There’s been a great deal of analysis written about German writer Gunther Grass’ now-infamous new poem, “What Must Be Said” (in which Grass criticized Israel’s nuclear program as endangering an “already fragile world peace.”)  For me, the most astute response by far comes from Mideast historian Mark LeVine, writing in Al-Jazeera.

LeVine skillfully parses the psychology and the politics behind the uproar – but it is his identification of the larger context of the issue that resonates most powerfully for me. Here’s a long excerpt from a much longer article. The entire piece is well worth reading:

Israel has always sought to portray itself as a “normal” country, yet goes out of its way to ensure no one “names it” - to use Grass’ words – as what it is, a colonial state that every day intensifies its occupation of another people’s land. And so Grass has taken it upon himself to “say what must be said”, to name Israel as what it is, a “nuclear power” that “endangers the already fragile world peace”. It’s worth noting he doesn’t even mention the occupation, which is the far greater threat to world peace.

I have no idea if Grass really believed himself to be “bound” to Israel; if he did, we can imagine the bond is broken today, at least by Israel, now that he’s banned from returning. But Grass’ feelings are not what’s interesting or important. What’s important is the larger context, all the other “facts” which refuse to be accepted as “pronounced truths”.

These facts are that Israel, however egregious its crimes – and anyone who denies them is either completely ignorant or a moral idiot – is but one cog in a much larger global machine, one that includes too many other cases of occupation, exploitation, and wanton violence to list comprehensively here (we can name a few – Syria, China, Russia, India, Sudan, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Bahrain, Uzbekistan, Sri Lanka, the Congo, and of course, NATO and the United States – whose oppression, exploitation, and murder of their own or other peoples is a far more concrete “fact” than the potential for mass destruction caused by Israel’s nuclear programme)…

The larger fact is that the global economy is addicted to war, to militarism, oil and the rape of the planet for the minerals and resources that fuel the now globalised culture of hyperconsumption that will doom our descendants to a fate we dare not contemplate. Israel’s gluttony for Palestinian territory, and its willingness to encourage a regional nuclear arms race to keep it, is ultimately no different than the the gluttony for the 60-inch TV, the iPhone/Pad, the cavernous homes and cars, the ability to live at levels of consumption that are only sustainable if most of the world lives in poverty that increasingly defines all our cultures.

Israel has gotten Palestine on the cheap, and it costs relatively little to continue the occupation. Far less than it would cost to end it. So why bother? Especially when everyone else is doing, more or less, the same thing and, it’s clear, no one really cares anymore. Germany, whose remarkable economic stability in the recent global financial crisis is in good measure due to its central role in this global economy of hyper-consumption (think of all the energy and resources that go into making and driving all those fancy German cars), is certainly playing its role all too well.

If Grass is right that we must talk about the threat to world peace posed by Israel’s nuclear programme – and far more by its ongoing occupation – then we must also talk about the threat to global peace posed by the sick global system of which Israel is merely one of the more easily identifiable symptoms. Unlike my parents, I’m happy that Germans finally feel secure enough publicly to speak critically about Israel. But if they want their words to have a chance of bringing about a change in its behaviour, they, and everyone else, needs to broaden the discourse to include their own role in enabling and profiting from the system that Israel’s actions so benefits, and the global scope of the victims it daily produces.

Of course, this discourse would require a much longer and more complex poem, written by an even better poet than Grass. If someone manages to write it, I hope it will get the same publicity as “What Must Be Said”.

Accusations of anti-semitism in the Occupy Wall Street movement are flying fast and furious now. Newt Kingrich leveled the charge today on the CBS’s Early Show. David Brooks insinuated it in the NY Times not long ago. And Bill Kristol’s Emergency Committee on Israel has actually bought air time in New York and DC to run a laughably misleading ad that implores viewers to “Tell Obama and Leader Pelosi to stand up to the (anti-semitic, anti-Israel) mob.”

Watch the above clip for the real story.  Then read this thorough piece by commentator MJ Rosenberg. It would all be pretty hilarious if it wasn’t such a horribly cynical exploitation exploit the real pain and fear of anti-semitism to slow down a movement committed to justice and dignity for all – which is, in the end, what Judaism is all about.

I’ve sung the praises of Daniel Kahn and the Painted Bird before; my favorite “Punk Cabaret, Radical Yiddish, Gothic, American Folk, Klezmer Danse Macabre” band. Been listening a lot to their latest album, “Lost Causes” – particularly a brilliant ditty called “Inner Emigration.” This song is simultaneously a meditation on identity politics, a treatise on the absurd reality of national borders, but ultimately, I think, a blistering diatribe against the way we all assent to our own inner/outer oppression. It’s also catchy as hell.

Click above for a clip of Kahn performing the song solo in Tel Aviv. Click below for the lyrics. (The song is truly a text study in itself…)

“Inner Emigration”
by Daniel Kahn and the Painted Bird

Prepare yourself to swallow all your diamonds and your rings.
And all your ‘tiquey, shiny, windy things.
Don’t scare yourself, the photos in the newspapers are blurred,
the radio is broadcasting a word.
Beware yourself, the neighbors aren’t neighbors anymore.
They’re leaning with a glass against your door.
Take care of yourself and hoist into the air your disbelief.
Just go ahead and give yourself relief.

Get ready for your inner emigration, get ready to be alien inside.
Consider all your social obligations, the borders of your foreign order bride.
You won’t ever have to leave your nation.
You won’t have to even try.
Just make a secret emigration and you won’t ever have to say goodbye.

