Who Shall Live and Who Shall Die? Responding to the Refugee Crisis - Sermon for Erev Rosh Hashanah 5776/2015

Who Shall Live and Who Shall Die? Responding to the Refugee Crisis

Sermon for Erev Rosh Hashanah 5776/2015

Rabbi Arnold S. Gluck

Temple Beth-El, Hillsborough, NJ

Tomorrow morning, we will read these haunting words from the u’netaneh tokef prayer:

“On Rosh Hashanah it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed…  Who will live and who will die? Who will have long life and who will die young? Who by fire and who by water?... Who by hunger and who by thirst?... Who will be secure and who will be driven?”

Tradition ascribes these words to Rabbi Amnon of Mayence, who lived in the time of the First Crusade—a horrific time when Jewish communities in the Rhineland were ruthlessly attacked, and tens of thousands were massacred.

           

For nearly a thousand years Jews gathered on Rosh Hashanah and read these words with fear and trembling for what might lie ahead for them and their loved ones. As Jews they were exposed, unprotected and vulnerable, subject to expulsions, inquisitions, pogroms, and ultimately the Holocaust.  Who would live and who would die? Who by fire, and who by water? Who would be tortured, and who would survive?

           

For generations Jews read these words literally, mournfully, plaintively, pleading and praying to be sealed for a year of life and blessing. Today, thank God, most Jews have the luxury of reading this prayer metaphorically, as a reflection on the state of our souls. As my rabbi, Chaim Stern, wrote in our machzor:

“On Rosh Hashanah we reflect,

On Yom Kippur we consider:

Who shall live for the sake of others,

Who, dying, shall leave a heritage of life.

Who shall burn with the fires of greed,

Who shall drown in the waters of despair.

Whose hunger shall be for the good,

Who shall thirst for justice and right.”

It’s a beautiful interpretation of the traditional prayer, but this year, I think we should go back to the original version, not in order to ask God “who shall live and who shall die,” but to ask ourselves. We need to ask ourselves because life and death for hundreds of thousands of people lies not in God’s hands, but in human hands. And we need to ask ourselves: will we stand idly by and witness their suffering, or will we do what we can to save them?

I am speaking, of course, of the refugees from African and Middle Eastern countries, especially from Syria, who are fleeing their homes in desperate search of a better life. Some are making their way on foot, others on flimsy boats, others by truck. Thousands of them will not make it. Many have died already. Some by water, some by suffocation, some from hunger… They are unwanted and despised. They’ve been met with violence, denied passage, and been left exposed to the elements without sufficient food and water.  

In today’s u’netaneh tokef, the question “Who shall live and who shall die” is not one for us to ask of God. It is a question that we must ask ourselves. Sitting here in synagogue, we can do more than contemplate the fate of these unfortunate souls... we can resolve to use our power and influence to affect their destiny.

Our tradition calls us to take action to alleviate the plight of others, reminding us repeatedly to love and care for the stranger because we were strangers in the land of Egypt. We know the price of callous indifference. We have been the refugee, repeatedly. And how we wished that somehow, someone would have found the compassion in their hearts to save us then! Far too often there was no one.

Anshel Pfeffer, the grandson of a Holocaust survivor and a reporter for the Israeli newspaper Haaretz, described his thoughts last week as he witnessed the anguish of the refugees on the dusty roads and in the crowded train stations of Europe on their way to what he called “the promised land of Germany.”

“I was looking … for my grandfather,” he said. “I couldn’t help myself. Driving and then riding the rails through Austria, the country where he had been incarcerated during the Holocaust, I asked myself if 70 years ago, he was waiting for a ride, just like those Syrian refugees at the crossroads. Had police herded him onto a train in the same way, keeping him and his unwashed friends in a separate compartment, apart from the “normal,” genteel passengers. Was he as clueless as to where he was going and whether he would ever get there?”

Pfeffer is well aware of the differences between the circumstances of his grandfather and those of today’s refugees. There is no systematic genocide being perpetrated against these asylum seekers. They are fleeing from their own lands to escape persecution at the hands of their own people. But the comparisons are inevitable, and his conclusion is clear: “We now have a duty to be on the side of today’s refugees who are fleeing warfare and persecution… It’s our duty to the refugees we once were.”

So far neither America nor Israel have taken steps to help absorb this wave of refugees. As a nation founded and largely populated by people who came to these shores seeking freedom, it is unthinkable that our country would fail to do its share. To paraphrase Rabbi Tarfon, “we are not expected to complete the task, but neither are we free to desist from it.” So I ask you to join me in asking our elected officials to take action. There are three immediate steps that I urge you to take.

First: On Sept. 30, the President will be submitting his determination of the number of refugees our nation will accept in the coming year. I urge you to join me in calling the White House and asking the President to add 100,000 Syrian refugees to the number he submits. Today I heard that the White House is talking about capping that number at 10,000. It’s not enough.

Second: Call your members of Congress and ask them to support increased funding for refugee absorption.

Third: Go to the website of HIAS (The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) and sign the online petition asking President Obama to “Commit to resettling in the United States 100,000 of the most vulnerable Syrian refugees, allowing more individuals and families to start new lives in safety and freedom.”

There are fliers in the lobby that include all the necessary details for you to be able to take these steps, as well as information about three different Jewish agencies that are actively involved in this cause. I encourage you to contribute to one or more of them.

One very bright note in the midst of this crisis has been the response from Germany, which has pledged to open its doors to receive 800,000 refugees. In an article this week in Haaretz, Rabbi Eliyahu Fink suggested that Jews should look to Germany for inspiration this Rosh Hashanah.  “A short 75 years ago, Germany and many of her citizens were efficient murderers,” wrote Fink. “They were stoics with no soul. But two generations later, we’ve discovered that change is possible. If they did it, we can do it.”

But despite the many Jewish voices that have called for a strong Jewish response to the refugee crisis, the current government of Israel has not responded with compassion. To be sure, there are real concerns about the security of Israel’s border with Syria, and there is always the issue of terrorism that must be considered. But given our history and the powerful insistence of our Jewish tradition that we side with the oppressed, it is hard to fathom why Prime Minister Netanyahu has not taken action.

Israel’s involvement in this issue has been going on for years, ever since a wave of refugees from Africa began crossing Israel’s southern border, fleeing war, poverty and persecution in their home countries. Today there are some 45,000 asylum seekers who are stuck in Israel without any formal status, subject to the threat of deportation.

No one is asking Israel to absorb them all. The fact that Israel is the first reasonable place an African refugee can reach on foot doesn’t mean Israel should shoulder the entire burden of resettlement. But it would be a strong statement of our values as Jews if the government would identify a number that it will accept. That would provide a moral basis for Israel to then ask other nations to do their share in responding to this crisis.

Similarly, it would be a very powerful message for Israel to accept even a token number of Syrian refugees. The difference between a Jewish state and a state of Jews is that a Jewish state applies Jewish values to its actions. And Jewish values demand that we not be indifferent to the suffering of any of God’s children. Israel has lived up to this standard on many occasions in the past, from welcoming and resettling Vietnamese boat people during the administration of Menachem Begin, to providing the most effective disaster relief when earthquakes struck in Haiti, Turkey, and Nepal.

I encourage you to contact the office of the Prime Minister of Israel and ask him to take these actions. You can do this online through the website of the Israel Religious Action Center.

Let us not be guilty of the sin of silence or the act of callous indifference. Let us not stand idly by while borders are closed and hearts are hardened. Let us open our hearts and tap into the divine wellspring of compassion that God has given us, and let us act now to save lives.

You may recall the story of the man whose heart broke over the grave injustice he witnessed in the world. Moved to tears he cried out, “Dear God, look at all the suffering, the anguish and distress in your world. Why don’t you send help?” And God responded, “I did send help. I sent you.”

May we hear God’s voice calling us to action to save our brothers and sisters who are suffering, and may we help them to find a home where they can live in dignity and peace.

V’chein yehi ratzon! Amen!

Justice and Righteousness: Finding the Balance - Sermon for Rosh Hashanah Morning 5776/2015

Justice and Righteousness: Finding the Balance

Sermon for Rosh Hashanah Morning 5776/2015

Rabbi Arnold S. Gluck

Temple Beth-El, Hillsborough, NJ

On the last day of his life, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai summoned his disciples to his bedside for an urgent meeting. All his life, he tells them, he has struggled over a certain teaching, and now as his life is fading, he must reveal it to them so he can leave this world in peace.

Quoting a verse in Psalms he says: “Tzedek u’mishpat m’chon kis-echa, chesed v’emet y’kadmu fanecha; Justice and righteousness, tzedek u'mishpat, are the foundation of Your throne. Love and truth, chesed v’ement, go before Your presence.”

The world needs tzedek. There must be justice, says Rabbi Shimon. Without justice there will be no peace, only conflict. But if tzedek exists in isolation- if it is not tempered by righteousness, by forbearance and understanding, by mishpat, it becomes a raging fire that will destroy the world. We need tzedek u’mishpat, justice and righteousness, for the foundation of the world to be firm and secure. We need to balance our qualities to save the world from the flames of absolute and unyielding justice. Who will do this? Who will save us? Who will bring the balance? That, says Rabbi Shimon, is the role of the tzadikim, the righteous who bring love to balance truth, and righteousness to temper judgment.

Some six hundred years after this story appeared in the mystical Zohar, Rabbi Shimon’s teaching is more urgent than ever. The flames of justice, fiery, angry, harsh and violent threaten to consume us. In our politics, in race relations, in our discourse, and in our personal lives we are increasingly unyielding, intolerant, angry and indignant. Our public debates are filled with rancor and arrogance, leaving little room for understanding or compromise. We are, it seems, more concerned with being right than with being righteous. As Rabbi Shimon would say, we are out of balance.

Consider the debate about Iran. This is a crucial conversation about a very serious matter. As a Jewish community we should understand that we need to stand together to seek the best possible outcome. We should also accept that reasonable people may disagree about the right course of action. But instead of seeking common ground and working from there, we have allowed this issue to divide us in ways that may cause lasting harm.

On both sides of the issue there are people of good will who are serious, thoughtful, and experienced in matters of security and diplomacy. All agree that Iran is a sponsor of terror and a force for evil in the world. Both sides agree that Iran must not be allowed to get the bomb. Why on earth then has the discourse become so nasty and malicious, to the point where some have accused Senator Chuck Schumer of being a warmonger and a traitor to his country for opposing the deal, while others have called Congressman Jerry Nadler a collaborator and a Nazi for supporting the accord?  Chuck Schumer, a traitor?! Chuck Schumer is a great American, a true patriot. And Jerry Nadler, a Nazi?! Jerry Nadler is a devoted Jew with an impeccable record of support for Israel. How dare anyone malign these two good men and so polarize our Jewish community. And these are just two examples among many. The American ambassador to Israel, Dan Shapiro, himself a deeply committed Jew and Zionist, has received death threats for representing the Obama administration. And both he and the President have been accused of planning the next Holocaust. Really?!

Both sides of the debate have the purist of intent, and shame on us if we fail to see that. The answer to the vexing and portentous question of Iran was not handed down from Sinai, and I for one would like to see all involved take a more constructive approach to their arguments. The debate will end, but the rift we’ve opened by the way we have dealt with our differences may cause irreparable damage to our relationships. And for what? Will insulting and demeaning each other advance the cause of truth? What is certain is that we debase and diminish ourselves when we act this way.

