the narrative of our extended family. In Lekh-Lekha, we first meet Abraham, back when he was called Abram. What we first learn about Abram is that he was one of three sons of a man named Terach. His family was from Ur. Abram was married to Sarai. And Sarai had conceived no children. She was barren.

Terach begins to move his whole clan with the intention of going from Ur to Canaan, but, along the way, the family stopped in Haran and built a life there, acquiring more servants, animals, and other wealth. Then Terach died and the family simply remained there.

It was a journey interrupted and largely forgotten by the tradition. It was Terach, not Abram, who began the journey. Terach, not Abram, got up and left and took everyone with him from Ur. In fact, it is potentially the case that Abram, as head of the family, decided to remain settled where he was because, unlike his father, Abram was uncertain as to which direction the family should be led. That is the context in which Abram hears “Lekh Lekha.”

The unspoken questions to which God responded were perhaps ones in Abram’s mind.

“Which way should we go? What should we do now?”

And God responded:

“Get up and go.”

“From where?” Abram might have thought, “From my tent?”

“From your land, from the place of your birth.”

I am already no longer there. Shall we live here? In Haran, where my father died?

“From the house of your father.”

“Ok. To where then?”

“To the land that I will show you!”

“What will I find there? What will become of us, if we go there?”

“I will make you into a great nation,
    and I will bless you.
I will make your name great,
    and you will be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you,
    and whoever curses you I will curse.
And all peoples on earth
    will be blessed through you.

“This change will bring blessing. Of course, we will go!”

Nothing like having the Torah portion, this week of all weeks, talk about God making our nation great.

Not everyone among Abram’s number must have felt that, at the end of their journey, in an unknown distant place, there would be blessings and not curses waiting for them. To suggest that not everyone in America is confident that the direction of our national journey today is toward increased blessing is an understatement. There is much fear, anxiety, and, among no few, even despair.

On this Veteran’s Day, I thought of the founding of our nation. I considered how its founders would feel about the events of our day. On July 15, 1777, President George Washington wrote a letter to General Philip Schuyler regarding the fall of Fort Ticonderoga and the difficult circumstances the nation faced during the ongoing war for independence. Washington wrote:

We should never despair, our Situation before has been unpromising and has changed for the better, so I trust, it will again.

If new difficulties arise, we must only put forth new Exertions and proportion our Efforts to the exigency of the times.

In my own words:

When we face difficulties and challenges in our lives, we need to work harder to overcome them. If the difficulty is great, so must our efforts. We do not have the ability to live in different times. We live today, where we are. Our sole choice is how we respond to what is required of us here and now.

To quote the most appropriate Jewish maxim for times when we are faced with daunting challenges that we cannot fully resolve on our own; in the words of Rabbi Tarfon, “It is not up to you to complete the work, but neither may you avoid doing it.” And in the words of the US Holocaust Memorial and Museum’s motto, “What you do matters.”

I know that many here and around our nation are anxious, even fearful, about the future tonight. There is much uncertainty and discontent, so much anger and hate, far, far too much. And we are focused on the hatred.

Many of us, forget the fact that the vast majority of people in this country and the overwhelming majority of those who voted for each candidate, each candidate, are good people. For some of us, the election did not go our way. We have made political opponents into hated enemies. But good people can disagree with one another and still care for one another. We live in this country together, in our communities together, and we are stronger when we can act together. That isn’t a goal. It is a truth. For no few of us, achieving the goals that we would like our nation to achieve will be more difficult today than they might have been. The journey toward those goals—especially toward the day when we will at last be able to hear, “Madam President” while not watching a TV show—is now one delayed.

The journey toward our longed for Promised Land was interrupted. The one whom was thought to lead us there was unable to do so. The movement paused with us remaining in Haran instead reaching Canaan.

Perhaps, alternatively, we’re in Mason Temple in Memphis, Tennessee on April 3^rd, 1968 listening to the words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s last address, given the day before his death:

If I were standing at the beginning of time, with the possibility of taking a kind of general and panoramic view of the whole of human history up to now, and the Almighty said to me, "Martin Luther King, which age would you like to live in?" I would take my mental flight by Egypt and I would watch God's children in their magnificent trek from the dark dungeons of Egypt through, or rather across the Red Sea, through the wilderness on toward the Promised Land. And in spite of its magnificence, I wouldn't stop there.

I would move on by Greece and take my mind to Mount Olympus. And I would see Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, Euripides and Aristophanes assembled around the Parthenon. And I would watch them around the Parthenon as they discussed the great and eternal issues of reality. But I wouldn't stop there.

I would go on, even to the great heyday of the Roman Empire. And I would see developments around there, through various emperors and leaders. But I wouldn't stop there.

I would even come up to the day of the Renaissance, and get a quick picture of all that the Renaissance did for the cultural and aesthetic life of man. But I wouldn't stop there.

I would even go by the way that the man for whom I am named had his habitat. And I would watch Martin Luther as he tacked his ninety-five theses on the door at the church of Wittenberg. But I wouldn't stop there.

I would come on up even to 1863, and watch a vacillating President by the name of Abraham Lincoln finally come to the conclusion that he had to sign the Emancipation Proclamation. But I wouldn't stop there.

I would even come up to the early thirties, and see a man grappling with the problems of the bankruptcy of his nation. And come with an eloquent cry that we have nothing to fear but "fear itself." But I wouldn't stop there.

Strangely enough, I would turn to the Almighty, and say, "If you allow me to live just a few years in the second half of the 20th century, I will be happy."

Now that's a strange statement to make, because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land; confusion all around. That's a strange statement. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. And I see God working in this period of the twentieth century in a way that men, in some strange way, are responding…

Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now, because I've been to the mountaintop.

And I don't mind.

Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land!

Friends, we live in a great nation, but it is not as great as it can be today. One candidate, the one who won the election, pledged to make it great again. Yet, my friends, making our nation great is our job, not his. And that greatness is not just as great as it has been at some point in the past, even if we agree with what that means, but as great as it can become.

Our job is to be there standing up for all of those who are persecuted, to end bigotry and discrimination, to bring comfort to all those who are suffering, to the hungry, to the homeless, to the fallen and to the hopeless. It is to stand alongside those of every race, ethnicity, religion and sexual orientation and bring light and hope into their lives, not just to live up to Isaiah’s vision that we Jews may be a light unto the nations, but to join with others in making our nation a light unto the nations, a beacon light of freedom and hope for all peoples.

And that light must not only shine into the alleyways of our cities, but into the impoverished homes in our countryside and one shuttered factory small towns.

This would be true no matter who won the election this week. The task of making our nation and our world the best they can be is ours, not someone else’s, not the job of someone who won an election or even of every one who won elections. It is our job and we cannot keep from doing it, no matter how daunting it appears.

Lekh lekha! Lekhi Lakh! It’s time to get up and move. Move from a place of despair, hopelessness, anger, sorrow and hatred. To a place of caring, a place of tolerance and understanding of different points of view, to hope and to love. Let us bring light, and not shade, into our world.

If we can do that, we will bring blessings into our lives and into the lives of those who encounter us, and along the way help those blessings spread across our nation.

And we shall be a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom.