From Doubt to Faith: Tish'a B'Av

From Doubt to Faith, From Mourning To Joy: Tish’a B’Av

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

When Nebuchadnezzar II, king of Babylon, conquered Jerusalem in the year 587 BCE, his chosen date for setting Solomon’s Temple on fire was Tish’a B’Av (the ninth day of the Hebrew month Av). This choice may have been random; or he may have selected it on purpose. For the ancient Mesopotamians, this season was one of joy and celebration. After spending nearly half a year in the underworld, their deity Dumuzi was resurrected every summer at this time, and Nebuchadnezzar might very well have chosen the date to show the Judeans that whereas our God was now homeless, powerless and on exile, their god had ascended to victory and prominence.

The myth of the death and resurrection of a divinity called “The Favorite Son” was  popular at the time, and it made its way into other myths and religions.

But not in Judaism. This was, after all, the religion in which Father Abraham was told in no uncertain terms not to sacrifice his favorite son, Isaac.

Nevertheless, a day that had been set aside for celebration in the ancient world turned instead into a day of grief and mourning for the Judean nation.

But it didn’t stay that way. At least, not entirely.

In the Jewish tradition, formed by the ancient Rabbis to unify a people that had spread throughout a vast Diaspora, Tish’a B’Av was not just any random date on the calendar. Rather, it became a day set aside for disaster by God Godself. This was the day on which the twelve spies sent by Moses to bring back to the people a report of the Promised Land, returned with bad news: the land was fruitful and beautiful, but impossible to conquer. The majority report, delivered by ten of the spies, caused the people to panic and lose faith in God and Moses. Only Joshua and Caleb reminded them that God was their stronghold, and that as long as they kept their faith, they could indeed overtake the giants and monsters that presently occupied the Land of Canaan. Unfortunately, the people refused to listen and nearly stoned Moses and Aaron to death. This was the first Tish’a B’Av, and it set the precedent for all those that would follow.

The First Temple, built in Jerusalem around 950 BCE by King David’s son, Solomon, was destroyed on Tisha B’Av, as was the Second Temple, destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. Both destructions resulted in the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of Jews, and many who survived were sold to slavery or exiled to foreign lands.

It was on Tish’a B’Av that the last Judean rebellion against the Romans was crushed in 135 CE. The leader of the rebellion, Simeon Bar Kochba, a man whose vision and bravery caused many to see him as the Messiah, was killed and his fortress, Beitar, was razed to the ground. Following this disaster, the Roman emperor Hadrian changed the name of Judea to Palestine. He also founded a new city on the ruins of Jerusalem and named it Aelia Capitolina, hoping to erase the memory of the holy city from the hearts and souls of the defeated but still-stubborn Judeans.

In the more recent past, other disasters took place on the same date (or, in some cases, a day or two later): The expulsion of the Jews from England in 1290; from France in 1306; from Spain in 1492; and the start of the liquidation of the Warsaw Ghetto in 1942.

In the eyes of some, the dating of these disasters was no more than coincidence. As the Rabbis saw it, however, it was no less than the fulfillment of a divine decree.

But the story does not end with destruction. Just as in the Torah God relents and lets the remnant of Israelites enter the Promised Land, so is God bound throughout history to forgive God’s People, the Jews, when they repent and return to God through faith and good deeds.

By setting Tish’a B’Av in a context of faith, the Rabbis succeeded in transforming sorrow and mourning into faith and hope. As long as the Jewish Nation held on to their belief in God, Redemption was bound to come about. It was their failproof restructuring of the Jewish religion that turned a day in history into an eternal, cosmic event. Our faith became our mission, and as long as we endeavored to fulfill it, our Redemption was imminent.

Jewish tradition calls for the observance of Tish’a B’Av through a number of customs:  fasting for 25 hours; communal reading of kinnot (liturgical poems of keening and grief) as well as the books of Job and Lamentations; and the performance of deeds of kindness and righteousness. These, we are told, are the actions that will hasten ge’ula (Redemption) and will bring salvation not only for us, but also for the entire world.

The Rabbis conclude their remarkable take on this day by teaching that on Tish’a B’Av, on the very day that was set aside for terrible misfortunes and calamities, the Messiah will be born. May our faith and good deeds be strengthened by this belief, so that the day will come soon when all hunger, war, disease and ignorance will disappear from this world once and for all and be replaced by wisdom, love and peace.

[This year, 2020, Tish’a B’Av will be observed July 29-30]

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

The 42 Steps: Matot—Mass’ei.20

The 42 Steps: D’var Torah for Matot—Mass’ei

July 17, 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

We like to collect mementos, souvenirs of places we’ve been to or experiences that hold meaning for us. Whether it’s a rock found on a hike in the Carmel Mountains or on the hills of Jerusalem, a touristy knick-knack from an exotic location, or a magnet from each State in the Union that we have visited, we all have our collections. Like songs from a particular era, our souvenirs hold memories for us, they take us back to other places and times. They help us keep track of where we are today, and where we’ve been along the way.

With this week’s Torah reading, (the double portion Matot-Mass’ei, Numbers 30:2—36:13), the book of Numbers, the fourth book in the Torah, comes to a close. In this concluding section we are given a list of all the places the Israelites stopped at along their journeys in the Sinai Wilderness—forty-two stops in all—each bringing up memories, some good, others not so much. Still others are a mixed bag. So at Mt. Sinai the Israelites receive the Ten Commandments. But also at this very time and place—the most awesome moment of God’s revelation—they give in to temptation and bow down before the Golden Calf.

Forty years later, as their travels come to a close, right before they ford the Jordan River, with all the hope and jubilation the Israelites might have felt at that moment, they are also about to be thrown into mourning over the loss of their guide and teacher. Mt. Nebo is the spot from which Moses will see the Promised Land—but where he is about to die and be buried.

Yet it’s more than memories that these souvenirs hold for us: It’s lessons, too. The Torah is a roadmap for us, marking not only where we were, but also what we learned there.

For all its grandeur and vision, the Torah is really a microcosm of Jewish existence. We have been wandering not only forty years, but rather thousands of years. We have seen empires come and go, civilizations rise and fall. We have lived through revolutions and civil wars. We witnessed pogroms and crusades. We’ve seen golden ages become dark ages, and back again.

And through all these, our understanding both of life and its meaning has continued to evolve, grow and mature.

As a people, however, we tend to mark the successes of our existence, our miraculous escapes from persecution. What all too often we overlook is our failures. It isn’t only the complaining in the desert, or even the worship of the Golden Calf. It’s the zealotry of Pinchas, whose murderous rage sets an example for all zealots who do not hesitate to kill in the name of their belief. It’s the genocide of the Midianites, the indiscriminate killing of all men, women and children and the looting of all their possessions.

That we have come a long way from these horrific memories does not cancel or erase them from our Torah. They are always there, their purpose to remind us of the dangers and pitfalls we need to circumvent.

Our successes must never blind us to our failings. Our rich contributions to humanity must never cover up mistakes that we also made along our long history.

Today, bitter dialogue is arising between Jews and members of the Black Lives Matter movement. Unwelcome reminders of what has been termed “Jewish privilege” are flung in our faces. And while we can come up with responses to some of these, others are not so easy to excuse. While the African slave trade was neither invented nor financed by the Jews, there were Jewish slave traders. And there has been cultural appropriation. Jewish and non-Jewish musicians, including George Gershwin, Benny Goodman and many others—used blues, jazz and other musical idioms developed by Blacks to their own advantage and gain.

We can always find excuses: these very Jewish musicians also helped popularize black music and bring it to the attention of the white cultural elite, paving the road for eventual recognition of the Black contribution to American—and world—music.

And we can also find excuses for the pawnbrokers and the Jewish merchants who opened up shops in Black neighborhoods—when they couldn’t afford (or weren’t allowed in) other, more expensive locations.

But it’s also vital that we recognize that there were Jews who definitely took advantage of their color and money: absentee slumlords who failed to maintain and upkeep their buildings. Real estate and property developers who conspired to keep people of color segregated. Racism is evident in some of the language we use and even in the beliefs some Jews hold. We are, after all, product of the culture of which we are part, to which we contribute but from which we also absorb and draw sustenance.

But at the same time we must not lose sight of the fact that anti-Semitism is present in many of the statements we hear coming out of the Black Lives Matter movement and certain individuals. Anti-Zionism—the latest form that anti-Semitism has taken in its long evolution—is prevalent on college campuses and in many of the liberal media. A prominent member of the editorial staff on the New York Times—Bari Weiss—resigned a couple of days ago, citing bullying and harassment from other staffers. This, too, is part of the culture we live in today, where Jews more and more are excluded from public debate and representation.  And it doesn’t stop only with words. Desecration and vandalism of Jewish cemeteries and synagogues, violent assaults and mass shootings at places easily recognizable as Jewish-owned or catering to Jews have risen in the double digits.

Obviously not all of these acts can be attributed to anti-Semitism among People of Color. The rise of neo-Nazis and other far-right extremists is equally worrying.

We Jews cannot be complacent about any of this. In an interview given two days ago, former NYPD Commissioner Ray Kelly warned that “We are in a dangerous place in history,” and that Jews should “protect our communities.”

And how exactly should we do that? Most synagogues and JCC’s already have armed security guards at their gates. Perhaps we should now learn to build golems, like the famous Golem of Prague?

As we continue to watch events unfolding on city streets; as we continue to follow political debates on the media; whatever position we take, we must always also remember to stand up for ourselves. Supporting the rights of other minorities does not diminish our responsibility to ourselves, to the Jewish community and to the entire Jewish people.

What a timely reminder we find in these concluding portions of the Torah’s Book of Numbers, as Moses chides two of the twelve tribes of Israel who choose to dwell outside the borders of the Promised Land. Does that mean that they won’t come to the aid of the other Israelites as they struggle to establish and defend themselves, Moses inquires with both anger and indignation. To which the members of the tribes of Gad and Reuben answer, we will always be there for our brethren!

The question of what we Jews must do to protect ourselves has always been part of our culture. All along our history, some Jews sought to disappear rather than stand up, to hide rather than fight back.

This is one of the stones I have picked up along my many stops along my path in life, a reminder that I must not be silent when my people are threatened. It’s much more than a magnet on my refrigerator or a song on my playlist: It’s a vow I have taken, one I will not renege on, one which will always be there before my eyes. I will not be pushed aside or silenced.

As a Jew, I will continue to engage in the ongoing struggle to free the oppressed and to integrate the disenfranchised, excluded and subjugated.

But at the same time I will continue to demand for myself and my people the very same freedoms I demand for others—the right to exist, to define myself, to defend myself and my people against all our detractors.

We have learned much since our early days as a civilization. Our accomplishments and our missteps have taught us much about the rights and wrongs of warfare; about civil rights; about justice for all human beings, regardless of color, gender or creed. Our history and culture are always there to remind us that we have come a long way from Sinai to where we stand today.

Today we stand together: One people, one God, one humanity, “with liberty and justice for all.”  This is our path, no matter how many steps it will take to get there.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

Rebuilding America: Independence Day 2020

Rebuilding America: Independence Day 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Not often, but just sometimes, I long for the simpler days of the past. Not even the recent past, but rather those ancient days of the Torah and Prophets. In truth, I don’t look at those days through rose-tinted glasses. I don’t think there were fewer problems then—only simpler solutions. Take this week’s Torah portion, Chukat, and specifically the sacrifice ordained in its first few verses, Deut. 19:1-12, the ritual of the Red Heifer.

Little is known about this strange and mysterious sacrifice. Intended to atone for unspeakable sins committed by an individual or community, it’s said to have been offered either seven or nine times during the entire time that the Temple stood in Jerusalem.

Some commentators say that the original sin which necessitated this law was the worship of the Golden Calf. Another story, from the Midrash, explains that it was meant to exorcise demons. In either case, it was a purification ceremony. Its hopeful effect was to remove guilt from the community, so that all could go about their business with a clear conscience. Simple, neat, and effective. How sad that we don’t have this kind of reset button in our own day. How much we could all use it, as individuals and as a nation.

244 years ago, this country was founded on the principle of freedom, justice and equality for all. A wonderful ideal—but like all ideals, difficult to achieve. Several things stood in the way.

For one thing, white settlement in the New World was based on colonialism, the belief that countries could impose their religious, cultural and economic systems on other nations and lands. And even though religious freedom was one of the goals of the original Pilgrims, not all religions were equally accepted.  The right of Jews to practice Judaism was a hard-won freedom. And then, of course, there was slavery, born of economic necessity, greed, and inherent racism.

The inevitable conflict between the ideal and the real led to disastrous results that are still with us  today. Throughout America’s history, the sins of the fathers were visited upon the children, and today we still find racism, anti-Semitism and white nationalism ripping apart our society.

If only there were some simple ritual that, like the ancient Israelites, we could undergo to solve these problems!

Unfortunately, there isn’t one. And although we have been making headway, step by step, amendment by amendment, the road ahead is still unclear and perilous.