Now Hanna was at home in the Berlin cabarets of ’32.
But in ’33 the weather turned and the brownshirts all turned loose.
The rumors they were bad, her sozie lover Alex was getting scared.
He heard his name was on a list for having red friends and brown hair.
He wanted to get out and Hanna could have gone with him to his family in Ukraine.
But instead she took a walk out in the rain through her Berlin
and thought about how this weather, it would pass
and how things had always worked out in the past.

She made a kind of inner emigration.
She started to feel alien inside.
With all the social marginalizations her sense of place was starting to be tried.
But she couldn’t bear abandoning her nation.
She didn’t want it all to pass her by.
So people make their inner emigrations,
till one by one they have to say goodbye.

Well Sasha had heard about the emigratzia,
and the talk wasn’t just in the family anymore.
But in the Kharkov streets there was a kind of thaw.
“We’re going home!” said old Saminsky,
when he filed his application to leave
and Anya already had family in Tel Aviv.

But Sasha didn’t know:
two hundred years among Slavs being called “Hebrews,”
he knew they’d only be called “Russians” by the Jews.
And then on the Prospekt Lenina ovtobus
He heard the Saminskys lost their apartment and denied their pass.
The weather seemed like it was never going to pass.

He chose to make an inner emigration.
He chose to keep his alien inside.
And all the bureaucratic frustrations
he chose to keep his status bona fide.
And what’s the bother of finding a new nation?
A border isn’t art, it’s just a frame.
Just make a secret inner emigration,
the holy land and exile are the same.

Anat was a Sabra,
the daughter of a Sephardic Kibbutznik nurse
and a Yekke lawyer from Bonn.
She fell in love with Khais,
born in a PLO refugee camp in southern Lebanon.
They married in Cyprus.
He almost got arrested living with her family in Ramat Gan,
so she tried wrapping her hair and serving coffee with his family in Hebron
but that didn’t work either.

Then they thought about leaving to live with her cousin David in Brooklyn
but he and his boyfriend Patrick wanted to get married
and were moving to Berlin.
So she went to the Jaffa beach and stared at the sea
and thought about how someday all of this would pass,
if only she could find someone to help Khais pass.

Should she make an inner emigration?
Tell me what you think she should decide.
Considering the couple’s situation
she’d be better off as someone else’s bride.
She and he comprise a kind of nation,
the kind we build inside when we’re alone.
But if they just make inner emigrations,
then they’ll only have a home when they’re at home.

Compare yourself.
What does this all have to do with you?
How does your experience ring true?
You’re where, yourself?
You aren’t suffering anyone’s regime.
You’re free to follow every little dream.
Be fair to yourself. You needn’t be oppressed to feel alone.
You don’t have to be driven from your home
to spare yourself from feeling like a part of the control
with an internal diplomatic role.

Make a kind of inner emigration.
It’s a kind of shift accomplished easily.
We all have made our disassociations,
whether on the job or in our family.
What could be more irrelevant than nations,
when everywhere you go it’s buy or sell?
But if we make only inner emigrations,
then everything will only go to hell.

Though I’m well aware that the practice of circumcision has been facing growing resistance over the past several years, I was fairly bowled over by the news that San Francisco is putting a proposal before voters that would make it a misdemeanor to perform circumcision on a male under the age of 18. (My own hometown of Santa Monica also flirted with a similar ballot measure, but has since withdrawn it from consideration.)

As a rabbi and the father of two (circumsized) sons, I’ve been following the press commentary on this one with some interest. Some thoughts:

It’s certainly true that some of the anti-circ activists (aka “intactavists”) behind this measure are kooks. (Exhibit A: Matthew Hess, who publishes a comic book about a handsome, blond superhero named “Foreskin Man,” who battles “Monster Mohel” – a bearded, black-hatted villain who wields bloody scissors.) Having said this, I think it’s unfair and wrong to tar all supporters of this initiative as anti-Semites or zealous nutcases.

Witness, for instance, the opinion of blogger Freddie deBoer, who makes what I find to be a reasonable and well-articulated argument against male infant circumcision in a democratic society:

People can practice their religion all they want, as long as they are not trampling the rights of others in doing so. That is a settled question in this democracy. Your religion does not permit you to force your daughter to wear a headscarf – and a headscarf, at least, can be removed. Few things are odder to me than the spectacle of atheist liberals arguing to continue a strange religious ceremony that is forced upon people who are completely unable to resist or understand it, and which has permanently altering consequences…

Belief in individual sovereignty over the body is incompatible with infant circumcision. If you want your child to be circumcised, wait until he is old enough to understand the procedure and the choice, present the evidence, and let him choose. If he says no, he can always change his mind. Making the decision to circumcise in his infancy ensures that he will never have a choice at all.

Whether or not you’re convinced by his argument, there are many important issues to consider in this complex debate (the collision of religious rights vs. children’s rights, the medical pros and cons of male infant circumcision, to name but two.) I’m also well aware that the essential Jewish rationale for brit milah (i.e. that the Jewish people has practiced it from time immemorial to mark its covenant with God  and that being uncircumcised sets boys/men apart from the rest of the Jewish community) is becoming less and less compelling for increasing numbers of Jewish parents.

Actually, deBoer’s point about “atheist liberals” might well be broadened to include religious liberals like us Reconstructionists.  Indeed, I’ve certainly been asked by more than one congregant why, if we believe in reconstructing Jewish ritual in accordance with changing attitudes and mores, do so many of us consider circumcision off limits?

It’s a fair question. As I rabbi, I’ve come to fully respect Jewish parents’ good faith decisions on this issue. I’ve already done several covenant ceremonies for uncircumcised male babies – and fully suspect that I’ll be officiating at increasing numbers of such rituals in the future.

Here’s an interesting collection of pro and con articles on the subject from New York Magazine. I’m very interested in hearing your thoughts on this one…

Here’s the IHC’s description of the program from their website:

We found pairs of people who know each other but who disagree on an issue and asked if we could record their conversation on the issue – but with a bit of a twist. We told our pairs they couldn’t debate, argue or challenge a point. They could only take turns asking each other questions, and listening to the answers. The goal would be, not to make a point or counterpoint, but to better understand why the other person thinks the way they do. What personal experiences shaped their opinion on this issue? Did they always have this opinion and if not, what changed their mind on the issue? Where do they get information that guides their opinion on the issue?

Perhaps you too have grown weary of the shouting matches, rancor and recriminations that characterize much of the public debate on contemporary issues. While we aren’t claiming to single-handedly remedy that, we’re hoping that Ask Me Why can serve as a reminder that thoughtful deliberation and disagreement involves not just making your point, but listening to and understanding those with whom you disagree.

The latest “Ask Me Why” interview” features a conversation between me and Boris Furman, a longtime friend and a congregant at JRC. Boris and I agreed to take on the rather charged question: is a Jewish state essential to the future security and well being of the Jewish people?

The final five minute program is only a tiny fraction of our hour-long conversation. Although our actual interview was quite wide-ranging, producer Robin Amer really did a nice job of paring the conversation down to its essence. The final version highlights the more personal moments in which we share a bit about our own Jewish identities and what we believe it means to be a Jew in a post-Holocaust world.

Click here to give a listen. It’s obviously only a small taste of a much longer conversation, but I hope at least it might help to provide a model of civil, respectful Jewish discourse on a profoundly painful issue.

More than a few people have asked me for my reaction on last week’s failed al-Qaeda bomb plot out of Yemen that reportedly targeted Chicago synagogues.

So here are a few disconnected thoughts:

First and foremost, I’ll say it was incredibly heartening to receive so many calls of concern from friends and colleagues of all faiths. The very first such calls came from two friends from the Islamic community, who expressed their shock, outrage and solidarity in no uncertain terms.

An excerpt from the statement released by the The Council of Islamic Organizations of Greater Chicago:

The Council of Islamic Organizations of Greater Chicago stands with our faith partners and the Jewish community in condemning the recent terrorist act to send explosives through cargo airlines to Jewish organizations in Chicago…

“We are thankful to our law enforcement agencies to uncover this plot before it could cause any harm,” said Dr. Zaher Sahloul, chairperson of the Council. “Illinois Muslims stand united with our Jewish partners and organizations in condemning this terrorist and heinous act. There is no place in Islam for terrorizing innocent people or spreading mayhem.”

Those who chronically ask why Muslim leaders are loath to condemn terrorism would do well to read the numerous such statements that were released last week by Islamic communities and organizations around the world.

Another thought:

Like many, I was surprised to learn that authorities eventually came to believe that the bombs were not actually meant to target synagogues, but were rather intended to explode in planes midair. Though the synagogue addresses on the packages understandably alarmed the Jewish community, it’s now becoming clear that this incident occurred within a much larger political context.

Harvard political scientist Stephen Walt rightly noted this point in a blog post:

Whatever the target may have been, the more obvious point is that these groups are still hoping to make Americans pay a price for our policies in the Middle East and elsewhere. They are angry about our close ties with Saudi Arabia, by the drone attacks the United States is conducting in Yemen and Pakistan, and by our unstinting support for Israel. And even though AQAP’s main target appears to be the Saudi regime, America’s unpopularity throughout the region makes attacking the United States a useful recruiting tool.

Salon’s Glenn Greenwald made a similar point in his inimitable style:

I’m sure that escalated military activity in Yemen along with roving bands of CIA hit squads will go a long way toward solving the problem of anti-American hatred in that country and the Muslim world generally. If only we kill more of them and bring more violence to their country, they’ll stop wanting to mail bombs to ours.

The bottom line for me: though we are justifiably concerned about anti-Semitism, we’d might at least be equally concerned over US policies and actions in the Middle East – and the ways they create a fertile breeding ground for these kinds of extremist ideas.

Still another thought:

Ironically enough, immediately before the news of this event broke, my wife and I had just watched the recent documentary “Defamation,” a film which vividly explores the ways anti-Semitism is experienced – and too often exploited – by Israel and the American Jewish community.

So yes, I’ll confess that following the incident among the many thoughts racing through my mind was the somewhat jaundiced conclusion: “Boy, will our community will make political hay out of this one…”

Sure enough, not long after we learned of the bomb plot, it was reported that several Jewish communal leaders in NYC lobbied elected officials to dramatically increase Homeland Security funding for Jewish institutions – and urged their constituents to do likewise.

I can’t help but agree with Mondoweiss’ take on the affair:

While these people may have been sincerely reacting to an immediate dramatic threat, there seems to be a bit of opportunism at play here. Naomi Klein’s book, The Shock Doctrine, details instances like this where individuals, governments, and organizations take advantage of human-made or natural crisis to promote actions that will significantly advance their political, economic, and/or ideological plans.

A final semi-related thought:

The Jewish community would be foolish not to be vigilant about anti-Semitism – as well as the safety of our communal institutions. At the same time, however, I do believe our community must resist the temptation to view anti-Semitism as somehow unique or separate from other forms of prejudice.

When these kinds of troubling events occur, our community is too often tempted to circle the wagons and view the issue somehow as “us against the world.” Too often, we fail to see how anti-Jewish prejudice is inseparable from all forms of bigotry.

At the end of the day intolerance is intolerance. Whether we’re happy to admit it or not, we’re all in this together.

There have already been some fine responses to the ADL’s silly blacklist – check out these articles in Salon, the Daily Beast and Mondoweiss. JVP itself has released a very eloquent response that I encourage you to read as well.

An excerpt:

We do not hold Zionism as a litmus test for membership. Some of our members are Zionists, some are anti-Zionists, and some are non-Zionists. We believe you can define yourself in any of these ways as long as you support an end to the Israeli occupation of the West Bank — including East Jerusalem — and Gaza, and you advocate for human rights, which naturally apply equally to Israelis and Palestinians.

We stand by Israelis that hold these views, such as Israeli conscientious objectors and Israeli actors refusing to play in illegal settlements in the West Bank.

We stand by Palestinians that hold these views, such as Palestinian activists protesting the Israeli confiscation of land in the West Bank town of Bil’in.

We stand by internationals that hold these views, such as students pressing for divestment from occupation and war crimes or activists trying to break the siege of Gaza.

What unites us is our belief in human rights and equality.

Right on.

I’ll cite one more response to the ADL’s intolerance: it comes, interestingly enough, from the ADL itself.

Among the many projects sponsored by the ADL is it’s “A World of Difference Institute,” an impressive provider of anti-bias education and diversity training programs and resources. According to its mission, the AWOD Institute ” seeks to help participants recognize bias and the harm it inflicts on individuals and society; explore the value of diversity; (and) improve intergroup relations.”

As it turns out, our younger son recently told us that AWOD is coming to his High School to conduct a student workshop they call “Names Can Really Hurt Us,” a program that “allows students open, honest and relevant exploration about diversity and bias in their school communities.”

I’m enormously glad to hear that the ADL cherishes diversity and encourages open, honest exploration.

I’d say it’s time it applied these values to the Jewish community as well.

For matter how painful the prospect, I don’t think we can afford to dodge this question. If we agree that the inequitable distribution of power and privilege is a critical problem for us and for our world, then there will inevitably be times in which we are faced with an intensely difficult question: does tribal loyalty trump solidarity with the oppressed?

Actually, I’m coming to believe that this is not the best way to frame the question. I don’t really think it’s all that helpful to view this issue as some kind of zero-sum game; to see it as a question of tribal allegiance; to insist that I either stand with my own people or I don’t. I prefer to say it this way: that it is in my self interest as a Jew to stand in solidarity with the oppressed because I believe that Jews cannot be fully human while they benefit from a system that denies others their own humanity. For those with power and privilege, the struggle against racism and oppression is fought knowing that our own liberation is also at stake.

Click below to read the entire sermon:

What’s the difference between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur? There are many different ways to answer that question. Some see the Jewish New Year as a celebration of rebirth – and Yom Kippur as the day we do the work that helps us enter the new year reborn anew. Others hear the shofar of Rosh Hashanah as a spiritual wake up call and Yom Kippur as a time to arise from our slumber and return to the path from which we’ve strayed.

I’ve been increasingly coming to understand these two festivals in a different way: Rosh Hashanah is that day we focus on Malchuyot – God’s sovereignty. On Rosh Hashanah we acknowledge a Power greater than own and honestly face the limits of our own power. On Yom Kippur, we look seriously at how we use our power. We ask ourselves: in what ways has our power corrupted us? In what ways have we wielded our power destructively? And most important: what can we do – what must we do – to transform our power from a corrupting force into power that might transform our world?

In thinking about this particular theme this Yom Kippur, I’ve find myself getting drawn back to a deeper and more inexorable issue – that is, namely the ways in which we are all part of a system of power and privilege. And I’m increasingly coming to realize that we can’t really analyze our own power without recognizing the underlying structures of power imbalance that are so indelibly imprinted in our world.

We all naturally want power to be used for the good and the benefit for all. We all believe racism and sexism and homophobia to be oppressive. These aren’t particularly controversial claims. But beyond our good intentions and our well-intentioned actions, I can’t help but ponder how so many of us take our own power and privilege for granted. How we use and abuse power in ways we can’t even begin to grasp.

So if Yom Kippur is indeed the time for us to think honestly about the ways we wield our power, I’d like to take a little bit of time today to explore this issue more deeply. I’d like to examine how structures of power affects each and every one of us; how they influence our thoughts and how they determine our actions. I’d like to unpack how privilege affects our lives in so many fundamental ways. And in particular, I’d like to look carefully at how these complex inform and define us as Jews.

When defining the meaning of privilege, the first thing we need to consider is that it is always found in relationship with another. When I use the word “privilege” in this way, I refer to the benefits one party gains at the expense of another. Moreover, many of these benefits are by definition unearned.

Let’s us me as an example, I am white, male, heterosexual and born into an upper middle-class family. Every one of these factors afford me a myriad of unearned benefits that are simply unavailable to others in my community with whom I am in relationship either directly or indirectly.

The other important thing about privilege is that it is almost always invisible and unseen to the privileged party. I would daresay even those of us among the privileged who consider ourselves to be generally sensitive, enlightened and progressive people have no clue about the ways we take our privilege for granted.

To use but one example, here are some of the benefits that automatically accrue to me for the simple fact of my being a heterosexual:

The state automatically gives me the right to get married, along with the tangible benefits and protections that come with it. As a straight person, I will never experience prejudice directed toward me due to my sexual orientation; I don’t have to fear being estranged from my family because of my heterosexuality; I can be sure that if I need legal or medical help my sexual orientation won’t work against me; I can be open about my heterosexuality without worrying about my job; I can walk in public with my significant other and not have people stare or possibly harass me.

Even though I intellectually understand these privileges, I must confess they are largely invisible to me on a day to day basis. That’s why in the end, the idea of privilege is bigger than just a list of unearned benefits. It’s critically important for us to grasp how these privileges affect our daily lives, our careers, our education. In what ways do we benefit from a myriad of unearned privileges without ever even realizing it?

All made more complicated because we are all essentially made up of multiple identities. Since our identities intersect, there is not necessarily always a one to one correspondence between advantage and disadvantage. For example, if someone is poor but is also white they may not have class privilege, but as a white person, it is likely that this person will have an easier time of it than a person of color with the same income level. To one extent or another, we are all advantaged and disadvantaged at the same time. Having said this, however, it cannot be denied that there are those, in sum total, who enjoy significant unearned advantage over others.

For Jews as a group it is even more complicated. I would suggest that overall, our identity is predicated on disadvantage and the experience of oppression. After all, our most central sacred narratives occur in the context of powerlessness. “Avadim hayinu – we were slaves.” We were exiled from our land following quintessential tragedy of our people: the churban – the destruction of the Temple. These are more than just stories: they go to the heart of our collective self image. These narratives form the very DNA of our sacred traditions and rituals.

Moreover, the resonance of our historical experience – the tragic legacy of anti-semitism that culminated in the Holocaust– affects us no less deeply. I once said in a sermon several years ago that to be Jewish post-Holocaust means to live with collective PTSD – and indeed, it’s a condition that affects our identity and our relation to the world in so many profound ways.

At the same time, however, I believe this legacy of powerlessness is largely at odds with our contemporary reality. Quite frankly, the truth is that right now it’s actually a pretty good time to be Jewish. Although we’re often loathe to admit it, collectively speaking we currently enjoy a level of security, power and privilege at levels almost unprecedented in Jewish history.

Here in America, we’ve succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. We constitute one of the most educated, economically secure and politically organized minorities in the country. Given the relatively small percentage of Jews in the US, we’re inordinately well represented in the corporate, academic, political and professional worlds. Anti-semitism has long ceased to be a meaningful impediment to Jewish advancement. It is difficult, if not impossible, to claim that being Jewish is in any significant way a liability in the United States of America today.

Now I’m sure many might argue that our empowerment in this country is not completely unearned, and I wouldn’t necessarily disagree. Like many other ethnic minorities that immigrated to the US, much of what the Jewish community has accomplished has been the result of hard work and very real sacrifice. But at the same time, we cannot deny that by and large, those who have since been born into the Jewish community are firmly a part of this country’s power structure – and as such we enjoy many of the benefits and privileges that come with that power. And at the very least we should serious thought to what this privilege is doing to our communal priorities and our relationship to other communities around us.

I’ve sometimes joke semi-facetiously that one of the cardinal sins of being Jewish is to admit that we actually have power. After all, for so long our very identity has been rooted in our powerlessness. Take that away from us and what are we left with? And further: if we’re now part of the majority power structure, could that possibly mean that we have now become our own worst nightmare – namely, God forbid, that we are now on the side of the oppressor?

Here’s a telling historical anecdote: back in the late 1960s there was growing tension in Black-Jewish relations. As Jews joined the white flight from urban centers to the suburbs and the Black Power movement began to grow, the coalition that had been built and nurtured in the Civil Rights movement was rapidly breaking down. Many Jews felt betrayed by what they experienced as anti-semitism from former allies. And many blacks felt that Jews had now become a part of the a racist white power structure that was at the root of their oppression.

It was around this time that James Baldwin wrote a famous essay entitled “Negroes are Anti-Semitic Because They Are Anti-White.” When I first read this essay many years ago it had a powerful effect upon me – and over the years I’ve found myself returning to his challenging words again and again.

This is what he wrote:

In the American context, the most ironical thing about Negro anti-semitism is that the Negro is really condemning the Jew for having become an American white man – for having become, in effect, a Christian. The Jew profits from his status in America, and he must expect Negroes to distrust him for it. The Jew does not realize that the credential he offers, the fact that he has been despised and slaughtered, does not increase the Negro’s understanding. It increases the Negro’s rage.

For it is not here, and not now, that the Jew is being slaughtered, and he is never despised here, as the Negro is, because he is an American. The Jewish travail occurred across the sea and America rescued him from the house of bondage. But America is the house of bondage for the Negro, and no country can rescue him. What happens to the Negro here happens to him because he is an American.

This is what I take from these words: in many ways, to be a Jew today means to live with a kind of bifurcated identity. We continue to be shaped by our memories of past powerlessness, but as Baldwin correctly pointed out, in America we benefit in so many ways from the privileges that come with power. For my part, I’ve come to believe that it is politically and morally disingenuous of us to keep playing both sides of that card. As Jews, we would do well to ask: can we, should we honestly have it both ways?

In my opinion, this cognitive dissonance represents a critical challenge for the Jewish community in the 21^st century America. We currently enjoy unprecedented Jewish power and privilege. How will we choose to wield it?

Speaking for myself I’m increasingly coming to believe that it’s my obligation to recognize our power and privilege for what it truly is. To identify the ways that Jewish power privileges us in this country. I also believe that if we do this with frankness and honesty, then it becomes our responsibility to use our privilege to shift power in a more just and equitable direction.

How do we do this? For me, the answer is relatively straightforward: to stand in solidarity, as Jews, with all who are oppressed.

Now I realize this answer is not necessarily as straightforward as it sounds. In the first place, when the privileged and powerful decide to stand in solidarity with those with less power we make choices that are counter intuitive – choices that might not be of direct benefit to our own self-interest.

Here is one example. Many of you know, I’m sure, that I’ve become increasingly involved in the issue of immigrant justice. One day, about two years ago in which I was asked to offer a blessing at an interfaith vigil in solidarity with undocumented immigrants slated for deportation. As I stood waiting to speak, I was chatting with a priest who served a predominantly Latino parish. At one point he said something to the effect of, “What are you doing here?”

