From my Rosh Hashanah sermon last Monday:

However – I also wonder if Jewish tribalism is starting to come at a cost.  I especially wonder what it means for the Jewish community to be tribal in this day and age, when we are experiencing openness and freedom in historically unprecedented ways.  Given the global realities of our 21^st century world, I wonder if there might be new models for Jewish identity – ones that value tribalism less than a deeper sense of engagement and kinship with the world outside.

Click below to read the entire sermon:

Like many of you, I’m sure, I was thoroughly caught up in the London Olympics this past summer.  Yes, the pageantry sometimes got a bit over the top for my taste, but in the end, I loved the Olympics.  I couldn’t resist the incredible talent on display, the drama of the competitions and the often inspiring human stories behind them.

And almost as inevitably, I couldn’t resist rooting for Team USA.

Now in all fairness to me, some of the blame must be laid at the feet of an obnoxiously biased US media, but I’ll be honest: I can’t put it all on NBC.  If I’m to be completely honest, I’d have to admit there’s was something deep inside me that reflexively pulls for US athletes.

At one point during the games, I took some time to ponder my loyalties.  I asked myself, “Why?” Why do I care so much about the performance of one competitor or team over another?  Why should I feel an attachment to certain athletes just because they happened to inhabit the same general geography as me?  Why, during the Women’s 400 meter freestyle, did I cheer on the American swimmer Allison Schmitt over Rebecca Adlington from Great Britain?  I don’t know either of them personally.  If I was going to be completely honest, I’d have to admit that the American was really just as much a stranger to me as the Brit.  Who knows?  Maybe I share more important things in common with the Brit than the American.  And still – I felt this special connection to the US athlete – an involuntary kind of gut connection.

Now this gut feeling may feel like a trivial matter during athletic competitions, but when experienced on a collective level, I’d suggest this phenomenon has been a major driving force behind the very course of human civilization.  Call it what you want: patriotism, nationalism, tribalism – I’d argue this primal sense of group allegiance has had an overwhelming influence on human consciousness and history to this very day.

I’d also argue that these gut feelings of kinship are not essentially biological reactions.  I tend to agree with those who suggest that the concept of nationhood is a social construction.  The connections of allegiance and loyalty we feel toward those in our group are imagined, culturally-conditioned connections.  Nations are what scholar Benedict Anderson famously defined as “Imaginary Communities.”

Nevertheless, even if they are are socially determined, we experience these connections on a deep and basic level.  As Anderson pointed out, the tribal pull of nationalism has the power to cause millions of people to kill and to “willingly die for such limited imaginings.”

I think a great deal about the concept of tribalism.  I’m particularly intrigued that even though human society can trace its very origins to tribal communities, today, the term “tribalism” often carries a pejorative connotation.  Though tribes have been essential to the course of human evolution, this word more often than not refers to an overly parochial or particularistic world view – a bias in which people save their ultimate care and concern toward those in their own group.

It certainly is true that national cultures are self-centered – perhaps necessarily so.  The ideologies of nations are deeply biased; the narratives they construct for themselves are invariably self-serving.  You can think of countless examples I’m sure. Here’s a fairly recent one: at the conventions of both the Republican and Democratic national parties this past summer, speaker after speaker referred to the US as the “greatest nation on earth.” And of course, it has become a sacred rule that every speech end with the words, “God Bless America!”

We cannot deny that historically, there is a deeply tribal component to Jewish identity as well.  After all, the Torah tells us that we began as a tribe (well, actually twelve) and even today it’s common to refer to one another as MOTs (“Members of the Tribe”).  In one sense, we certainly could say that tribalism has served the Jewish People well over the centuries.  When you stop to ponder it, it’s truly remarkable that we’ve been able to maintain our sense of group cohesion and identity for so many centuries – particularly considering we’ve been dispersed throughout other nations for almost our entire history.

It’s fair to say that the notion of peoplehood has always been central to Jewish identity. From the very beginning, we’ve self-described as “Am Yisrael” – the People of Israel.  And although we’re a notoriously diverse people, even though Jewish life and practice has been culturally influenced in countless ways in a myriad of countries throughout the world, we’ve still maintained an underlying sense of belonging to one another.

However – I also wonder if Jewish tribalism is starting to come at a cost.  I especially wonder what it means for the Jewish community to be tribal in this day and age, when we are experiencing openness and freedom in historically unprecedented ways.  Given the global realities of our 21^st century world, I wonder if there might be new models for Jewish identity – ones that value tribalism less than a deeper sense of engagement and kinship with the world outside.

Let’s start at the beginning. Every group has its formative myths, and we certainly have ours.  Our Biblical narratives in particular loom large in our identity, even though contemporary scholars are increasingly casting doubt on the historicity of these stories.  Indeed, most Near Eastern historians today tend to agree there was no Exodus from Egypt – and that the Israelites were likely a loosely connected group of nomadic tribes that gradually migrated into ancient Canaan.  Some prominent Israeli archaeologists are now suggesting that the kingdom of David and Solomon was actually at most a small tribal kingdom, not the glorious capital of an Israelite empire.

Nevertheless, whether these narratives are historically accurate ot not isn’t important – they have become indelibly imprinted into our Jewish hearts and minds over the centuries.  They have also been shaped by our very real experience of antisemitism and oppression throughout the diaspora.  Among other things, oppression puts a kind of centripetal force on a community, causing it tighten and turn inward.  Nothing binds a people together more quickly or more tightly than persecution, as Pharaohs from time immemorial have learned all too well.

There’s no question that the experience of oppression has strengthened and molded our Jewish sense of allegiance and responsibility to one another.  One of our most primary Jewish values, after all, is Ahavat Yisrael – love of your fellow Jew.  As the Talmud teaches,

Kol yisrael arivin zeh le’zeh.

All Jews are responsible for one another.

Many classical Jewish commentators teach, in fact, that the Torah command to “love your neighbor as yourself,” refers to Jewish “neighbors” only.

I can understand how such an ideology can develop.  I understand that if a people is abused repeatedly, they will need to learn to depend upon one another first and foremost.  To be sure, it’s not simply a matter of group loyalty – it’s a matter of survival.

If there was ever any doubt, this mentality became seared into our consciousness as a result of the Holocaust.  This trauma, along with our sense of abandonment by the rest of the world, continues to affect so many of us so deeply.  Since that time, the imperative to band together and survive at all costs has become an even more palpable aspect of our identity.  The prominent Jewish theologian, Emil Fackenheim summed this impulse up very well.  He famously proposed the creation of a new mitzvah – a 614^th commandment: “Thou shalt not hand Hitler a posthumous victory.”

I know this mentality all too well.  I know it because it is a deeply ingrained part of my Jewish identity.  A key part of my own Jewish education and socialization was the lesson that to be a Jew means to survive.  To forever be on guard for those who would do us harm.  To understand the hard lesson that when push comes to shove, we really can’t depend on anyone else but ourselves.

However, I have also come to understand that it is not quite that simple. I also know that the trauma of World War II and the Holocaust left behind many different legacies for the Jewish people.  While it left many in our community with deep scars and suspicion toward the outside world, it also signaled the beginning of a Jewish rebirth – and a deeper Jewish engagement with the world.  In short, Jews have come out of the ghetto and we are thriving.  Today, in so many ways, the Jewish people live during a time of unprecedented Jewish creativity, freedom, privilege, and influence.

In my experience, the newest generations of liberal American Jews – particularly those coming of age in the the 21^st century globalized world – don’t identify with Jewish tribalism the way their parents or grandparents did.  In fact, studies are increasingly showing that young Jewish Americans tend to view their Jewish identity through the values of a larger, more universal global reality.  They are driven less by an “us against the world” mentality than by the vision of the Jew as a global citizen.  They view ethnic diversity and interaction as normative – and feel far less stigma than their parents and grandparents over the prospect of marrying non-Jews.

As we begin a new millennium, it seems to me, two forces seem to be heading in opposite directions at an increasingly faster pace.  On the one hand, the barriers between peoples and nations are breaking down at an unprecedented pace – yet in other corners of the world we are witnessing a retreat into even greater sectarianism and nationalism.  Thus, given the ways in which we’ve defined our own history until now, I’d suggest this is a time of reckoning for Jews.  How will we view the outside world?  Will we circle the wagons and view the outside world with suspicion?  Or will we see our future as connected to the future of others and open our community up to this new global reality?

I know personally how hard it is for many of us to challenge our tribal Jewish legacy.  But as for me, I believe to my very core that whether we like it or not, our collective future will depend upon building more bridges, and not more walls, between peoples and nations.  I believe the most effective way for us to survive – the only way we will bequeath our traditions to the next generation –  is to affirm a Judaism that finds sacred meaning in our connection to kol yoshvei tevel – all who dwell on earth.

I also believe this because I know that while Judaism certainly contains tribal and parochial teachings, it also has also a strong tradition of religious humanism – mitzvot that demand we love all our neighbors as ourselves.  After all, one of the first – and most powerful – teachings in the Torah is that human beings are created B’tzelem Elohim – in the image of God.  From the outset we learn that all human beings are equally worthy of respect, dignity and love – and, I would add, equally worthy of one another’s allegiance and loyalty.  Moreover, a key rabbinic concept, Kavod HaBriyot, demands that we ensure all people are treated with honor and dignity.  In a famous verse from the classic rabbinic text Pirke Avot, Rabbi Ben Zoma teaches:

Who is honored?  The one who honors all human beings.

All are created in God’s image.  Honor comes to the one who honors all people.  To my mind, these are the strands of Judaism we must seek out and and affirm in no uncertain terms.  In this day and age, when the fates of all peoples are becoming so very deeply intertwined, I believe we must consider values such as B’tzelem Elohim and Kevod HaBriyot to be among the most sacred of our tradition.

Perhaps we can also take our cue from these values in order to affirm a new kind of tribalism.  To forge “tribal” connections with others not simply because they happen to be Jews, but because they share our values of justice and equity.  In other words, I believe our ultimate loyalties should lay with the powerless, the vulnerable, the marginalized – and all who fight on their behalf.  Whether they happen to be Jewish or not – why shouldn’t we consider these to be the members of our most cherished tribe?

Here’s a personal example.  As a rabbi, I do a great deal of work with clergy, both inside and outside the Jewish community.  And over the years I’ve come to notice that the most meaningful and important community work I do is not necessarily exclusively with other rabbis.  When it comes to the values I hold most sacred, values of social justice, human rights, community service, I find myself working and finding common cause with clergy of many different faiths.  Some may be Jewish, some not, but it in the end it doesn’t really matter.  These are the ones I consider to be my primary faith colleagues – my primary clergy community.

In one sense, then, perhaps our most sacred religious values actually compel us to look past the feelings of tribal loyalty.  Needless to say, if we are going to do this on a communal scale, it’s going to take a radical shift in consciousness.  We’re going to have to step out from behind the walls we’ve built and understand many of our real sisters and brothers have been there all along.  And we will have to recognize that in the end, their hopes, their dreams and their suffering are irrevocably connected to ours.

I have no illusions that it would be a simple matter for the Jewish community to heed such a call. Having only recently emerged from the ghetto, still living with a collective memory of antisemitism, still reeling from the trauma of the Holocaust, it is no small matter to go beyond our own fears and feel the pain of the other as our pain as well.

To do this, I believe, we’ll have to construct a distinctly 21^st century Torah – one that reflects a world in which the Jewish community has become inter-dependent with other peoples in profound and unprecedented ways.  One that lets go of old tribal assumptions and widens the boundaries of our tent in new and creative ways.

Perhaps we can start here: with a reconsideration of the value Ahavat Yisrael – Love of the Jewish People.  What do we really mean when we use this term?  Certainly it might mean an abstract sense of connection and kinship with other Jews throughout history and around the world.  And it’s true – we do feel a special connection to Jews we meet in unlikely places throughout the world.  It is also quite powerful to know that the words we pray and study are the same words have Jews prayed and studied for centuries.  But beyond this, what do we mean by Ahavat Yisrael?  What does it mean to love a culturally constructed (or reconstructed) community that includes people with whom we may or may not share some basic, fundamental values?

In truth, the definition of who is a Jew has always been disputed – and what we call “the Jewish community” is more diverse and dynamic today than ever before.  It is also being increasingly enriched by the participation of many non-Jews who are marrying into the community.  So what do we mean when we talk about “Love of the Jewish People” when the very truth of our “peoplehood” is so complex and ever–changing?

I’d like to suggest that a deeper understanding of this value shouldn’t stop at love for just fellow Jews.  After all, while the word “Yisrael” does refer to the Jewish People, it also literally means “Wrestles With God.”  Seen thus, we might render “Ahavat Yisrael” as “Love for All Who Struggle.”  To love all who fight, as we have, for freedom and justice and tolerance in the world.  To stand in solidarity with those who struggle against tyranny and are beaten, imprisoned, tortured or killed for doing so.  To throw our allegiance to those who wrestle deeply for meaning in their lives; who seek to tear down the limits of religious dogma or ideological coercion.  These are the members of our tribe – perhaps our most sacred tribe.  And whenever we reach out to them and celebrate our inherent connection with one another here, around the world, or throughout history – that is truly when we fulfill the mitzvah of Ahavat Yisrael.

I realize that this new understanding might seem like radical change to many.  But in truth, the Jewish world is changing, as it has from time immemorial.  The only question before us is: will we have the courage to recognize these changes – and to see in them as a precious opportunity rather than as a threat to be fought at all costs.

This is indeed the point that Mordecai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionist Judaism, drove home repeatedly: Judaism is not merely a static religion, nor is it simply a territorial nation-state, rather it is an evolving religious civilization.

Kaplan wrote his final book during the massive world upheavals of the late 1960s.  He entitled it “The Religion of Ethical Nationhood” – which he believed could be Judaism’s “contribution to world peace.”  Kaplan believed that the Jewish people has historically provided a unique model for peoplehood – a dynamic polity that allows for ethnic, geographic and intellectual diversity.  And it’s purpose was not survival for survival’s sake, but rather to promote moral and ethical behavior on a collective scale.  Kaplan fervently believed that this approach explained the secret of Jewish survival.  In his final writings, he promoted Ethical Nationhood as the secret of world survival as well.

The world has changed considerably since Kaplan wrote those words; sometimes it seems as if it’s changing faster every day.  So how shall we respond?  Will we hold on to old paradigms, build physical or intellectual garrison states, higher and higher walls?  Or will we do what we’ve always done: welcome this change with open arms, and view our ever-evolving world as an opportunity – not a threat to our existence?

And if when we do encounter those who would do the Jewish people harm, as we invariably will, how will we respond then?  Will we repeat yet again that we Jews are alone in a harsh and uncaring world – or will we find common cause with all who are harmed and oppressed and find strength in our solidarity?

These are the questions I’m asking myself this Rosh Hashanah.  May we all find the courage to discuss them together.  May the answers we discover bring us joy, meaning and life this year and for many, many years to come.

Amen.