Yom Kippur Morning Sermon: It IS Our Problem
We are all in the same boat.
Take at look at our incredible worship space this morning. We have stunning, enormous windows on all sides. The rabbis of long ago told us that our sanctuaries must be built with windows, so that we are always open to seeing the world around us. We must not shut ourselves away from the suffering, the experience, and the lives of those in our communities and beyond.
These windows must allow us to see the current struggles of those who are judged based on the color of their skin, the faith they practice, their socioeconomic status, who they love, or their country of origin. Despite the fact that these struggles may not be our own, we must see them, and we must act.
I feel that all too many of us have additional confessions to make this year, that we must add to our Viddui list of transgressions.
For these sins, our God, we ask forgiveness:[1]
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by turning a deaf ear when our neighbors cry for help.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by being silent when our voices are needed for solidarity.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by allowing our cities to burn and our citizens to be assaulted.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by condemning entire religions based on the actions of a few.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by forgetting to protect the stranger even though we have been strangers all too many times.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by profiting from systems of oppression.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by judging, profiling and walking away.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by not honoring the identity of every person.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by holding prejudices of our own.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by not understanding the plight of our brothers and sisters.
Al chet shechatnu l’fanecha by not caring for the children of all nations as we care for our own children.
Every human life is sacred, important, and valued. We learn early in Genesis Chapter 1 that we are all created in the image of God, B’tzelem Elohim, and thus we are all equal. In Chapter 2, we read the story of Adam and Eve, which led the rabbis to ask the question, “Why does the Torah teach us that we all come from one person? So that no one can say, ‘my ancestors are better than yours.'”
We Jews have certainly had to fight for our own place in the world, for equality, for an end to Anti-Semitism, Persecution, and Discrimination. These issues continue to crop up even today. And, due to our own experience, we are taught to look out for others who are suffering as well.
Recall the words[2] of Pastor Martin Niemoller, words that have long been etched into our post-Holocaust consciousness:
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
Pastor Niemoller became an outspoken critic of the Nazi regime and of the church’s role in not standing up and speaking out. His words are emblematic of the blinders that we wear when something tragic happens to someone else and our hesitancy to stick our neck out for anyone but our own.
But Rabbi Jill Perlman encourages us to imagine his words going differently.
First they came for the Socialists, and I spoke out –
not because I am a Socialist, but because I am a human being.
And they came for the Trade Unionists, and I spoke out –
not because I am a Trade Unionist, but because I am a human being.
And they came for the Jews, and I spoke out –
not because I am a Jew, but because I am a human being.
And they came for me –
and the Socialists and Trade Unionists and Jews and human beings spoke out because we are all human beings.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, who served as the Chief Rabbi of Great Britain from 1991-2013, reflects on the story of Noah and the Ark. Noah is called “Righteous in his generation,” an odd phrase. Why would the Torah point out that Noah was only righteous within his own generation? Rabbi Sacks points out:
“Noah’s failure is that, righteous in himself, he has no impact on his contemporaries. He does not engage with them, rebuke them or urge them to mend their ways. Nor does he pray for them, questioning the justice of the Flood, as Abraham would later do for the people of the cities of the plain. Jewish tradition judged him unfavorably. Noah, the sages said, walked with God, whereas Abraham walked ahead of God. (‘Walk ahead of Me’, says God to Abraham, ‘and be wholehearted’. In Jewish folklore, Noah became a tzadik im peltz, ‘a righteous man in a fur coat’. There are two ways of keeping warm on a cold night: buying a fur coat or lighting a fire. Buy a coat and you keep yourself warm. Light a fire and you keep others warm also. Noah, the righteous man, fails to exercise collective responsibility.”[3]
Over and over again in the Hebrew Bible, we are reminded to care about the widow, the orphan, the stranger. God commands us in the book of Exodus, “You shall not wrong the stranger (ger) or oppress him, for you yourselves were strangers in the land of Egypt.”[4] Hermann Cohen, a German-Jewish philosopher in the late 19th century, expanded on this: “The stranger was to be protected, although he was not a member of one’s family, clan, religion, community or people, simply because he was a human being. In the stranger, therefore, man discovered the idea of humanity.” We are reminded repeatedly that we were strangers in the land of Egypt, so therefore we have to look out for those who are now the stranger. Those who are outcasts, those who are not the majority. We Jews are primed to cheer for the underdog, to take care of those less fortunate. Why? Because we’ve been there. Either literally in our own lives, or in the lives of our families or our ancestors. We must not turn away.
Judaism requires us to hear the pain and cries of the vulnerable or oppressed. Hasidim tell the story of the second Lubavitcher Rebbe (the “Mitteler” Rebbe) who was once so intent on his studies that he failed to hear the cry of his baby son. His father (R. Shneur Zalman of Ladi) heard, and went down and took the baby in his arms until he went to sleep again. Then he went into his son, still intent on his books, and said, “My son, I do not know what you are studying, but it is not the study of Torah if it makes you deaf to the cry of a child.”
We have to hear the cries. Hearing the cries of the oppressed, really hearing them, is how we start. And, after that, we have to act. Rabbi Aryeh Cohen, in his book, Justice in the City,[5] teaches that the story of our Exodus from Egypt is actually all about two varying reactions to the cries of the oppressed. When the enslaved Israelites cry out, over and over again, God hears their cries, and is awakened to action. Pharaoh, on the other hand, ignores their cries.
What we’re left with is a very clear choice: do we want to respond like God, or do we want to respond like Pharaoh? There is, of course, only one right answer.
So, whose cries do we need to hear this year?
First, I ask you to meet ALICE. She is among us, and, she is many of us. ALICE is an acronym which stands for Asset Limited, Income Constrained, Employed. These are folks who are the “working poor,” above the poverty line, but below the standard cost of living. The United Way has identified that, across Connecticut, 35 percent of households struggle to afford the basic necessities of housing, child care, food, health care, and transportation.[6] Thirty-five percent of households in Connecticut struggle to afford basic household necessities. Based on the most recent data from 2012, 141,628 households live in poverty and another 332,817 are ALICE households. Between the two categories, 474,445 households in Connecticut have income below the ALICE Threshold.
The cost of basic household expenses in Connecticut is more than most jobs can support. Connecticut’s high cost of living is beyond what most jobs in the state can provide to working households. The annual Household Survival Budget for the average Connecticut family of four is $64,689 and for a single adult is $21,944. These numbers highlight how inadequate the U.S. poverty rate is as a measure of economic viability, at $23,050 for a family and $11,170 for a single adult.
Why is this important to note? The United Way points out that public and private assistance is not enough to lift ALICE households to economic stability. The income of ALICE and poverty-level households in Connecticut is supplemented by government, nonprofit, and health care resources that provide a range of mostly in-kind assistance worth $10.6 billion. Despite this assistance, ALICE and poverty households remain 12 percent short of the income needed to reach the ALICE Threshold.
The well-being of the state of Connecticut is dependent on taking care of ALICE households. We all need to work together to come up with short-term and long-terms solutions to help ALICE financially. They are especially in need of affordable housing options, which are few and far between in our state. The numbers of ALICE households will only grow until we work together to address their needs. Luckily, our Social Action Committee has committed themselves to working on this area of CT life, and you are invited to join in the efforts.
Second, we need to hear the cries of our Muslim brothers and sisters who are being unfairly persecuted and blamed for the actions of a few extremists. I am so proud of our Adult Education Committee for creating our recent Islam learning series, which invited three leading local scholars and religious leaders to teach us about Islam and Muslims. Our speakers addressed many of the misconceptions and myths surrounding Islam as a religion, and we learned of the many similarities between Muslims and Jews. We heard first-hand what it is like to be stigmatized, which resonates with us as we Jews are all too familiar with being the scapegoats. As people of faith, we have the responsibility to speak out against injustice, discrimination, and prejudice.
This past December, the Central Conference of American Rabbis released a statement condemning anti-Muslim bigotry worldwide, in America, and in the campaign for President of the United States. Specifically, they wrote, [they] are horrified by the proposal that all Muslims be barred even from visiting the United States, let alone immigrating, especially as refugees are escaping persecution by the very forces that threaten the western world.
The CCAR leadership continued: Discrimination on the basis of religion is un-American, unconstitutional, and dangerous. Jewish history has taught us that those who will discriminate on the basis of religion threaten the lives and well-being of countless human beings. As Jews, we know the heart of the stranger, and we will not stand idly by when members of another religious group are singled out as strangers.[7]
Never again has to move us to ensure that others are not targeted just because of their religion. We must aid those refugees who are escaping oppressive regimes and seeking safety and asylum in the West.
Hearing the cries of others has to awaken us. Hearing the cries of others has to lead to action. Not to judgment or denial. What kind of a person would hear someone else in pain and begin by asking if their pain is valid? The pain is valid, because the pain is felt. And, it’s the pain which evokes a response, not the cause of the pain, and certainly not our snap judgment of the validity of that cause. And, our response must be communal. This is our responsibility, not mine or yours alone. That’s one of the core lessons of Judaism, and especially of this day. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel often taught, in a free society, some are guilty; all are responsible. The fact that we didn’t participate in a crime with our own hands does not absolve us of all responsibility for addressing that crime. The only way to be truly moral, and the only way to make any progress in our society, is not through the presumption of innocence, but rather through the presumption of responsibility.
The rabbis recognized that reaching out to take care of the world in this way is not easy for us.
A rabbi was once asked, “Why does the Torah tell us to ‘Place these words upon your hearts?’ Why does it not tell us to place these holy words in our hearts?” The rabbi answered, “It is because, as we are right now, our hearts are closed, and so we cannot place the holy words within them. So, we place these words on top of our hearts. And there they stay until, one day, our hearts will break open, and the words will fall in.”
The experience of standing with and beside someone whose life history is not your own, whose struggles are not your own, whose oppression is not your own – that has long been a part of the Jewish foundation. We’re taught over and over again to remember that we were once strangers in a strange land, that we were slaves – and that notion, that utter embrace of that sense of ourselves as ‘other’ – that is the frame for how we are to treat those around us, those who have been other-ed at various times and in various places throughout history.[8]
I promise you[9]: we are not doing Torah – or we are not doing it right – when we ignore the sounds of cries around us.
Studying Torah, learning and living Judaism, should inspire us to do more for our fellow human beings, rather than shut us off from caring.
Hillel so famously said, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, when?”[10] We have to look out for ourselves, but we cannot only look out for ourselves. And we must act now.
Rabbi Israel Salanter, the founder of Musar Judaism, said, “When I was young, I wanted to change the world. I tried, but the world did not change. Then I tried to change my town, but the town did not change. Then I tried to change my family, but my family did not change. Then I knew: first, I must change myself.”
Let’s do it, then. Let’s recommit ourselves to seeing the essence of God in every single human being, and to see their suffering as our own. Let us work together to repair the world, to advance humanity, and to reach ever closer to a time when all will be one and at peace.
Let us work together, supporting each other, different in our means and abilities, but united in our purpose. We will make this world a better place, one step, one action, one moment at a time.[11]
Amen.
[1] adapted from http://media.rac.org/docs/tisha-bav-document.pdf
[2] http://rabbijillperlman.blogspot.com/2015/09/journeying-for-racial-justice-marching.html
[3] Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, To Heal a Fractured World, p. 141
[4] Exodus 22:20
[5] Cohen, Aryeh. Justice in the City. Academic Studies Press, 2013.
[6] http://www.unitedwayalice.org/documents/14UW%20ALICE%20Report_CT_Lowres_10.24.15.pdf
[7] https://ccarnet.org/about-us/news-and-events/ccar-statement-condemning-anti-muslim-bigotry/
[8] http://rabbijillperlman.blogspot.com/2015/09/journeying-for-racial-justice-marching.html
[9] http://rabbijillperlman.blogspot.com/2015/09/journeying-for-racial-justice-marching.html
[10] Pirkei Avot 1:14
[11] http://sholomravsermons.blogspot.com/2015/09/rh-morn-i-5776-what-is-our-purpose.html