Or at least that was how I remember hearing his comment. I know he meant it as a compliment – but I also experienced his remark as a way of pointing out that unlike the Latino community, the Jewish community is not directly affected by this issue. I admit that when he said that comment, there was part of me that asked myself, “well, why am I here?” Is it out of middle class liberal guilt? Is it out of nostalgia? Is it because as a Jew, I’m seeking props from other ethnic communities?

But in the end, I reminded myself that no, I’m here because as a Jewish American, I’m the grandson of immigrants myself. I’m here because as a Jew, the struggle for immigrant justice benefited my own family and my own people at not long ago and that “there but for the grace of God.” And that while I might be tempted to say, “well this is not really my issue any more,” now that I have power and privilege in this country, I have an obligation to use it justly. And the primary way I can do this is to stand unabashedly in solidarity with those who do not share my privilege.

There can be no doubt that for Jews, I there will be times in which the prospect of solidarity work challenges us to our very core. Times which may force us to wrestle with own sense of tribal loyalty and allegiance. These are the times, indeed, in which we might have to consider whether or not we have actually, God forbid, become oppressors ourselves.

Still, I’m finding that solidarity work is becoming more and more important to my own spiritual vision as a Jew and as as a rabbi. It has come to inform much of the work I do in the greater community, from immigrant justice to worker justice to standing in solidarity with Palestinians. I know this latter issue in particular is enormously challenging for many – and in truth, it is for me as well. I’m well aware that the prospect of Palestinian solidarity work presents a profound challenge to the Jewish community. Nevertheless I will continue to try, in some small way, to put the difficult issues of Israeli power and privilege onto the Jewish radar screen. I also hope at least it might challenge us to have honest conversations about these issues as painful as they are.

For matter how painful the prospect, I don’t think we can afford to dodge this question. If we agree that the inequitable distribution of power and privilege is a critical problem for us and for our world, then there will inevitably be times in which we are faced with an intensely difficult question: does tribal loyalty trump solidarity with the oppressed?

Actually, I’m coming to believe that this is not the best way to frame the question. I don’t really think it’s all that helpful to view this issue as some kind of zero-sum game; to see it as a question of tribal allegiance; to insist that I either stand with my own people or I don’t. I prefer to say it this way: that it is in my self interest as a Jew to stand in solidarity with the oppressed because I believe that Jews cannot be fully human while they benefit from a system that denies others their own humanity. For those with power and privilege, the struggle against racism and oppression is fought knowing that our own liberation is also at stake.

Although these are indeed complex issues, I’ll return to what I said earlier: in another sense it is ultimately quite straightforward. After all, what is the lesson of our most central and oft-repeated Jewish narrative? God freed us from Egyptian bondage in order to show us, to show the Egyptians and to show the world that there is a power, yes, even greater than our own human power.

God then brought us into the wilderness and invited us to construct a new form of community – a society that would be, in a sense, the polar opposite of Egypt. A community where power was wielded with justice and compassion, where the well-being of its most powerless members – the stranger, the widow and the orphan – were ensured.

If we do indeed believe these to be among the most sacred teachings of our tradition, then our community is facing a challenge of truly daunting proportions. If this is our mission, then we owe it to ourselves to face up to the choices no matter how difficult or painful. It is certainly natural to seek the path of least resistance, the way of lesser tension. But as we know from our own lives and from our history, this is not the way to true transformation. In the end, power does not give an inch without a struggle.

This Yom Kippur, let us face up to the struggle together.

Amen.

And as I think about it, perhaps this is why we read a Martyrology on Yom Kippur. As we remember our martyrs, we search our own souls and ask ourselves honestly: what have we done in the past year to prove ourselves worthy of these profound sacrifices? What have we done to affirm that these people did not die in vain? Did we indeed honor their memories by transforming loss into justice and hope for our world?

Click below to read the entire sermon:

A JRC member recently asked why we never do the Martyrology service on Yom Kippur. I wrote back to the congregant – and I’ll confess to you now: I’ve never been a huge fan of this particular liturgy.

The Martyrology, known as “Eleh Ezkarah” in Hebrew, is traditionally recited during the Yom Kippur afternoon service. The traditional version is a liturgical poem that graphically describes the execution of ten rabbis, among whom were the famous Rabbis Akiba, Ishmael and Shimon ben Gamliel. All of them were sentenced to death for their support of Bar Kochba’s failed revolt against Rome in the year 132.

The Martyrology highlights the profoundly spiritual heroism of the rabbis with the often unbearably graphic details of their executions. We read how Rabbi Akiba managed to proclaim the Shema even as his flesh was being gouged out with iron combs; Rabbi Henania ben Teradion was wrapped in a Torah scroll together with damp wool to ensure he would die a slow and painful death by burning. As the flames consumed him, he cried out to his students that he could see the letters of Torah ascending up to heaven.

Perhaps the most disturbing description comes with the execution of Rabbi Ishmael. As Ishmael wept over the dismembered head of Rabbi ben Gamliel, the emperor Hadrian’s daughter admired his beauty and asked that his life be spared. The emperor then ordered that the Ishmael’s skin be flayed from his face and preserved for posterity.

I think by now you can understand my aversion to the traditional Martyrology. But beyond the graphic imagery, I think I’m even more troubled by the theological reason for it’s inclusion in the Yom Kippur service: namely, the concept of “blood atonement.” According to this theology, we offer the lives of our martyrs in the hopes that their deaths may atone for our misdeeds. Since the destruction of the Temple, we can no longer offer animal sacrifice. But even if we aren’t worthy of God’s mercy, we pray that we may be forgiven on account of their sacrifice. According to this view, you might say, the Ten Rabbis “died for our sins.”

