The 614th Commandment: Yom Kippur.20

 The 614th Commandment

A Sermon for Yom Kippur 5781

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 28, 2020

We stand on the shoulders of our predecessors. No better proof of this can be found than in the legacy of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. A brilliant jurist as well as civil rights and gender equality activist, the cases that Justice Ginsburg argued form the basis of much that we take for granted today. Reproductive rights, acceptance of women into military academies, equal pay, and marriage equality are among her many contributions to our society and nation.

In her own words, Justice Ginsburg attributed her career and accomplishments to her Jewish background. Though she was not observant (causing The Guardian in its first, un-redacted, obituary to claim falsely that she had abandoned her religion), she actually prided herself on her background. As she herself pointed out, a silver mezuzah adorned her Supreme Court chamber door, and the reminder from Deuteronomy, tzedek tzedek tirdof—“justice, justice shall you pursue”—hung on her wall, reminding her every day of her Jewish heritage and obligation. She visited Israel several times, met with members of Israel’s Supreme Court, and ultimately refused Israel’s highest humanitarian honor—the Genesis Prize—because she felt it would appear to be conflict of interest.

Possibly because of her views, and certainly because of her religion, a day after her death, a New York City subway poster honoring Justice Ginsburg was defaced with graffiti including a swastika and profanity-laced language, a stark reminder to anyone who is still in doubt about anti-Semitism today, that the world’s oldest scourge is still around and is actually in the midst of an historical upswing.

For some of us, this fact is part of our new normal. In Colorado alone, anti-Semitic incidents increased by 56% last year, with more than 2100 acts of vandalism, assault and harassment reported across the United States. 

While we are not completely surprised to see this hatred in extremist right-wing groups, the barefaced brazenness displayed by torch-bearing white nationalists, marching in Charlottesville displaying swastikas and chanting slogans such as “Jews will not replace us” has shocked us into new awareness and understanding. 

For many of us, however, even more alarming than the revival of right-wing anti-Semitism is its appearance among left-wing liberals.

Jews have long been active in liberal causes in America, from workers’ rights and labor unions to civil rights and gender equality. In recent decades, social activism and a passion for righteousness have motivated Jews to support liberal politics. Today, however, more and more American Jews are being excluded from participation in liberal events and public discussions. This phenomenon started with BDS on college campuses and spread to pop culture, with anti-Semitic voices also heard more recently among groups like Occupy, Antifa and Black Lives Matter. 

While there are many reasons for this rise of anti-Semitism on the Left, one is the grafting onto the liberal agenda of Islamic anti-Zionism, and the traditionally anti-Semitic and anti-Israel theories espoused by socialist-Marxists, all under the guise of intersectionality.

As with The Guardian’s obituary of Justice Ginsburg, criticism of Israel today is often based on claims that Israel has abandoned its Jewish values. But then it goes further with even more blatantly anti-Semitic tropes and the outrageous claim that Israel is at fault and deserves all the terror attacks launched against her by her enemies, and is consequently responsible for much of the violence that engulfs the Middle East and at times expands also to Europe and America. 

Finally, the assertion that Israel has no legal basis for existence has gained traction among those who are either ignorant of history or for other reasons are opposed to its existence.

For a generation born after the Holocaust, there is little understanding of the need of safe harbor for Jews, who for millennia, on every continent, were at the mercy of rulers who alternately expelled us, jailed us in ghettoes, and physically or spiritually destroyed entire Jewish communities. In a culture such as ours today, in which religion and rationalism are often at violent odds, the historical and cultural ties that bind Jews to Israel as their traditional homeland are seen by some as fictitious and absurd. For Jewish young men and women who grew up strong, confident and self-reliant, who never experienced discrimination, who were never turned away from hospitals, never excluded from country clubs, Ivy-League schools and tony neighborhoods, there is little if any comprehension that it is actually Israel that empowers them, and that in fact it is a strong and independent State of Israel that enables them to feel so carefree and proud today.

The recent trend to rewrite history at times draws dangerously close to erasing it altogether. It’s therefore essential for 21st century American Jews, to make up for lost time. For too long we’ve taken for granted that Jerusalem, the Western Wall and Masada are all we need to know about Jewish history. What we’ve left out is the part of the story where we reclaimed ownership of our homeland. We need to learn—or relearn—how exactly the creation of the State of Israel came about, a series of events that go back to the time when Israel—or Palestine, as the world called it then—was part of the Ottoman Turkish Empire. Several years ago, a fifth grader in a class I was teaching marched into class and announced, “The Jews just walked into Palestine and kicked out the Arabs.” I was astounded. Where did he learn that completely false retelling of the history of Israel? Regardless of the source, however, that is quickly becoming the accepted narrative. Never mind the continuous presence since ancient times of Jews in the Land of Israel; or the purchase, at exorbitant prices, of swamps, desert dunes, and nonarable lands from the Turkish landlords; the negotiations that took place in the halls of the League of Nations; the discussions that ensued in the White House and the State Department; and the decision on Israel’s borders taken in the United Nations in November of 1947.    

Forgotten is the fact that Egypt and Syria launched a coordinated attack on Israel exactly 43 years ago to the day by the Hebrew calendar, the Yom Kippur War. Or the Second Intifada that started 20 years ago on this very day on the general calendar, September 28, 2000, and caused the death of over 1000 civilians—men, women and children.

Not mentioned, or whitewashed, are Israel’s technological and ecological, medical and humanitarian contributions to the world’s well-being. Or its absorption of three-quarters of a million Jews expelled from Iran, Iraq and other Arab countries, as well as millions of refugees from the ex-Soviet Union, from Ethiopia, Latin America and other countries around the world.

The danger that this erasure of history poses today is much more serious than most of us dare to consider. Anti-Zionism IS anti-Semitism, a hate-filled prejudice that draws from many poisonous sources and takes many outwardly forms. Its blatant rise on both ends of the political spectrum is alarming and must be confronted. Never Again is not, and can never be, an empty slogan. 

Yom Kippur, the most sacred day in the Jewish People’s calendar, is much more than only about seeking forgiveness from God. It’s also about the unity of our people. As we heard in this morning’s Torah reading, on this day we all stand together. We are all responsible not only for our ethics and righteous behavior, but also for our very survival as a people. 

For some, that is the 614th Commandment.

The late, great Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, of blessed memory, set an example for us all. She was not only a fierce fighter for human rights—she was a Jew. Proud of her heritage and legacy, she left us an important message and lesson: Let our ideals be our motivation, but at the same time let us not forget who we are and how we became that. 

Loss of faith is not our enemy; forgetfulness is. We will best honor her legacy not only by continuing to pursue justice and equality for all, but also by keeping before our eyes our commitment to our people, to our heritage, to our homeland, and to our survival.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

 The Role of One, The Power of Many

     Sermon for Kol Nidrei 2020, 5781

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Maybe it’s because of the unusual circumstances of these Holy Days, but this year an odd incongruity struck me—and you as well, I am sure. And that is that even though we have come together virtually to pray as one community, the reality is that each of us is actually alone, or perhaps with our “nuclear family,” in our own separate homes. And yet, something draws us all together, connecting us in some mysterious way. How is this possible? Was it actually always so, and only this year became apparent to us? 

I suspect so. Yom Kippur is there for all of us, but it is also about me, and you, and each and every one of us. Unetaneh Tokef, one of the most powerful prayers in the entire service, presents the dramatic image of how, on this most sacred of days, every individual is called to the Heavenly Court, where, one by one, all our deeds of the past year are recounted from the Book of Memories, playing themselves out before our astonished eyes.  

And yet, as we go through the prayers, we realize that almost to a one, they are all in the plural: WE have sinned, WE have transgressed, WE have caused harm. Even Kol Nidrei, the prayer that gives the entire Yom Kippur evening service its name, is all about the long list of vows and oaths that WE might have made and failed to fulfill.

In ancient days it was expected that, for our prayers to be accepted, we had to bring a sacrifice to the Temple. Whether it was a lamb, a handful of flour, or a pinch of salt, each individual was responsible for his or her offering. But on Yom Kippur, this was reversed. On this day, it was only one person’s duty—the High Priest—to bring the sacrifice, and up to him to achieve purification for the entire congregation. All that would be expected of us, the people assembled in the Temple courtyard, was to fast and show contrition for our sins. 

Unlike any other occasion or holiday, then and now, Yom Kippur was always meant to be a collective experience, an affirmation of the relationship between the People of Israel and our God. 

But this unity can be misleading. Surrounded by our community, reminded that we are all experiencing the transformative nature of atonement, it’s easy to disappear into the crowd. If God forgives us all, then by the nature of the service, I am forgiven too, no matter what sin and transgression I might be harboring deep within my heart and soul. 

As early as the 6th century BCE, the Prophet Isaiah called out a warning against this kind of thinking, when he taught that no sacrifice and no fast could do what deeds of righteousness would: “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen,” he exclaimed, “To loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke; to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?  Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter? When you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?” (Isaiah 58:6-7 NIV translation). 

Reaffirming Isaiah’s warning, Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria, one of the greatest of the early rabbis, formulated the famous teaching that while Yom Kippur has the power to atone for wrongs between people and God, it does not atone for transgressions between a person and their fellow human being until the one who was wronged has been pacified. We simply cannot proceed with the rituals of this Holy Day without first seeking forgiveness from our fellow human beings.

The responsibility of every individual to evaluate his or her behavior is an essential part of Yom Kippur. Because while guilt is a heavy enough burden for any one person, it also has ramifications for the rest of the community.

We know from hurts we have felt that a disparaging word or one spoken in anger can leave a deep scar in a person’s soul. No sacrifice to God, no matter how showy or expensive, can fix this kind of hurt, as will a simple apology. Saying “I am sorry” can go a long way; and once repair is done, once peace is restored, we can move on with our lives with a clear conscience and a lighter step.

Hurt isn’t always caused intentionally or with malicious forethought. Our language sometimes conveys subtexts that we may not even be aware of. Few people use jew as a verb anymore, but gypped is still common, as are other terms that derive from racial or ethnic slurs. In the past few months we came to understand that even images can hurt, such as the false image of the kindly Black cook who just loves to flip pancakes for us White folks; or the beautiful, white-columned plantation used as a setting for a classic Southern wedding. Rather than romanticizing antebellum, Gone-With-The-Wind times, this façade should remind us of the brutal practice of slavery that propped it up in the first place.

Attitudes can change imperceptibly, becoming ingrained over time. Since the birth of the American nation, knowingly or not, intentionally or not, our ideals have become tarnished, as we turned from the vision of “one nation under God” into the painful reality of a two-tiered society, where some have access to excellent healthcare, can attend the best schools and enjoy unlimited economic opportunities, while others—to put it simply—cannot. In such cases, our sins are collective, and communal atonement is required from all of us.

Sometimes it isn’t others that we owe an apology to, but ourselves. We transgress against ourselves when we allow others to demean us for our color, size, shape or faith. When we belittle and berate ourselves. When we let a bully tell us that we are worthless and deserving of pain or abuse. We shortchange ourselves when we start believing that we can’t turn our lives around. 

And yet, one of the biggest lessons we have learned this year is that each of us does have a voice, and an important function in society. We may be quarantined instead of gathering in our sanctuary on this holy day, but that’s because we understand the role of each individual in slowing or even stopping the spread of COVID. Yet that doesn’t stop us from being a community, from taking care of one another, whether by phone call or a drive-by. We deliver a challah for Shabbat, or the Torah to someone who feels the need to touch it. We care for the sick, comfort the mourner and rejoice with those celebrating the joyous moments of life. 

Because that’s what communities do. We reach out to each other; we are there for each other.

As a nation, in the past few years—and particularly since the COVID pandemic began—we have seen racial, economic and cultural divides widen and turn into ugly chasms. While this caused soul searching among many of us, some of us allowed ourselves to become discouraged, feeling that there is little we can do about poverty and hunger, racism, or divisive and corrupt politicians. 

Let us, however, not forget that 2020 is an election year, and I can’t emphasize enough the privilege and power that each person’s vote represents. To sit out this election, whether because we feel our voice doesn’t matter or because we are told our vote is invalid, is tantamount to giving in to cynicism—a sin against God, ourselves and the larger community. Every vote does count, and every voice deserves to be heard and considered.

Because as a nation, we all need to participate in the care and upkeep of the political, judicial and social system of which we are part.

The kind of atonement that Yom Kippur calls for isn’t only about whether we brought the right sacrifice to God; it’s more about examining our attitudes and behavior; it’s asking ourselves whether we did the right thing by one another; whether we let wrongs fester—or took action to make us, as individuals, as a community and as a nation, whole again.

And that’s why the Yom Kippur prayers are in plural. There is no community without “U” and “I.” For our prayers to be heard, for forgiveness and redemption to ensue, none of us can hide or disappear in the crowd. It takes the hard work and effort of each and every one of us to make it work, to make things right again.

May God grant us health and strength this year to do our part in repairing our world.  May we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a sweet and healthy New Year.  Amen.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

The Final Question: Rosh Hashana.20

 The Final Question: Sermon for Rosh Hashanah 5781

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 19, 2020

Of all the images associated with Rosh Hashanah—apples and honey, round challahs, shofars of all sizes and shapes—the one that I personally find most meaningful is that of gates. The gates of prayer, the gates of repentance; gates opening and gates closing—these images fill our prayerbooks and strike both fear and awe in our hearts. In ancient days, the gates of the Temple in Jerusalem must have been formidable and awe-inspiring; how much more so, the gates of heaven!

But this grand image has a double, a thumbnail reflection, of a gate meant not for hundreds or thousands of pilgrims, nor for millions of prayers clamoring to find their way in, but rather is custom sized for just one person at a time. Not ornate or in any other way ostentatious, this simple and narrow gate opens not at dawn, but instead, at the darkest hours. This is, of course, the gateway to our souls, the one that lets us see ourselves as we truly are—not the public face we show to the outside world, but rather the self we face when we are alone, when we can’t sleep, when our most secretive thoughts and fears come calling, unannounced and unmasked. 

Having to go through that gate can be daunting. We judge ourselves, and mostly we tend to see our faults and failings. And so we find ways that skirt it. Anything to avoid going there, to have to face this gate or go through it. Still, sometimes, in the dark of  night, when even cowering under the blankets doesn’t help, the doubts rise to trouble us. But eventually we manage to fall asleep again, and the next morning everything seems so much brighter! And that’s the way it is for most of the year. 

But during one season, in the fall, the High Holy Days arrive, and with them the specter of the dreaded gates of judgment, and fear and trepidation are there with us all day long. There’s nowhere to run or hide. For well we know, on these days, each of us is called by name and made to walk through this gateway to our souls. One by one, we are summoned before a Heavenly Court where our lives and deeds are measured by standards that, left to our own devices, we sometimes overlook or disregard.

Normally, this experience would be dayenu—enough already—if it only came once a year. This year, however, has been anything BUT normal. For months now we have been spiraling from one unending crisis to the next, from one disaster to the next, watching history unfold before our eyes. All of us have been affected, no one has been spared. And along the way we have had to answer some pretty tough questions. What we’ve learned about ourselves has at times been both shocking and painful.

5780—known in the general world as 2020—will always be remembered as the year when several huge forces converged, like a perfect storm. COVID; extreme weather with monstrous hurricanes, unprecedented heat waves and historic wildfires; a rollercoaster economy and unemployment numbers unmatched since the Great Depression; social, political and racial reckoning; all came together, forcing us to look at ourselves in ways we never had to before. And what we saw wasn’t always pretty.