Now it feels as though America is under attack again. Not only from the COVID virus, nor so much from foreign countries (though this danger is always there)—but rather from within. Today, our society and nation are suffering from wounds that have never healed and are still painful, still bleeding.

How did we get here? From a group of individualists seeking freedom and unity, today we are a people who have turned against one another, with some groups intent on imposing their own beliefs, their own way of looking at God, lifestyle and mission, upon others, with little or no tolerance for other possibilities. The prejudices of our past are still an inseparable part of who we are today. They determine where we live, what we do, where and how we educated our children, and how we protect ourselves from real or perceived danger.

It would be easy to put the blame on the virus, or the political system, even climate changes. But though these are powerful factors, they are not in themselves the root cause of the riots and demonstrations that have been taking place in almost every city in America. Yet they do serve to tear the veil from our eyes, making visible what we so conveniently veered our gaze from until now.

As we look forward, in a short six years, to the 250^th anniversary of the founding of our nation, we have much to contend with. Though the goals of the Founding Fathers were noble, our path has not been guilt-free. Our nation was founded on colonialism, our homes built on land taken by force and violence from Native Americans. Our entire economic system is based on cheap labor—and until not too long ago, on actual slavery. To this day, our socio-economic system is defined by gender, color, race and religion. This is what has delineated property lines, demarcated our inner cities from outlying suburbs. This is what led to an hierarchical education system; a healthcare system that discriminates between those who can afford medical attention and those who can’t; and a judicial structure that singles out and victimizes People of Color.

The United States is a political experiment unique in all history. Unlike nations that can claim a past going back to ancient days, sharing a common history and fate; unlike empires that sought to unify through domination and subjugation, our country was formed with these unique ideals: That freedom is the right and privilege of every individual; that Government is neither exempt from the law nor above it; that unity emerges from the collective effort and contributions of the many. This, at least, is what the Fourth of July has always meant for me. When I look at the Stars and Stripes, what I see is the potential for greatness, just as the millions who arrived at the shores of America looked through the harbor mists and saw the Statue of Liberty standing for the promise of acceptance, opportunity, and equality. But this glorious vision is only true for some, not for all. For those who came as slaves, for those who were driven from their native lands, America was far less than all that.

And that is what we—we, I say, all of us, of all genders, races, religions and philosophies—must fix if this nation is to find healing. Once upon a time, it was possible for a high priest to slaughter an animal and offer ablution for our sins. Today, we must be the priest. It’s up to us to atone for those sins by which we have benefitted. “You shall not stand idly by your brother’s blood,” the Torah teaches us. We must not profit from the suffering of others—that’s the basis of human morality and the teaching of every creed, faith and religion.

On this Independence Day, it is incumbent upon us not to look with arrogance and self-righteousness at our past, but rather with humility and questioning at our future. At his inaugural address in 1961, President John F. Kennedy challenged us to, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” Today we must ask ourselves a similar question: What can each of us do to heal our nation, to bind our wounds, to make us whole again, whether by voting, demonstrating, patronizing businesses owned and run by People of Color, or simply by engaging in conversation and learning about conditions we turned a blind eye to in the past.

Perhaps, in the end, it’s just as well that the Torah’s Ritual of the Red Heifer isn’t practiced anymore. It made it too easy to find forgiveness, to go on with life, to return to a situation that we called normal. What we know today is that there is no silver bullet, no magic reset button, only the hard work of reconciliation and rebuilding America.

244 years ago, our Forefathers laid the groundwork for a great nation. Today, we must be its builders, replacing worn structures with new ones, paving roads and bridges that will take us forward, not backwards; making sure that when we say, “with liberty and justice for all,” we really mean “all” and not “just some.”

May the day come soon when prejudice and intolerance will be gone from this nation and this earth, when true equality will enable each of us to reach the potential for which we were placed on this earth.

May this be God’s will.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

Juneteenth: Day of Dreams

Juneteenth: Day of Dreams

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

June 19, 2020

The Jewish calendar is different from all other calendars. “How is it different?” you ask. Well, to begin with, our days don’t start when we get up, but rather on the evening before, at sunset. The reason usually given is based on the story of Creation, where we read, “And it was evening and it was morning, first day… second day…” and so on.

And that’s why it’s on Friday evenings that we have a special service to welcome the Sabbath; that is why the Passover Seder is held on the evening preceding the first day of the holiday, and why the Yom Kippur fast begins not on the morning of the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, but at sunset the evening before.

But there is yet another purpose for this practice, a psychological explanation with deep meaning. Twilight, the onset of darkness, has spiritual as well as emotional effect on us, often bringing with it feelings of sadness and gloom, and even the neurological phenomenon commonly known as sundowning.

Illuminating the darkness with candles and cheer helps in warding off sadness and dejection. The night, instead of being cause for fear and anxiety, thus becomes a time of hopeful anticipation.

Much has been written in Midrash and rabbinic commentaries about the phrase “And it came to pass at midnight” (וַיְהִי בַּחֲצִי הַלַּיְלָה, Exodus 12:29), the time when the Angel of Death came to deliver upon Pharaoh and all Egypt that final, terrible, tenth plague, the Death of the Firstborn. It was at that fearful moment—not an exact hour, but rather better understood as that most dismal and darkest portion of the night—that the Redemption of the Israelite People began.

Finding optimism while in the throes of despair is no easy feat. It takes vision and courage. It takes all our strength to overcome doubt and fear. It requires that we crack open that shell of Faith, deeply buried inside us, and within which Hope is encased.

We are living through challenging times today. The first wave of the COVID pandemic shows no signs of abating, and there’s already fear of a second wave come this fall and winter. The economy is in a shambles, and our confidence in the country’s leadership is quickly vanishing. Civil unrest is sweeping through our cities, the result of centuries of brutality and injustice directed against African Americans and other people of color, and scenes of savage violence, vandalism and cruelty are unfolding before our eyes daily. How easy it would be to give in to the darkness, to become discouraged, or else to join the surge of fury and rage.

And yet, in the midst of all this change and convolution, we are given a sign, a candle in the dark as it were: Juneteenth.

Juneteenth—the name given this day, the 19^th of June—commemorates the abolition of slavery in America, and as such it’s a day that needs to be observed not only by African Americans, but also by all Americans. For slavery, while causing immense suffering on People of Color, has left a deep stain of shame and guilt on the rest of us, who have either taken advantage of, or benefitted from, this terrible injustice that was inflicted on millions of human beings.

The past three weeks have been transformative for all of us. It isn’t only the rioting, the marches and the demonstrations that we have been watching or participating in. It’s the eye-witness stories of racism and bigotry that we’ve been reading and hearing; the testimonies of indignities and humiliations; the cries of anguish that few of us paid heed to. Suddenly we see new meanings in old, degrading stereotypes that have been around for ages: Aunt Jemimah; Mammy; blackface.

The reawakening of conscience is no simple matter. Some claim ignorance, or else deny harboring racism. For many of us however, the vital question is no longer “What have we done,” but rather, “Have we done enough?” 

And that’s why this year, Juneteenth is such an important day, to be observed not only by those who benefitted most from it—African Americans—but also by the rest of us, for whom this day represents our own awakening.

June 19, 1865 was the day on which the citizens of Galveston, Texas, first heard the news of the Emancipation of slaves, two and a half years after President Lincoln proclaimed it in Washington, D.C. On this day, Major General Gordon Granger of the Union Army issued General Order Number 3, announcing the end of the Civil War, and with it also the end of slavery in the United States.

But though slavery was abolished, the stated goal of this order, “Absolute equality of rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves,”[1] has yet to be reached. Slavery may have been abolished, but racism in America is far from gone.

In the Torah, it took the Israelites 40 years after the beginning of Redemption on that fateful midnight in Egypt to reach the Promised Land. During that period of time, there were many times when the people lost hope, when they  rioted and rebelled. Some wanted to return to those terrible days of slavery, while others expressed even more drastic ideas on how to reach the shores of safety. In our own day and time, we find ourselves on a similar meandering path forward. And like our ancient ancestors, we have a long way to go.

And that’s why we have Juneteenth, a day that must become a national holiday—and is actually already on track to becoming that, with all our support. We need this holiday not only to help us remember where we came from, but also where we are going. Juneteenth not only represents the end of slavery, but is also a road sign, pointing out and illuminating the direction we must follow in order to achieve the goal we set for ourselves: liberty, equality and justice for all. 

May the profound purpose of Juneteenth never be lost on us. May it help us celebrate the potential of every human being, regardless of race, creed, age or gender. Let it always remind us not only of the injustices of the past, but also of the work that yet needs to be done as we reach towards our dreams of a more meaningful and just tomorrow.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

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[1] Major General Gordon Granger’s General Order Number 3, History of Juneteenth. Juneteenth.com (accessed June 18, 2020).