If this sounds familiar to you, it should. Many scholars agree that the original source for this liturgy, Midrash Eleh Ezkerah, comes from the same period and literary tradition as early Christian martyrological literature. But it’s not the Christian associations per se that trouble me – it’s the implications of the theology itself. It’s the suggestion that bloodshed atones. And in particular, it’s the idea that I can somehow be let off the hook because of the tragic death of another person.

Of course it cannot be denied that the literal act of animal sacrifice was the way Israelites originally atoned for their sins. In tomorrow’s Torah portion, we will read how Aaron the High Priest sprinkles the blood of a goat and the blood of an ox over the altar, thus making atonement for all the sins of Israel. It is indeed a powerful image and metaphor indeed, but surely we’ve long given up on the idea that God literally requires blood as a path to forgiveness. And I’m sure that the notion that God might require the bloodshed of human martyrs as an atonement offering would strike many of us as borderline sacreligious.

In more recent years, Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist High Holiday liturgies have added other Jewish litanies of persecution to the Martyrology, including the horrors of the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the pogroms of Eastern Europe and the Holocaust itself. But to my mind, contemporary updating only deepens the essential problem. Do we really want to mythologize these tragic events and understand them as sacred offerings? Do we actually mean to view the death of the six million as a kind of sacrifice to God for our sins? Again, I believe most of us would find such a theology to be profoundly offensive.

So while I do believe we most certainly need to remember and honor our collective Jewish losses, I’ll admit that I’ve long struggled with the concept of martyrdom. And in particular, I’ve struggled to understand how a Martyrology might fit into our Day of Atonement – a day we devote to teshuvah, to repentance, to spiritual repair for the New Year ahead.

Since I received that member’s e-mail, however, I’ve been thinking more about this issue. In many ways, I think, martyrdom it’s is a fairly loaded term. After all, every religious tradition and every community has its martyrs – the figures who are exalted for having made the ultimate sacrifice. But I’m fascinated that the term is often used today colloquially in something of a pejorative context. We’ll use the term “martyr” for someone who relishes playing the role of sufferer, usually as a form of emotional manipulation.

Even so, and even if many of us today have difficulty with the traditional religious conception of martyrdom, I wonder now if American Jews might be able to reconstruct this idea for a post-modern age. And further: I’m wondering if we might possibly find a way to create a Martyrology service that truly be appropriate and meaningful to us on this Day of Atonement.

You might be surprised to learn that martyrdom is actually promoted in certain cases by traditional Jewish law. According to halacha, it is considered preferable to sacrifice one’s life rather than publicly transgress the prohibitions against idolatry, sexual immorality or murder. For centuries, this form of martyrdom has been considered the ultimate way to honor the traditional Jewish concept of Kiddush Hashem (or “the sanctification of God’s name.”)

And clearly there are no shortage of Jewish martyrs throughout Jewish history. There are the men and women of Masada who took their own lives rather than be captured and enslaved by the Romans. In the Second Book of Maccabees we read of Hannah and her sons, who were tortured and killed by Antiochus Epiphanes when they refused to publicly eat pork. During the Inquisition, the Jews of Spain and Portugal were executed or exiled if they refused to renounce their Jewish faith.

Of course when Jews contemplate martyrdom today we cannot avoid those who perished during the Holocaust. But indeed, viewing the victims of the Shoah as martyrs presents a myriad of new complications for us. In the first place, the six million are not mythic martyrs from the distant past – they are very real individuals. They are, quite literally, our fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers. Unlike the Maccabees or the Jews of the Inquisition, many of us are still personally grieving for these individuals. It isn’t such a simple matter for us to understand their deaths in the context of martyrdom and many of us wouldn’t even begin to try.

Moreover, the Holocaust marks the first time in history that Jews weren’t only killed for religious reasons – for their beliefs or their practices. They were killed because of who they were. Their martyrdom (if that is what we choose to call it) was completely and utterly involuntary. Unlike the deaths of Rabbi Akiba or Hannah, these deaths were not a result of personal action or conscience – or even of their own volition. Those who perished in the Shoah had no intention and certainly no desire to become martyrs.

The Holocaust was certainly one of the most notorious mass murders in modern history. But was it a mass martyrdom? Should we even refer to it in such a way? In thinking through these questions, I recently found turned to a teaching that some might consider to be an unlikely source – namely, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

I’m sure all of you are familiar with an infamous event that transpired in Birmingham, Alabama on September 15, 1963. It was the occasion of an involuntary martyrdom – one that has since become very important in American history . This was the day that a bomb planted by members of the KKK went off in 16^th St. Baptist Church, killing four little girls – Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley – and injuring 22 others.

And at the funeral for three of the girls, King gave a famous address that has since been known as “Eulogy for the Martyred Children.” He said as follows:

So they did not die in vain. God still has a way of wringing good out of evil. History has proven over and over again that unmerited suffering is redemptive. The innocent blood of these little girls may well serve as the redemptive force that will bring new light to this dark city. The holy scripture says, “A little child shall lead them.” The death of these little children may lead our whole Southland from the low road of man’s inhumanity to man to the high road of peace and brotherhood. These tragic deaths may lead our nation to substitute an aristocracy of character for an aristocracy of color. The spilt blood of these innocent girls may cause the while citizenry of Birmingham to transform the negative extremes of a dark past in to the positive extremes of a bright future. Indeed, this tragic event many cause the white South to come to terms with its conscience.

Then King turned to the families of the little girls and said this:

At times, life is hard, as hard as crucible steel. It has its bleak and painful moments. Like the ever-flowing waters of a river, life has its moments of drought and its moments of flood. Like the ever-changing cycle of the seasons, life has the soothing warmth of the summers and the piercing chill of its winters. But through it all, God walks with us. Never forget that God is able to lift you from fatigue of despair to the buoyancy of hope, and transform dark and desolate valleys into sunlit paths of inner peace.

Amongst the many religious texts I’ve read on the meaning of martyrdom, I personally find King’s words to be among the most meaningful and profound. I am particularly moved by his hope, by his realism, but most of all, by his refusal to surrender to the despair that these little girls died for nothing. As daunting as it was, he was determined to find a spark of spiritual meaning in this tragic loss.

Yes, he used the imagery of blood as redemptive – but he did so in a way that affirmed goodness and justice in the face of an evil, unjust act. As horribly tragic as their deaths were, King could not but affirm that their deaths would, as he put it, “serve as a redemptive force” that would eventually bring new light during those very dark times.

However: while King did believe that the loss of these innocents would ultimately bring freedom that much closer, he did not for a second suggest that God somehow required their blood to bring justice to the world. Ever the consummate pastor, King turned to the families of the little girls. Even after affirming their deaths would contribute to the cause of justice, he acknowledged the injustice of their families’ pain. After all, while these four girls had become martyrs to the world, to their loved ones they were daughter, sisters, granddaughters and friends. They were, very simply, Denise, Addie Mae, Carole, and Cynthia.

So yes, King said, “life can be hard, as hard as crucible steel.” Life can be tragic; life can be filled sorrow that feels sometimes feels utterly unbearable. But where is God in the midst of this families’ sorrow? God certainly didn’t receive their deaths as a kind of “sacrificial offering.” Rather, King said, “God walks with us.” God is the Spirit of compassion and strength that lifts us from “fatigue of despair to the buoyancy of hope,” that transforms “dark and desolate valleys into sunlit paths of inner peace.”

As I read these words, I can think of no better way to remember all whom we consider to be martyrs. We begin affirming meaning in the face of tragedy and loss. We affirm justice even amidst the pain of the injustice. We mourn our loss, and finally, we do what we must to bring some kind of meaning to our loss – to ensure that these deaths were not in vain.

And as I think about it, perhaps this is why we read a Martyrology on Yom Kippur. As we remember our martyrs, we search our own souls and ask ourselves honestly: what have we done in the past year to prove ourselves worthy of these profound sacrifices? What have we done to affirm that these people did not die in vain? Did we indeed honor their memories by transforming loss into justice and hope for our world?

To put it more specifically: as we recall our Jewish ancestors who died for practicing their faith, we must ask: have we done what we can to ensure that Judaism – this exquisite spiritual tradition of ours – will be passed on to future generations? When we tell of those who died in pursuit of political freedom, we must admit openly: how we have failed to ensure that these freedoms are extended to all in our nation and our world? And as we mourn the lives of six million lost, we must ask ourselves honestly: how can it be that more than sixty years after the Shoah, sixty years after this most radical form of inhumanity, sixty years of saying “Never Again,” we still continue to remain silent in the face of genocide?

As I’ve thought about this, I’ve begun to envision a new kind of Martyrology service: one that honors our dead but also one that challenges and awakens us to action. And since we are not only Jews, but also Americans and citizens of the world, I believe it would be critical to include non-Jewish martyrs as well: American figures such as, yes, the four young girls from Birmingham or, sadly, Dr. Martin Luther King himself. Or courageous figures from around the world, people such as Stephen Biko, whose death became a rallying cry against South African apartheid. Such a service might also provide us with the opportunity to learn more about international human rights heroes in our own day and consider how we might honor their memories.

Clearly, the individuals we choose to include would reflect our own values – and I’d welcome the opportunity to explore together what a JRC Martyrology service might eventually look like. In the meantime, we have added a section to tomorrow afternoon’s Yizkor service that will give us the opportunity to honor the memory of the six million. Among other things, it includes these powerful words of the great Yiddish poet Abraham Sutzkever, who survived World World II in Vilna and died only this past January at the age of 96:

Survivors! Inherit, with your happiness,

The tears of each of us, flickering in that vise

Remember: Inhale our dying.

Never forget: Be martyrs to life.

I invite you now to think for yourselves: Who are the courageous individuals whose sacrifices inspire you be “martyrs to life?” How will you honor their memory? What will you do in the coming year to bring meaning to their sacrifice?

When we honor our martyrs on Yom Kippur we stand up against hopelessness and fear. Yes, it is natural to be fearful in a world that sometimes feels as hard as crucible steel. But as long as there are survivors who will bear witness to the sacrifices of those who have gone before us, it seems to me, we do our part to keep their dreams of peace and justice alive.

I’d like to close now with a quote from a another contemporary martyr: El Salvador’s Archbishop Oscar Romero, who was murdered in 1980 for courageously promoting freedom and justice in his country. In the coming year and the years beyond, may we all prove ourselves worthy of his words:

Peace is not the product of terror or fear. Peace is not the silence of cemeteries. Peace is not the silent result of violent repression. Peace is the generous, tranquil contribution of all to the good of all. Peace is dynamism. Peace is generosity. It is right and it is duty.

And to that let us all say,

Amen.

photo by Rubin Starset for Laughing Squid

As I mentioned in my last post, JRC had the dubious honor of being demonstrated against on Rosh Hashanah eve by the hate-filled wackos from Westboro Baptist Church. In an e-mail to my congregation the day before, I urged members not to engage the protesters as I desperately wanted to avoid a circus on the eve of the holiest season of the Jewish year. I’m very happy to report that the pathetic demo proceeded without incident.

While I hesitate to give these publicity hounds more attention than they deserve, I couldn’t resist sharing this link sent to me by my friend (and new JRC member) Susan Klonsky. Apparently the Westboro folks recently traveled to San Francisco to demonstrate in front of Twitter headquarters and a local production of “Fiddler on the Roof.” (!!) Get a load of the hilariously absurdist counter-protest that greeted them there.