Having to face such enormous forces led many of us to see ourselves from a different and perhaps less egocentric perspective. Yes, some people showed greed. Frustration and anger often erupted into ugly behavior and at times, violence. Runs on supermarkets in search of toilet-paper and hand-sanitizer, and the unaccustomed sight of empty shelves, shocked us into thinking of this year as not merely unusual, but actually apocalyptic. 

On the other hand, who can forget serenades sung from balconies in Italy and Spain? Or orchestras and choirs managing to pull off entire concerts not from symphony halls but from individual living rooms? Communities, neighbors and friends reaching out to help one another? Or those touching and shining moments of humanity—people helping people: first responders and healthcare workers stretching themselves to the limit in caring for the sick; or the newspaper delivery person who realized how many elderly people on his route all of a sudden found themselves desperate and hungry, so he decided to deliver groceries to their doorstep, and enlisted others—teenagers, workers laid off from their jobs—to help in similar ways? 

In our own individual microcosms, being quarantined alone or with our nuclear family has taught us to redefine our roles, and to share time and space in a totally different way than we had been accustomed to. Yes, it was hard, but we found ways to cope; we found moments and corners that we could retreat to when we needed some time for ourselves. Many of us actually adopted pets this year, feeling the need to show love and care to creatures who were in the same boat as us, but without the ability to understand the whys or wherefores.

These situations may or may not have prepared us for what came next, but seeing the horrific brutality with which some police officers treated fellow Americans whose skin color happened to be black or brown made us ask different questions, requiring that we appraise not only our nation and society to see whether racism in America is systemic, but also ourselves, to examine whether we unknowingly might be harboring racism and prejudice. We learned that there was a difference between being not-racist and anti-racist. We realized that seeking what was best for us and our families wasn’t always in line with what we had learned about justice and equality, about loving our neighbor as ourselves. 

Like the movie Groundhog Day, 2020 has been one long, interminable Rosh Hashanah, only without the apples and honey. In the past, it was enough that we reflected on ourselves, on our own behavior. In the year 5780, we found ourselves needing to look at a much larger canvas, forced to redefine our place, role and function in the world at large; to refocus and see ourselves not merely as insignificant particles in an infinite universe, but also as unique individuals with unique gifts and talents who can—and must—make a difference in the world in which we live.

And now, today, once again we find ourselves standing before that terrifying gate, the one that opens to our souls on one side, and to the Heavenly Court on the other. A long line of souls stretches ahead, and an even longer one behind us. One by one, as names are called, we approach the bench, our caps—or our kippahs—clenched tightly in our sweaty palms. And then we are there, standing before the Heavenly Tribunal. The Judges peruse through a thick book lying open before them, and we feel our hearts beating faster and louder than could possibly be healthy for them. A nod here, a “tsk-tsk” accompanied by a head shake there, and finally a voice: “We have some questions for you.” Nervously, we nod. What could these questions be? What could the Supreme Judge of all beings NOT know about us already? And what could we answer to save our souls?

“In the past year, did you offer to help anyone less fortunate than you?”

We stop breathing. Surely we must have! 

And the Judge continues, the voice as deep as the ocean, as resonant as the sky itself, “Did you say ‘thank you’ often enough?”

Quickly, we try to remember—did we?

But before we can answer, the voice resumes, “Did you say ‘I love you’ enough?”

“And one final question.” The Judge’s eyes are raised from the book, looking deeply into ours, and our hearts nearly faint. 

“And what exactly are you going to do about that in 5781?”

May we all be prepared this year to give the right answers.  And may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good and sweet New Year, L’shana tova tikateivu. 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

 Kadkod Stones: A Sermon For Rosh Hashana Eve

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 18, 2020

In 1967, Israel’s most famous song writer, Naomi Shemer, wrote “Jerusalem of Gold,” a song that within weeks became wildly popular all over the world. The lyrics are rich in Biblical and Rabbinic allusions, but at the same time refer to the colors that reflect off Jerusalem’s famous white stones at dawn and at dusk, the light painting the city in rich hues of copper and gold.