Consider also the growing racial divide in our country. We should all be greatly distressed about the emergence of a permanent underclass in our society that is mostly Black and Hispanic. And we should all be greatly concerned about the disproportionate number of African American casualties to gun violence and police violence. Justice demands that we all agree that black lives matter. But things have gone terribly wrong when that demand turns into a call for violence against police officers, or into looting and burning the shops of innocent citizens as we saw in Ferguson, Missouri. When justice is not tempered by righteousness and truth is not balanced by peace, injustice only grows and the fires of hate rage out of control.

This is how our rabbis understand the verse in Deuteronomy, “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” Justice must be pursued with justice. The means will determine the end. Fairness and equity will be achieved only if the way we pursue them is just and right and decent. As the psalm says: “The foundation of God’s throne,” of this world in which we live, “is Justice and righteousness.

The Talmud presents a classic case that helps us understand the price of absolute justice. It is the matter of the meirish ha-gazul, a stolen beam that is used to build a large house or a palace. I’ve distributed the text to you so we could take a few minutes to discuss it. 

The scenario seems simple. But as we’ll see, it’s really not so simple at all. A person steals a beam that he or she then uses to build a large house or a palace. When the thief is caught, what is the right and just thing to do regarding that beam? What does justice demand? Do you agree with Beit Shammai that the palace should be demolished so the beam can be restored to its rightful owner? Or do you agree with Rabbi Hillel that the rightful owner should receive only the monetary value of the beam, and not the beam itself?  And more importantly, what are the implications of this teaching for our world?

Discuss

How is justice to be done? Beit Shammai says demolish entire building and restore the beam to its rightful owner. Beit Hillel thinks otherwise. Beit Hillel says the owner should receive the monetary value of the beam, and nothing else, so as not to impede the path of repentance.

Why does Shammai say destroy the building? Because the plaintiff says, “I want my beam back. You stole it from me, it’s mine, and I want it back! Shammai agrees. Justice, says Beit Shammai, demands that the plaintiff get back what rightfully belongs to him.

So why does Hillel take a different view? Why does he say the owner should receive only the value of the beam? Doesn’t Hillel believe in justice? Of course he does! But it is precisely because he is committed to justice that Hillel seeks compromise. Hillel wants a world in which injustice can actually be addressed, one in which the thief will agree to take responsibility; one in which the thief will repent. For the sake of teshuva, for the thief to repent of his sin and make restitution, there must

be compromise. An eye for an eye, makes the whole world blind, and only leads to more hostility. We have only to look to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to see how the demand for strict justice actually perpetuates injustice and blocks the path to peace.

As my teacher Melila Hellner Eshed notes, “the whole world is built on a stolen beam.” Think about it. Most of what we have once belonged to someone else. The Romans took our land from us and exiled us. America was taken from its native peoples. And so on, and so on. The Palestinians don’t want to settle for the West Bank. They want Haifa and Jaffa. And who can blame them! They want their beam, their orange grove. They want their land! But it’s a non-starter. No one will agree. No one will concede. A demand that can only be fulfilled by destroying the whole building, or in this case, dismantling the State of Israel? It doesn’t stand a chance. 

When each one insists that he or she is right, there will be no peace, only conflict.

But when tzedek and mishpat, justice and righteousness are balanced. When there is moderation and compromise, then there is hope for peace and reconciliation.

The late great Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai captured this idea in a poem entitled, “The place where we are right.”

            From the place where we are right

Flowers will never grow in springtime.

The place where we are right

Is hard and trampled

Like a courtyard.

But doubts and loves

Loosen up the earth

Like a mole, like a plow.

And a whisper will be heard in the place

Where the ruined

Temple once stood.

Amichai alludes to a tradition that the Temple was destroyed because justice was applied there too strictly, without compromise. And he is right. Nothing beautiful grows on ground that is hardened, just as nothing good emerges from hearts that are hardened and are closed. 

Today’s Torah reading is a story of hardened hearts. Sarah is barren and she’s utterly bereft. She desperately wants a child, and feels duty bound to give Abraham an heir. Reluctantly, she gives him her handmaid, and she’s consumed with jealousy when Hagar has a son. Even his name, Ishmael, which means ‘God has heard,’ mocks Sarah, whose prayers have gone unanswered.

Sadly, the birth of Isaac does nothing to open Sarah’s heart. She cannot abide the presence of the older son, whose very existence means that her son will always be second. How wrong and how unjust that her handmaid should be the mother of the firstborn. She feels cheated, diminished and she is furious. She lashes out, demanding that Abraham banish Hagar and her child— who is his child!  Reluctantly, he agrees.

Sarah’s actions are so wrong, her judgment so cruel, were God to treat her measure for measure – by the standard of pure justice, as she treated Ishmael and Hagar, Sarah would surely be condemned. But God knows the pain Sarah feels, not just the hurt she causes, and so God balances tzedek and mishpat, justice and mercy, and shows her compassion. Instead of exacting justice, God acts righteously to save the lives of Ishmael and Hagar. Here, God is the model of the tzadik, the righteous one of whom Rabbi Shimon spoke, the one who brings love to balance truth, and righteousness to temper judgment.

In this story God is the picture of the tzadik. At other times God does not appear to be so righteous. After the sin of the Golden Calf, for instance, God is ready to annihilate the entire people and start over with Moses. There it is Moses who plays the role of the tzadik and saves the people from God’s demand for justice.

Finding the right balance between tzedek and mishpat, between justice and righteousness, is so very difficult that our sages imagine even God needs help to get it right.

The Talmud relates how one Yom Kippur Rabbi Yishmael, the High Priest, entered the inner chamber of the Temple to seek forgiveness for the sins of Israel, and had a vision of God sitting on a high and lofty throne of compassion. God said to him, “Ishmael my son, bless me.” So Rabbi Ishmael said to God: “May it be Your will that Your mercy may suppress Your anger, that Your compassion may prevail over You your harsher attributes, so that You may treat Your children with kindness, and grant them forbearance and forgiveness.”

This is an amazing text. It is Yom Kippur, the day when God is to render judgment upon us. The High Priest enters the Holy of Holies to seek God’s favor, and what does he find there? He finds God struggling! God is sitting on the throne of mercy, but clearly is having difficulty mustering compassion. So much so, that God asks Rabbi Ishmael for a blessing. Ishmael, who knows the people have sinned, understands God’s dilemma. It is the same challenge parents have with their children, and husbands and wives have with their spouses. Love must not be blind. We must set boundaries and we must enforce them. But if we are too rigid. If we are unyielding and unforgiving, our children will grow up to be cruel, and our marriages won’t last.

In a related passage the Talmud asks whether God prays, and after concluding that God does pray, the rabbis ask what God prays. What do you think God prays? What do the rabbis say God prays? It is the very blessing of Rabbi Ishmael, turned into a prayer, in the first person. God prays: “May it be My will that My mercy may suppress My anger, that My compassion may prevail over My harsher attributes, so that I may treat My children with kindness, and grant them forbearance and forgiveness.”

This is the prayer of one who strives to be a tzaddik, a righteous person. It recognizes the challenge of balancing tzedek u’mishpat, justice and righteousness, but it inspires us to rise to meet that challenge. It comes with no guarantees, but it offers hope, hope for balance. So I suggest that we embrace this prayer and make it our own. We all need it. Every single one of us. Especially those of us who don’t think we need it! And here’s how I think we might use it: as part of a meditation I invite you to try with me now.

I invite you to let your eyes close. Think now of a hurt that you’ve experienced; a time or a way that you feel that you were wronged; maybe a bitter disappointment you’ve felt with your children, your spouse, a parent, or a friend. Allow yourself to reconnect with how you felt when you experienced that hurt.

Think now of a time or a way that you’ve caused hurt, or wronged, or disappointed someone else; your child, your spouse, your parent, a friend. Remember how you felt when you realized the hurt that you had caused, and how you wished to be forgiven.

Now I invite you to recite this prayer with me: “May it be my will; that my mercy may suppress my anger; that my compassion may prevail over my harsher attributes; so that I may treat all people with kindness; and grant them forbearance.”

V’chein yehi ratzon! May this be a year of blessing and forgiveness, of righteousness and justice. And let us say: Amen!

Have Mezuzah Kit, Will Travel!

Have Mezuzah Kit, Will Travel!

In addition to contributing to my health and wellness, one of the benefits I derive from going to the gym on a regular basis is the opportunity to meet interesting people and forge meaningful new relationships. One of the people I’ve met there is with a lovely man who is an active member of a synagogue near Princeton and the son of a retired Conservative rabbi. He and I have discussed a whole variety of topics, we have learned some good Torah together, and we have talked about our dads, both of whom are named Stanley.

My friend, who is a local therapist, was supportive and comforting to me when my father died, and I have offered him words of encouragement in coping with his father’s decline into dementia. Our respective life paths and their similarities enable us to understand and identify with each other in helpful ways.

A few weeks ago I ran into my friend at the gym and found him in a pensive mood. So I probed a bit to see what was troubling him. With his father clearly fading, he and his family had reached the conclusion that it was time for his mother to move from the family home, and they were now in the process of dismantling the setting where so much of their lives had been lived and their memories shaped. “It is so hard to see my father this way,” he lamented. “For a man who was such a strong and vibrant leader of our people, and whose voice echoed the wisdom to the Torah and the Sages, to be so diminished, unable to speak, and barely able to take nourishment is just too painful to see,” he said.

I reminded him of the teaching from the Talmud that after the sin of the Golden Calf, when Moses received the second set of the Ten Commandments, the fragments of the broken Tablets were placed in the Holy Ark along with the new Tablets. In B’rachot 8b, Rabbi Judah analogizes these broken Tablets to an elderly person who has forgotten his learning. Your father, I said to him, is the broken Tablets. He is still holy and deserving of honor and respect till the day he dies, and beyond.

The next time we met at the gym, my friend surprised me by announcing that he wanted to give me something. So I waited while he went out to his car from which he retrieved a well-worn metal tackle box. I couldn’t imagine what could be in there. Was it fishing tackle? I’d never given him reason to think I was interested in fishing, so why would he want his rabbi friend to have this?

He opened the box and revealed its treasure. It was filled with mezuzah parchments, the klaf written like a Torah scroll, containing the Sh’ma and V’ahavta, that we Jews affix to the doorposts of our house. There were mezuzah cases of all sizes and types, nails, screws, hammers, glue, and other paraphernalia that one would use to affix a mezuzah. It was a rabbi’s toolkit—Rabbi Stanley P’s mitzvah tools, his k’lei kodesh, which he used to help Jews dedicate and sanctify their homes and offices as dwelling places of the Divine Spirit. A rabbi’s toolkit belongs with a rabbi, said my friend, so I want you to have it, if you’ll use it.

“It would be an honor and a privilege to be the custodian of this piece of your father’s legacy,” I said, “but on one condition. I will do my best to use it as your father did, but I don’t want to own it. I’d like to hold it in trust for the next generation, and pass it on to my daughter Shira when the time comes.” My friend agreed it was a good plan.

So now I am the proud keeper of Rabbi Stanley P’s mitzvah tools, and I stand ready to use them in the service of our Jewish community. If you don’t have a kosher mezuzah on the doorpost of your home, I will come affix one for you, and recite with you the blessings that declare your home to be a mishkan, a sanctuary where God’s presence and the values of our people live.

May Holy One bless and keep Rabbi Stanley P, a devoted and learned servant of God, whom I never had the pleasure to meet, but whose spirit I have pledged to honor by continuing a small but significant part of his sacred mission. And may my friend and his family find comfort and consolation in the knowledge that his father’s legacy will live on in the world in one more way.