Racism In America

Racism In America

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

#JusticeShabbat, June 7, 2020

We are living through extraordinary times: Climate change, Coronavirus, and now riots and protests in almost every major city of the United States and around the globe, following the homicide on a Minneapolis street of a simple African American man.

One could be either a cynic and say, “so what else is new,” or as wise as King Solomon, who toward the end of his life, said that “there is nothing new under the sun.” And perhaps the King was right.  After all, we’ve been there before—storms, plagues and revolutions. When I was a teenager living in Los Angeles, I saw Watts burn, and I remember well the chant, “Burn baby, burn!” that accompanied the fires in other African-American ghettoes. I remember classes dismissed when I was a student at UCLA in 1968, when we heard about the assassination of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. On that day, forever etched in my memory, groups of us sat in stunned silence, wondering what kind of world we were living in. Fifty years ago, both in memory of the murder of the Rev. King, and also in reaction to the killing of four students at Kent State University by the Ohio National Guard, I began taking part in sit-ins and protests against racism, brutality and needless war.

And that’s just me. But I was part of a movement. By the hundreds, thousands and hundreds of thousands we did our part to change the world. Have we succeeded? Evidently not. Or at least, not enough.

The protests today aren’t only about the physical slavery of African Americans. It’s about racism, which is just another form of slavery. In an article that appeared in The New Yorker earlier this week,[1] Bryan Stevenson, a civil rights lawyer and activist states that, “The great evil of American slavery wasn’t the involuntary servitude; it was the fiction that black people aren’t as good as white people, and aren’t the equals of white people, and are less evolved, less human, less capable, less worthy, less deserving than white people.”

I find these words very painful, not only because they are so true, but also because I can empathize with the suffering and degradation that people of color have had to endure because of this prejudice.

As a Jew, and particularly as a second-generation survivor of the Holocaust, I can identify with these feelings. Anti-Semitism isn’t only about Jewish religion and rituals. It’s about Jews being seen as a different form of life, not quite up to par with superior races.  How many of us have been asked—not even out of meanness, but simply out of ignorance and curiosity, about our hidden tails, or horn stubs, or other physical proof of the Jew being somehow sub-human?

And yet, as a mea culpa, I reflect with shame on the racism inherent among my own people. The contemptuous and derisive terms used by Jews of a somewhat older age group—and perhaps even today—to describe Blacks. I hear the pain expressed by Jews of Color who somehow aren’t seen as quite Jewish enough. “How can you be Jewish,” they are often asked, with the implication that all Jews look alike, and that if you don’t fit the image, you can’t really be Jewish. 

And I wonder, how can we Jews, subject to bigotry and prejudice throughout our history, be among those who—actively or subconsciously—be among those who practice racism today?  Weren’t we Jews active in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960’s? Didn’t we march with Martin Luther King in the streets of Selma? Did we not work—at great risk to life and livelihood—to expose and eradicate prejudice? To register Black voters in the South? To educate and tutor them so they could enter American society as equals?

Or have we gotten lax in recent years?

Today, a clear voice emerges out of the chaos on the streets: You haven’t done enough. It isn’t enough to be un-racist. You have to anti-racist. It’s an ongoing struggle, and there can be no rest until the battle is won.

And that means that, in response to the killing of George Floyd, we Jews, as a people, must begin by examining our own souls. On Yom Kippur, once a year, we are commanded to engage in cheshbon ha-nefesh, to take an accounting of the soul. Yom Kippur isn’t so much about how we relate to God, but rather how we interact with one another, how we may have wronged our fellow human being. On this holiest of days, we look not only for the obvious and egregious sins, but also for those hidden in the darkest recesses of our soul, the ones we manage to overlook or cover up.

In that spirit, and in response to the cry of the hurt and injured, those who were lynched or shot, and those whose necks were crushed by a white supremacist’s knee, we American Jews need to engage in similar introspection today. Could we be harboring, knowingly or unknowingly, racism within our hearts? Because if we are, then we are part of the problem, and we can’t begin to change anything until we change ourselves.

Yes, Jews have participated in the struggle to desegregate, to bring justice, equality and education to African Americans. But racism is still a part of the culture for many of us.