This glow, however, wasn’t always there. After the Babylonian destruction in 586 BCE, and then again after the year 70 CE, when the Roman legions burnt the city, Jerusalem was a heap of ruins, covered in a mournful blanket of ash and debris. It stood that way for nearly 2000 years, more a dream or a vision than anything resembling its former glory.

The prophet Isaiah, in offering comfort to his people, spoke of the wonders and grandeur of a rebuilt Jerusalem in days to come. The streets would be paved with sapphires, he prophesied, and the walls inlaid with precious stones. There would be no need for artificial illumination, and even the sun and the moon would pale next to the splendor that would shine from deep inside the precious stones.

In these prophecies, Isaiah mentions by name half a dozen gems and precious stones—all of which I am sure the people of his time recognized, but which, over the years, were renamed several times over, so that the references are no longer as clear as they once were. Over the centuries, commentators, linguists and editors have done their best to identify these gems, but in the end these explanations remain no more than guesses and conjectures.

In one of my favorite Midrash stories, a famous Talmudic scholar of the 3rd century, Rabbi Joshua ben Levi—was walking along the Carmel Mountain when he came upon the Prophet Elijah. “Master,” exclaimed Rabbi Joshua, “won’t you show me the gems called kadkod, which, according to Isaiah, will illuminate Jerusalem in the Days-To-Come?” Elijah agrees to the request and sets up a miracle in order to show them to Rabbi Joshua.

As it happened, at that very moment, a merchant ship was about to set sail, carrying casks of wine and spices to far off lands. All its sailors were heathens, but there was among them one young Jewish lad. Elijah appeared to the boy and said to him, “I need you to run an errand for me. In three days’ time, a great storm will arise, and the boat will founder and begin to sink. You can save it, however, along with all who are aboard it.” “How?” asked the boy.  “By diving down to the bottom of the sea,” answered Elijah. “There I will show you kadkod stones. You will need to take them and show them to Rabbi Joshua ben Levi. Only don’t show him the stones in public. Take him to a cave that is three miles away.” “But,” protested, the boy, “Rabbi Joshua is the most famous scholar in the world! Why would he follow me?” Elijah responded, “Yes, he is a great scholar, but he will follow you because he is well known for his humility.” 

Despite his fear and misgivings, the boy agreed to go on the mission, and sure enough, just as foretold, a great storm arose at mid-sea and the ship began to take on water. When a great wave suddenly appeared, the boy let it sweep him into the swirling water. He felt himself drawn into the dark depths, but just as he began to lose hope, he saw a great light shining. With the last of his strength he swam to the sea floor, where he saw stones that glowed with such brilliance that they caused light to shine all around them. Putting a few in his pocket, he prayed to God to be rescued and felt himself being drawn up and back to safety again.  Within moments he found himself on shore again, and he immediately set out to find Rabbi Joshua ben Levi.

The famous scholar was seated on his chair in the great academy of Lydda, teaching the very chapter in the book of Isaiah wherein the prophet spoke of the gems that would provide light for the days to come. “I have something to show you,” said the lad. “But you have to follow me, for so I have been instructed.”

Without a word, the great rabbi rose and followed the boy a distance of three miles, to a cave few people knew about. There the boy took the stones out of his pocket and handed them to Rabbi Joshua. Immediately the stones began to glow brilliantly. Rabbi Joshua’s eyes filled with tears, and he was so shaken that his hands began to tremble, and the stones fell to the ground, where they immediately disappeared. At that moment, the boy and the teacher heard a voice calling out, “Light is sown for the righteous.” Just as suddenly, the earth began to tremble and they barely had time to escape before a rockslide sealed the entrance to the cave, and it is still so to this very day.

Like all legends, this beautiful story has a kernel of truth. Like the hero in the midrash, we too have a task—to find the hidden precious stones. But there is no mysterious cave: they are actually right there, in plain sight. We only have to open our eyes to find them in our traditions; in old, worn-out prayerbooks; in prayers and blessings we say over candles, wine and sweet challah bread. 

