| Dear {{first_name}},
When I was in college I took some classes in Israel. Specifically, I was working on an archaeological dig at Zippori and studying its history at night. While we were “in the field” one day, the lead archaeologist took us on a tour of previously excavated sights. He stopped us on the road and told us to look down at the ground. We didn’t see anything and he told us the light was obscuring what we could better see if we stood right over it and cast a shadow. Right there in that spot was some of the earliest graffiti ever. Carved into the road was a menorah! It was then I learned the original, and oldest symbol of our people, is not the lion of Judah or the Jewish star but the menorah (the seven branched candelabra) from the Mishkan and eventually the Temple.
The menorah is symbolic of our connection to Shabbat in that it has seven branches one for each day of the week. It’s symbolic of our connectedness because the entire menorah is made from one piece of metal. The menorah is also reminiscent of our deep connections to the land since the flames were fueled by indigenous olives, or rather their oil. (Side note: When visiting archaeological ruins and parks in Israel, you’ll almost always find olive presses that remind us of the ancient society and their agricultural productiveness. One of the most well-known products was olive oil.) In the opening words of Parashat Behalotecha, we read about the lighting of the menorah while in the desert and how it was to be conducted.
I love the menorah as a symbol because it’s all about light and reminds us of our work to be a “light unto the nations.” It reminds us of unity, the need to work together and of the saying I used to have on my wall when I was a kid: rather than curse the darkness, light a candle. There’s no disputing the reality that we have been experiencing darkness. There’s no way to look the other way and ignore the realities around us that have us perplexed, saddened and scared. I still remember learning in the middle of Shabbat about the massacre at the Tree of Life Congregation in Pittsburgh. After that, we were all vigilant and scared and scarred. Anti-Semitism had already been growing but it suddenly began exploding. Over time, we saw it spread across our country and it has now taken up residence in places both urban and rural, big and small, and liberal and conservative. It is here in our midst and it is wrong.
There can never be anything revolutionary or earth shattering about a Rabbi speaking about anti-Semitism. We speak about it because we’re victims of it and therefor it’s natural we would condemn it. The reality is articles like this won’t stop people from hating us. The reality is we won’t solve the problem of anti-Semitism because we can’t… we are the hated and not the hater. The only solution to hatred is for the person who hates to learn that hatred is immoral, wrong, not advantageous and counterproductive. You’ll often find a number of key buzz words in these articles: understanding, education and tolerance to name a few. My grievance is with the last one. For far too long we’ve asserted that the antidote to hatred is tolerance.
Tolerance is not a value word. Tolerance is about the lowest common denominator when it comes to these conversations. We cannot believe in tolerating people who are different because that doesn’t promote growth and harmony. We can never be satisfied that we tolerate uniqueness and differences. We must aim for something much stronger and much greater: respect. We must respect different people. We must respect different cultures. We must respect different identities. We must respect different religions. Respect is the only bar we can set when we have these hard conversations. If we want to bring light to push away the darkness, then we must not tolerate one another but rather respect one another.
What is our role as the hated in all of this? If we look to the image of the menorah, we might find some great inspiration. I mentioned it’s our oldest symbol. We must see that our past informs our present and our future. We must be willing to see we’re part of a long chain, we’ve weathered these storms in the past, and we’ll weather this one as well. I mentioned the menorah was made from one piece of metal. The Jewish community of today lacks a certain level of unity in the face of this onslaught. We can’t be ready to defend ourselves if we’re fighting with each other. We can’t grow if we are distant. We must put differences and aspirations of personal gain aside and strive to speak with a unified voice to oppose those who seek to harm us. But the greatest thing we can do has little to do with the haters at all.
Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks ז''ל famously opined that non-Jews are embarrassed by Jews who are embarrassed by Judaism while they respect Jews who respect Judaism. In other words, the singular greatest tool we have to combat their small mindedness is to retreat into our tradition and people and recommit ourselves to our religion and the exercise of it. When Judaism becomes more and more important to the Jewish people, we’ll be able to focus less and less on the noise of the haters around us. When we begin to light Shabbat candles more often than we light memorial candles… When we begin to attend services more and more… When we begin to have more fidelity to Jewish rituals… When we begin to commit ourselves to learning more about our people… When we begin to incorporate more mitzvot into our lives… We’ll find anti-Semitism fading into the dustbin of history, albeit slowly, because we will be stronger than their hate. The menorah teaches us light when it’s dark, unity when we’re apart, and above all else, commitment to our people and our tradition.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Hearshen |