I find racism even in the Torah, in the classification of Kush—father of the Kushite (or Nubian) tribes of northern Africa—as a descendant of Noah’s youngest son, Ham, who was cursed by his father and preordained for slavery.

With abhorrence, I find racism not only among American Jews, but also among some Israelis. Despite efforts at integration, Black immigrants from Ethiopia still experience institutionalized and personal discrimination.

We are privileged because—for the most part—we are white. For the most part, we are well-to-do. We live in neighborhoods that can afford the best schools, the best teachers, the best tutors and the best extra-curricular activities. We can afford good healthcare, and we can afford to buy good, nutritious, healthy food.

We can call the police when we feel threatened or need help—and not worry that somehow the tables will be turned against us.

Our sons and daughters can look forward with excitement and hope toward advancement in their chosen fields.

Many of us have been taking for granted our rights and freedoms, but have turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the plight of our fellow human beings, discriminated against because they are people of color, relegated to poor and crowded neighborhoods where healthcare and education are scarce and badly managed; who are systematically subjected to discriminatory laws and harsher treatment by the police and other law enforcement agencies.

This is what the riots and demonstrations in our streets today are all about. And unless we start listening, unless we start changing the system, starting with ourselves, there will be nothing new under the sun.

With all due respect and humility, I need to disagree with wise old King Solomon. I believe with all my heart that change IS possible. We see it happen every day. If it weren’t for the 1960’s and the Freedom Riders, we would still be living in Jim Crow America. If it weren’t for the Stonewall Riots, there would be no Rainbow Flag or Gay Pride today.

What we must pledge today is to carry forward this sacred—but unfinished—work. We need to listen to the grievances of our neighbors, to hear their pain, to see the fear in their eyes. We must contribute money, time and effort to legislation that would protect their lives and livelihoods. We must hold accountable those who take away their dignity and abuse their basic human rights, who conspire to “put them in their place,” who believe that America’s greatness is displayed through might and armor rather than justice and equality.

The world CAN change, but this change must begin with me and you. Each of us must pick up where the previous generation left off, and carry forward the sacred task with which we were entrusted.  We pray that bigotry and prejudice be gone.  We pray for the strength and determination to make it so.  We pray that WE become the change we wish to see.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

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[1]Chotiner, Isaac (2020, June 1). Bryan Stevenson On The Frustration Behind The George Floyd Protests. The New Yorker. Retrieved from https://www.newyorker.com/news/q-and-a/bryan-stevenson-on-the-frustration-behind-the-george-floyd-protests

A Prayer For America

A Prayer For America

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

I would like us to take a moment and offer our thoughts and prayers to the memory of George Floyd and to his bereaved family. At such difficult moments as we are living through right now, it’s hard to remember that people are grieving the tragic and pointless death of a loved one.

I would like to pray for the restoration of peace and order in our communities and cities. I would like to pray for understanding and unity, rather than bigotry and divisiveness. I would like to pray for calm in our hearts, for fear to disappear and be replaced with love and compassion.

I pray for the violence to stop, for the fires to be quenched, for instigation and incitement to end.

I would like to pray for justice and truth to emerge out of the flames that are engulfing our cities, for light to be shed on the deep and real causes of this conflagration.

I pray for conversation to resume, for peaceful and composed voices to be heard, rather than the screams of hate, enmity, anguish and pain.

I would like to pray for all hands to start reaching towards one another to help and uplift rather than to shove and push down.

I pray for hope to replace despair, for the courage to stand up for right rather than might.

At this time of panic and pandemic we  have so much to look forward to, yet so much to lose; may God show us the way to peace, love and understanding among us all, no matter what color, creed, religion, or race.

Amen.

Justice In An Age Of Hatred, Bigotry And Injustice

Justice In An Age Of Hatred, Bigotry And Injustice

In Memory of George Floyd

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

May 30, 2020

In the Torah it says, “Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

The repetition of the word underscores its importance, and the importance of pursuing it, although justice is sometimes blurred and slippery.

The Torah continues, teaching us that failure to bring justice to light is equivalent to being an accomplice to it oneself.

One of the greatest injustices perpetrated by one human being against another, throughout our history, is racism.

I have known about racism in America since my days in middle school, when I learned about Little Rock, and the 1954 Supreme Court Brown v. Board of Education ruling that separate educational facilities are inherently unequal.