We see their glow when we bring our children to religious school and raise them to become b’nai mitzvah—when, like Rabbi Joshua ben Levi, our eyes, too, fill with tears. 

When we teach or study words of Torah, the very letters on the parchment begin to glow. 

When we support one another and the community that we are part of; when we set aside food or clothing for the needy; when we remember those who are no longer with us and recall, with gratitude, the love and caring they had once shared with us, we bring light even into the darkest room.  

The foods we eat on our holy days, the music that makes our souls dance, the art with which we decorate our homes, and above all, our sacred texts—all these contain the precious lights of which Isaiah spoke, and which we are asked to bring to our darkened world to make it better. 

And that is why we are here tonight. Because tonight, Jews all over the world are hearing the shofar’s call, and together we remember the mission we accepted so long ago. Like the boy in the midrash story, when we overcome our fears, when we let faith and hope guide us, we can search for—and find—those elusive kadkod stones, and with their glow we can bring light to the darkness that at times seems to overwhelm the world. 

Much of our ancient nation’s capital of Jerusalem has now been rebuilt. Much more still lies buried underground. As Naomi Shemer’s song, “Jerusalem of Gold,” reminds us, the sun’s glow again reflects brilliantly off the city’s historic walls, as well as from the many new and modern buildings that have come up within its bounds. Yet we are still far from those radiant days of which Isaiah prophesied. The legendary kadkod stones still are hidden, still waiting for those who are fearless and faithful enough to find them. May we be among those who, stirred by deeds of righteousness and compassion, will set the brilliant gems high on posts along the path to the wondrous day of which the prophet spoke, a time when “All your children shall be taught by Adonai, and great shall be the peace of your children.” 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

Welcome Steps Towards Peace In The Middle East

Welcome Steps Towards Peace In The Middle East

by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 11, 2020

In a year that has been clamoring for good news, the peace agreement between Israel and the United Arab Emirates and the just-announced news of the normalization of relations between Israel and Bahrain certainly come at an opportune time. What better answer to our thrice-daily, 24/7, prayers for peace?

When these agreements are signed, they will be a landmark in a process that has taken many years to reach. For over 100 years, Arabs have resisted the idea of a Jewish state in the Middle East. They have waged war against Israel time and time again, engaged and supported innumerable, tragic acts of terror, and pursued many other means to vilify and delegitimize Israel.

So why the change now?

Two answers come to mind immediately: Iran and common sense.

Iran is currently the world’s leading exporter of war and terror. The Iran ayatollah regime has spared no effort—monetary or otherwise—to wage and support violence against its own people, its neighbors, the United States, and all of western Europe. Iranian-funded and armed militias have been waging war against Israel (in Lebanon through Hezbollah, in Gaza through Hamas) as well as against Saudi Arabia (through the Houthi militias in Yemen), against Iraq and the Syrian people. Fear of further aggression and expansionistic wars have prompted some Arab leaders to ally with Israel, rich in technological, intelligence and military superiority.

A new Arab bloc is being formed to stand against the Iranian threat, and Israel is being recognized as an important partner in this alliance.

But Israel has much more to offer its neighbors than just military support. Israel is a major world force in medicine, education, culture, business, hi-tech, and environmental science—to name but a few areas. At a time when the Internet has made news and information accessible to almost all people around the world, people who have been suppressed for decades under benighted and totalitarian regimes are seething against their governments. If for that reason alone, some leaders, fearful of domestic violence and uprisings, find themselves leaning towards more liberal and humanitarian policies.

Cooperation with Israel will undoubtedly be a boon to progress and peace both regionally and internationally. With all other attitudes and methods failing, peace is the only sane alternative. With COVID still raging, with overpopulation and global warming becoming greater threats than ever to human survival, coexistence is the only remaining viable option.

President Trump and the State Department deserve our support, praise and thanks for the major events that these steps toward world peace represent. Hopefully other countries will follow the courageous example shown by the UAE and Bahrain.

As we look forward to the onset of a New Year, we can certainly be more grateful and optimistic than 2020 has so far allowed us to be.