In August 1965, I lived in Los Angeles, and I remember well the clouds of smoke billowing over Watts, a primarily African American neighborhood in an otherwise prosperous and modern city. The Watts Riots began as a traffic stop which soon escalated. Six days later, after the intervention of nearly 4000 member of the California Army National Guard, the violence finally ended, leaving behind 34 deaths and over $40 million damage[1].

There were many riots since then, all following a similar pattern: Police overreaction to some relatively minor offense (actual or perceived) resulting in escalating violence and destruction.

Today we are witnessing a similar pattern, in Minneapolis and elsewhere in the United States.

Riots are never excusable. They perpetuate the injustice, affecting lives, livelihoods and property (often owned  by people who live in those impoverished communities).

They do give vent, however, to pent up anger and frustration.

Because racism is still, tragically, alive and well in America.  Despite the Civil Rights acts. Despite the many changes in culture and society.  Why—as some would proclaim—there are African Americans in TV shows now! In movies, even in commercials! Supposedly there is no discrimination in admission to colleges and universities. Some have even made it to the highest echelons of American society, including the US Supreme Court—and of course (though one time and one time only so far), the office of the President of the United States.

But these few and far-between successes only highlight the general state of affairs today. By and large, there still is discrimination against people of color. This fact is even more apparent these days, during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Though African Americans represent only about 13% of the American population, according to the CDC nearly one-third of the infections is among people of color.  “The environments where most live, the jobs they have, the prevalence of health conditions such as high blood pressure and diabetes, and how they are treated by the medical establishment have created a toxic storm of severe illness and death”[2]

This “toxic storm” was waiting for an opportunity to erupt, and that moment was the horrendous killing of George Floyd. The brutal and deeply disturbing video has gone viral, not surprisingly igniting even more rioting and demonstrations.

These are highly charged and challenging times. COVID-19 is only one wave sweeping over us all. The cultural and political divides that underlie American society have become monstrously ugly. Anti-Semitism—the canary in the mines—is at near-historic levels today. “Maskers” vs. “anti-maskers;” health specialists vs. politicians and big business; quarantine vs. nearly 15% unemployment—the worst since the Great Depression—all these are indicators of the great divides that threaten us.

And now, George Floyd, and racism. 

At exactly the time when we need to overcome our differences, to support one another, to help find a cure for the pandemic, to show more compassion to the stricken and the dying. 

Because there is injustice: resources being diverted from poor neighborhoods toward those that can afford testing and better health care.

Because there are far too many instances of police overreaction and brutality towards African Americans.

Because cultural stereotypes and fears persist—maintained both by whites and people of color (think of the word “thug” and how it’s used by each community).

Because fear and mistrust persist.

What we should be hearing from the government is comforting, unifying words. Instead, what we heard on Friday from the White House was an historically racist tweet (“When the looting starts, the shooting starts”), a phrase that to African Americans rings of the same threat and hatred as a burning cross.

So what can we do to help?

The problem is enormous. Racism runs through human history—through human veins. How does one stop that?

Change must take concerted effort on all levels of society—legal, educational, social, economic, cultural, and political. We must educate ourselves and recognize the problems (we already know the roots; what we need to know now is what forms this bigotry takes  today). And we must take action. Where we see racism, we must call it out. There will be countless arguments about freedom of speech and whether we can make racism a hate crime. But no matter, we must point to it wherever we see it raising its ugly head. Racists must be held accountable—not because of the fear of rioting, but because racism is an injustice and a wrong that must be righted. Speech that is even seen as incitement to violence must be curbed—even if it comes from the President of the United States.

Correction: Especially if it comes from the President of the United States.

The war against racism is never-ending. Because it is so deeply rooted in our subconscious, it must be constantly confronted, each and every time that we encounter it.

In his immortal “I Have A Dream” speech, Rev. Martin Luther King spoke of a time when people “will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

Sadly, this vision is still a dream, no closer to realization than when the words were spoken in 1963. 

May God give us strength and courage to make this noble dream turn real.  It’s up to us—all of us, regardless of color, race, region, nationality, or gender—to make it so.

It’s the right thing to do, the holy thing to do, no matter how difficult or dangerous.

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[1]  Joshua, Bloom; Martin, Waldo (2016). Black Against Empire: The History And Politics Of The Black Panther Party. University of California Press. p. 30, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watts_riots, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watts_riots, (accessed 30 May 2020).

[2] https://www.nationalgeographic.com/history/2020/04/coronavirus-disproportionately-impacts-african-americans/#close, (accessed 30 May 2020).

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman