Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Peace between Israelis and Palestinians: if not now, when?

A talk by Hannah Weisfeld, the Director of Yachad.

Tuesday 19 July, at 8.00 PM

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

6 Lansdowne Road, Hove BN3 1FF

Yachad is the recently established pro-Israel, pro-peace movement in the UK, which supports a two state solution as the best option for Israel’s long term peace and security.

Yachad seeks to harness large numbers of British Jews, through education, debate or advocacy in support of the steps needed to achieve this goal.

Hannah Weisfeld, the Director of Yachad and one of its founders, will discuss Yachad’s vision and its plans to foster a new type of relationship between the British Jewish community and Israel. 

Admission is free of charge

 

The post-modern Rabbi

Like her Christian counter-part is a

Multi-tasker

Minister-Pastor-Counsellor-Priest

Servant of the community

And

Spiritual Leader

Juggler extraordinaire

Rallying the remnant and the wayfarers

From week to week

Conducting the cycle of sacred celebrations

From year to year

Sacralising the liminal moments of life

From birth to death

 

But that’s not all

Teacher – by definition

(Enhanced – and regularly updated –

By new technologies)

Curator of the Jewish heritage

Guardian of the collective memory

Keeper of the prophetic vision

Builder of bridges to

Span the wilderness

Agent of

Redemption

 

And

Sometimes

(In between)

She’s also an

Angst-merchant

With nothing to sell but

Emptiness and longing

So she peddles

Enthusiasm

Wholesale by the kilo

Heavy vats of

Hope

Before it turns

Sour

 

Never bankrupt

Nor redundant

At least

Not yet

She does a steady trade

(On the side) in

Anxiety

Anguish

Disenchantment

Despair

All the loss-leaders for

One price

 

The post-modern Rabbi

Dedicated disciple of the

School of meaning-making

Post-1933 – and 1938

Contains fissures

Absorbs the abyss

Like all survivors

Standing on one leg

‘The rest is commentary

Go and learn’

 

 

Network Meeting of the Crawley Interfaith Network

Good evening everyone. I’ve been asked to speak to you about Yom Ha-Sho’ah – literally, the day of the Sho’ah: the day set aside sixty years ago for the commemoration of what we Jews prefer to call the Sho’ah, rather than, the ‘Holocaust’. If Sho’ah is an unfamiliar word to you, the word, ‘Holocaust’, actually requires some explaining, too. If you look in the standard dictionary of the Hebrew Bible, compiled in the 19th century by three Christian ministers, the Reverends Brown, Driver and Briggs, you will discover that the word ‘holocaust’ is the translation of the Hebrew word, olah, meaning, ‘burnt offering’. For Jews, the six million killed by the Nazis cannot be equated to a religious sacrifice – that would be too imply that there was something sacred about the mass murder of our people. And so we prefer to use the word Sho’ah, meaning ‘devastation’, ‘ruin’, ‘waste’, ‘calamity’, or ‘ catastrophe’, which also has its origins in the Hebrew Bible (see, for example, Isaiah 10:3)

So, we have a name for the annihilation of the six million, but what about a date for the commemoration of this particular genocide? What historian Lucy Dawidowicz calls ‘The War against the Jews’ in her book of that name (Penguin Books), began in 1933, and did not end until the Allied powers defeated Hitler in the spring of 1945. In other words, the Sho’ah lasted well over 4000 days, so which particular day would be most appropriate for an annual day of commemoration? I will leave you with that question for a moment, while I tell you about a particular chapter during the Sho’ah.

This year the first day of Pesach, the Festival of Passover, coincided with the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, which began on 19^th April 1943 – the eve of Pesach that year. To put the uprising in context: within 18 months of Hitler’s decision to liquidate all the ghettos, more than two million were deported to the death camps. By the end of 1942, approximately 300,000 of this number had been rounded up in the Warsaw ghetto and transported to Treblinka, leaving, between 55,000 and 60,000.

In January 1943, a small group of mostly young Jews, using a stash of smuggled weapons, attacked German troops as they were rounding up more Jews for deportation. Within a few days, the troops retreated. Emboldened by this small victory, led by 23-year-old Mordecai Anielewicz, the ghetto fighters, organised as the Z.O.B. (Zydowska Organizacja Bojowa – Jewish Fighting Organization), set about acquiring more weapons and making plans to defend the ghetto. As they prepared for the final deportation, the Germans also made sure that they were ready to meet resistance. And so, on April 18^th on the eve of the final deportation to Treblinka, Jurgen Stroop, an SS officer, who had experience of fighting partisans, was put in charge.

Warned of the timing of the final deportation, the ghetto fighters make sure that the Jews who remained in the ghetto went into hiding. When the German troops entered on the morning of April 19^th 750 fighters armed with a handful of pistols, rifles, and Molotov cocktails took on more than 2,000 heavily armed and well-trained German troops – and held out against them for 27 days. The first major blow came on May 8^th when the Germans captured the headquarters bunker of the ZOB at 18 Mila Street, and  Mordecai Anielewicz and a large number of his colleagues were killed in the fighting – although several dozen fighters escaped through the sewers. By May 16^th it was all over.  Approximately 300 Germans and 7,000 Jews were killed during the uprising, and another 7,000 Jews were deported to Treblinka.

Some of the ghetto fighters who survived, emigrated to Israel in 1949, and you can still meet a handful of them at the Ghetto Fighters House at Kibbutz Lohamei Ha-gheta’ot, in the Western Galilee. This valiant moment became so important in the collective psyche of the nascent Jewish state that when Jewish scholars began to discuss setting a date for commemoration of the Sho’ah, the Israelis argued for one that coincided with the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Since Pesach itself wasn’t possible, in 1951 Yom Ha-Sho’ah was established in the calendar as 27^th Nissan, a few days after the Festival, and eight days before Yom Ha-Atzma’ut – Israel Independence day (5^th Iyyar).

So, a date for the commemoration of the Sho’ah was fixed in 1951. But there were other candidates: The Nazis began to persecute the Jewish community of Germany as soon as they came to power in 1933, but it was not until November 1938 that social, economic and political persecution transformed into violent assault. Beginning on the night of 8^th/9^th November, houses, synagogues and Jewish shops were firebombed, windows broken, contents ransacked and burned. Reminiscent of the pogroms of Czarist Russia, this event became known as Kristalnacht, the ‘Night of the Broken Glass’. Would the anniversary of Kristalnacht be an appropriate date to commemorate the Sho’ah? When the debate about setting a commemoration date got going after 1945, a number of Jewish scholars in the diaspora thought so. And there was another compelling reason for choosing this date. In the Hebrew calendar, Kristalnacht took place in the month of Cheshvan. Because Cheshvan is the only month in the Jewish calendar when there are no special commemorations – apart from the weekly Sabbaths – the early rabbis renamed the month, Marcheshvan, which means, ‘bitter Cheshvan’.

Wouldn’t a ‘bitter’ month be a particularly appropriate time to commemorate the Sho’ah? As it happens, the Hebrew date was the 15^th of Cheshvan, that is, in the middle of the month, when there is a full moon. Interestingly, it is only when we remember the Hebrew date that we get an insight into why the events of the night of 8^th/9^th November became known as ‘the night of the broken glass.’ Of course, a massive amount of glass was, indeed, broken. But imagine what all those shards of glass looked like on the 15^th of Cheshvan in the light of the full moon! So why isn’t Kristalnacht remembered by the Hebrew date? Because, a key moment in the Nazi era, the day is significant in an international context.

So, we have a date that recalls the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in April 1943; and we have a date that recalls the beginning of the violent persecution of the Jewish people in November 1938. And, of course, other significant dates during the Sho’ah could also have been selected. At the turn of the millennium when the British government decided to inaugurate National Holocaust Memorial Day, they chose the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz by the Red Army on 27th January 1945, a date which marks, in a sense, the beginning of the end of the Nazi era. From a Jewish point of view, of course, the horror was far from over, with thousands of Jewish inmates perishing on death marches as the Nazis evacuated the camps in response to the Allies’ advance.

In addition to the particular moments during the Nazi period that might have been considered sixty years ago when Yom Ha-Sho’ah was introduced into the Jewish calendar, there was an ancient candidate for Sho’ah remembrance: Tishah B’Av, the 9^th day of the Hebrew month of Av, the day which commemorates the destruction of the first Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and the second Temple by the Romans in 70 CE. Interestingly, for some years after the official decision to fix the date of Yom Ha-Sho’ah, Jewish communities around the world did include commemoration of the Sho’ah on Tishah B’Av. On one level, it is an obvious choice for the date: following the destruction of both Temples so many other devastating events in the life of the Jewish people have been associated with Tishah B’Av – for example, the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492.

However, one of the central themes in the Jewish discussion about the date of Yom Ha-Sho’ah has revolved around the particularity of the Sho’ah. The Jewish people can trace a long history of churban – the Hebrew word for ‘destruction’. But the question arises, is the Sho’ah just the most recent example of churban, or is it essentially unique? There are different views. I would argue that on the one hand, the Sho’ah is connected to the Jewish people’s historic experience of churban, and on the other it was utterly distinct on a number of levels, not least because it was the first attempt to wipe out the Jewish people, as a people, from the face of the earth – what the Nazis called ‘the final solution of the Jewish question’, and because the technology employed by the Nazis transformed mass murder into an industry of slaughter. And so, wherever I have practised as a rabbi, we have held, both, a commemoration service on Yom Ha-Sho’ah, and also included commemoration of the Sho’ah in our service on Tishah B’Av – when, incidentally, we also remember all the destructions of the Jewish people throughout history, as well as important destructive moments of universal significance, such as the outbreak of the First World War and the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, both of which, coincidentally, took place in early August, around Tishah b’Av.

So, as we can see, there are political and theological implications connected with the adoption of any particular date for commemoration of the Sho’ah.

At the moment, Jewish communities around the world are counting the days between the festivals of Pesach and Shavuot, Weeks. Known as ‘the counting of the Omer’, the ritual of counting each day has its roots in the Divine Service of the Sanctuary in Temple times, when, as we read in Leviticus chapter 23, the priest would wave an omer, a sheaf of grain, for seven ‘complete’ weeks, from the day after the Sabbath[1] during Pesach, until Yom Ha-Bikkurim, ‘the day of first-fruits’ on the fiftieth day. If we remember that the ancestors of the Jewish people were farmers, we can see that the period between sowing the seeds and reaping the grain, was a time of great anxiety – hence the marking of time until the first harvest. After the Temple was destroyed the rabbis reinvented the Festival of Weeks as a commemoration of the Revelation of Mount Sinai, since, as Exodus chapter 19 relates, the slaves arrived in the wilderness of Sinai at the beginning of the third month following the departure from Egypt. In this way the rabbis ensured that what had been a sacred feast associated with the land, a particular place, would be connected with a particular time, and could be celebrated in every place. The rabbis also developed the notion that the period between Pesach and Shavuot was a time of mourning because it was during the ‘seven weeks, in the year 135 CE that the Romans finally crushed the three-year-long Jewish revolt led by a messianic figure known as Bar Kochba, which was supported by many rabbis of the day, including, Rabbi Akiva[2].

Why am I telling you this? Because the crushing of the Bar Kochba  revolt was a traumatic event which marked a turning point  for the Jewish people, no less important than the destruction of the Temple, which had followed the crushing of the first revolt against Rome. And so, with this historic resonance, the Omer period as a whole may be seen as another candidate for the commemoration of the Sho’ah. However, this is not just because the Jewish people experienced a trauma in the second century during this time. More importantly, it is because that trauma is not remembered on a particular day. And it is this that, in my view, makes the Omer period an important time for Sho’ah remembrance. After all, the Sho’ah did not take place on one particular day, but rather, day after day after day. And yet, just as the Omer period is time-limited, so the Sho’ah did come to an end, albeit after twelve long and excruciating years – and Hitler’s dream of a ‘thousand year Reich’ was finally shattered.

In my congregation, Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue, in addition to commemorating Yom Ha-Sho’ah, we also remember the Sho’ah throughout the days of the counting of the Omer. And we do something else, which also makes a big difference to the way in which we remember that devastating time: we remember a particular community, and, in particular, the individual members of that community by name. We remember the community of Frydek Mistek in eastern Czechoslovakia, which was destroyed by the Nazis. And we remember this particular community because we are the guardians of one of their Torah scrolls. The community of Frydek Mistek was rounded up by the Nazis between the Rosh Ha-Shanah, the New Year, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement in 1942. All those were deported were later killed – mostly in the death camp of Treblinka. However, in 1962, 1564 Torah scrolls were found in a disused synagogue in Prague. To cut a long story short, the Rabbi of Westminster Synagogue in London, an American called Harold Reinhart, was inspired to rescue the scrolls, and so he brought them back to the synagogue in truckloads, where those that could be repaired were repaired, and catalogued, and then distributed to progressive synagogues throughout the country. So that’s how we got to have our scroll from Frydek Mistek. But it was not until 2002, following the 40th anniversary of the rescue of the scrolls, that we decided, after attending a special conference at the Westminster Synagogue, to make a point of actively preserving the memory of the community of Frydek Mistek, by creating an exhibition, and by reading from their scroll on the anniversary of the deportations[3], and during the Omer period.

And so, remembering the destroyed community of Frydek Mistek amidst the six million, reminds us of the millions of individual lives and the tens of thousands of individual communities that were laid waste.

Yom Ha-Sho’ah: a day for remembrance of the Sho’ah. The Omer period: a ‘complete’ span of time to remember all the days of that devastating, unique long moment, which, did in fact become a past event that we can look back at and remember. As it happens, the date chosen to mark Yom Ha-Shoah, because of its association with the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, does in fact, take place during the Omer period, on the 13^th day of the Omer. In view of this, given the decision was made sixty years ago, to choose one particular day, perhaps it was, after all, a good choice.

Finally, the question I might have posed at the beginning: Why should we remember the Sho’ah? Because we must not forget the terrors perpetrated by the Nazis and their cohorts – and in the hope that one day, human beings will learn not to demonise the other, and so ensure that genocide is finally consigned to history.

I would like to conclude my remarks by counting the Omer:

Ba-ruch  A-tah  A-do-nai  E-lo-hey-nu,  Me-lech  ha-o-lam, a-sher  ki-d-shanu  b-mitz-vo-tav v-tzi-va-nu  al  s-fi-rat  ha-omer.

Blessed are You, Eternal One, our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who sanctifies us by doing Your commands and who commands us concerning the counting of the Omer.

Today is the 43^rd day of the Omer, making six weeks and one day of the Omer.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Network Meeting of the Crawley Interfaith Network

31^st May 2011 – 27^th Iyyar 5771

---

[1] The Rabbis subsequently interpreted the word, ‘Sabbath’ in the text (Lev. 23:15) to mean the first day of the festival, thus fixing the date of the Festival following the seven weeks of counting as the 6^th day of Sivan.

[2] The rabbis referred to this as a ‘plague’ – see Talmud (Yevamot 62b)

[3] Our anniversary service is held on Shabbat Shuvah – the ‘Sabbath of Repentance’ between Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur.

‘Living in the World: The People of God and the Pursuit of Justice’

Aubrey Milstein Memorial Lecture given by Dr. Brian Klug, Senior Research Fellow in Philosophy at St. Benet’s Hall, Oxford.

The content of this lecture is protected by copyright. The two parts are adapted from the prologue and epilogue to Being Jewish and Doing Justice: Bringing Argument to Life ( London : Vallentine Mitchell, 2011). A version of part one appears as ‘A People Apart?’ in the Spring 2011 issue of Jewish Quarterly (no. 217).

LIVING IN THE WORLD:

THE PEOPLE OF GOD AND THE PURSUIT OF JUSTICE

Preamble

I am delighted to be here today at Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue and honoured to give this year’s Aubrey Milstein Memorial Lecture. Delighted to be here because I admire this congregation and everything it stands for: its inclusiveness, egalitarianism and broad humane vision. Plus I am a fan of your rabbi, Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah, and, what’s more, I am fond of your rabbi and even, if I may so as a slightly older cousin, proud of your rabbi. So, that is why I am delighted to be here. I did not know Aubrey Milstein but clearly he was a mensch. In fact, when I googled his name I thought he was more than one mensch. The first item was an article with the headline ‘Aubrey Milstein – Bisley Rifle Champion’. This Aubrey Milstein, at the age of 15, was a member of his school rifle club and the winner of the 1936 Bisley high school rifle championship. Surely this gunman could not be the same person that Elli had told me about, the social activist who (to quote from your website) “worked for many years … to foster harmony in the community and to challenge injustice”. But, as you know, it is one and the same individual, a remarkably well-rounded man whose life was (to borrow a phrase from Isaiah) l’or goyim, a light to the nations (Is. 42:6). This, of course, is how Isaiah describes am Yisroel, the people that the Torah calls the people of God, the subject of my talk this afternoon. In short, Aubrey Milstein, and I do mean the one and only, personified the people as the people ought to be. So, I am honoured to be giving the annual lecture in his name.

Reading about his commitment to inter-faith understanding, I am reminded of an incident that occurred in Michaelmas Term 1998, my first term at St Benet’s Hall, Oxford. As well as being part of Oxford University, St. Benet’s is a monastic house of studies founded by the Benedictine monks of Ampleforth Abbey. After Vespers one evening, about ten minutes prior to the ringing of the dinner bell, there was a gentle knock on my door. It was Fr Henry Wansbrough, the Master. He explained that he was dining out that evening, as was the chaplain, and he wondered: Would I be so kind as to preside at dinner in the Hall in his absence? One does not turn down a request from one’s Master. However, I hesitated, since the role includes saying grace before and after the meal. I explained to Fr Henry that, as a Jew, I could not bring myself to make the customary reference to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. “Why not say the Jewish form of Grace?” he suggested. So, I did. Picture the scene: the long table extending the length of the refectory, the (predominantly) Catholic members of the Hall lining both sides, each standing behind his chair, listening respectfully while I recited Hamotzi, first in Hebrew and then in English. When I finished the blessing, they all said “Amen” – and promptly crossed themselves.

At first, feeling like Woody Allen caught in the glare of the spotlights, I froze. A panic took hold and I thought with alarm: “What have I done?” The ghosts of rabbis past, especially the ones who taught me at the Orthodox Jewish schools in Hendon that I attended from age five to eighteen, seemed to be looking grimly over my shoulder, as though I had committed a grave aveirah [sin]. But once the moment passed, I felt differently. I felt a warm glow – perhaps not unlike the sensation that Aubrey felt in his work with the Interfaith Contact Group and the Council of Christians and Jews. Whether, looking down from on high, he will feel a warm glow when he hears my lecture today, or whether he will fix me with a frosty stare, is a moot point. I certainly do not want to provoke the spirit of the 1936 Bisley rifle champion into pointing a spectral firearm in my direction. Even from heaven, his aim is likely to be unerring.

In the first (and longer) part of this lecture I shall explore the idea that the Jewish people are the people of God. At the heart of this idea, or so I shall argue, is the pursuit of justice. I shall develop this theme in the second (and shorter) part of the lecture, focussing on human rights. The entire argument can be summed up with a question that answers itself. Question: What is the place of the Jewish people in the world? Answer: In the world, wherever we find ourselves, living in its midst and not keeping ourselves to ourselves. I hope the lecture strikes a chord with you. If, at the end, you are moved to say “Amen”, I shall not object. However, I am addressing you as members of a synagogue: please – unless you want to give me cardiac arrest – don’t cross yourselves.

I. The People of God

Among Christians, there is a view about Judaism that is fairly widely held and which goes something like this: Whereas Christianity is inclusive, embracing all people everywhere regardless of their national or ethnic identity, Judaism is exclusive, a private club for the chosen few. There are Jews as well as Christians who subscribe to this view. Some are embarrassed by our so-called tribalism. Others take pride in our supposed superiority. Sometimes, especially these days, this pride takes the form of a politics that asserts our prerogative and privilege over other groups. But, whatever form it takes, there is a fatal flaw, a tiny ingredient that is missing from this characterization of the Jewish people: its Jewishness.

‘Jewishness’ can mean anything from chicken soup to klezmer to Woody Allen. But in the context of this lecture I mean something more specific. I am alluding to the fact that Judaism appropriates the story of the children of Israel as told in the Hebrew scriptures. By ‘the Jewish people’ I mean, in the first place, the group that identifies with the Israelites in the biblical narrative. And by ‘Jewishness’ I mean the quality (or set of qualities) that this act of identification implies. We Jews take it as read that we inherit the mantle of the children of Israel. But how careful is our reading? Perhaps the nuances of the narrative have escaped us and perhaps our identity lies in the nuances. A closer look at the text – plus our relationship to it – subverts the view that Judaism is a private club for the chosen few.

This lecture does not begin to do justice to the complexities of the biblical text. But it does begin to take that closer look. Based on a few scattered passages in Tanakh (principally from Exodus and Deuteronomy), I wish to present the Jewish people in a certain light. In this light, the people remain a particular people: they do not dissolve into an ocean of undifferentiated humanity. But their particularity turns out to be something peculiar. It is not like an ethnicity or a nation – something determinate. In a certain sense, it is more than itself. In another sense, it is never quite itself. Seen in this light, we are (or ought to be) forever scratching our collective kop. A people: but how so exactly? Particularity: but what precisely? These questions are as perennial as the people; and as unsettled; and as unsettling.

To recover this light, let us revisit the place where the Hebrew slaves, after a three-month schlep in the wilderness, find themselves (pun intended): Mt Sinai. They find themselves, to be precise, presented with an offer from someone even grander than the master of an Oxford college: the master of the universe. Now, God was an astute operator: he knew how to drive a hard bargain. First, he lures a destitute people out into the wilds and then, on a bare mountain in the middle of nowhere, amid the razzmatazz of fire and smoke and the fanfare of the shofar, he talks up a storm. He makes them an offer that they had to be mad to accept but which they could not refuse: one does not turn down an offer from one’s master. Besides, they were in no position to say no: they were bereft of the means to survive in the wilds of Sinai. True, they had probably stashed away some unleavened dough. But (to paraphrase Deut. 8:3) man cannot live by matzo alone. As for the manna that had sustained them to this point, God had a worldwide monopoly on its production. It was made in heaven: if he wished to turn off the supply, all he had to do was say the word (in a manner of speaking). So he seems to have had the Israelites over a barrel. Be that as it may, Moses presents them with a choice – not once but twice: first at Sinai, shortly after their departure from Egypt, and again forty years later, in the land of Moab, when they are perched on the verge of Canaan. (For the purposes of the argument, I am consciously conflating these two episodes, treating them as two moments of one event: Israel’s entering into a covenant with God.) Moses says to the people: “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life …” (Deut. 30:19). Given that these are the options, the choice rather makes itself. But in choosing life the people get more than they bargained for: they get a brand new identity. “Hear, O Israel!” exclaims Moses, addressing the entire congregation. “Today you have become the people of the Lord your God” (Deut. 27:9).

What does Moses mean? He cannot have forgotten that, long before this special day, God had referred to the children of Israel as ‘my people’. He did so when, speaking out of the burning bush, he referred to “the plight of my people in Egypt” (Ex. 3:7) and again when he directed Moses to tell Pharaoh to “let my people go” (Ex. 5:1). For there was an earlier covenant that tied the people to God and God to the people: the one made with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. However, the later covenant – the one made with the people – cannot be reduced to the earlier; for, if it could, then it would be redundant. Yet nothing is less redundant in the entire Tanakh than the covenant made at Sinai between God and his people. Far from being redundant, it is the necessary condition for the children of Israel to come into their own. At Sinai they stand before God not merely as the descendants of their ancestors but as menschen in their own right. This is the special significance of the second covenant. It is a coming of age, a rite of passage, the collective barmitzvah of bnei Yisroel. Think of Sinai as an alfresco synagogue, with Moses as the rabbi, addressing the young initiate who has just finished reading his or her parshah. But this barmitzvah girl or boy is an entire people. So, instead of saying “Today you are a man” or “Today you are a woman”, this is what Moshe Rabbeinu says: “Today you have become the people of the Lord your God”.

Some blessing! It is more like a practical joke. Had he been alive to see it, Jacob the patriarch, a consummate trickster, would have applauded the prank that Moses played on his descendants. ‘The people of God’: The very idea is outrageous. Not only is it the ultimate chutzpah, it carries a double dose of mortal danger. For a chosen people is a proud people, the envy of the nations. Pride and envy: the one begets arrogance and chauvinism, the other breeds hatred and contempt. None of which is conducive to happiness and all of which sounds depressingly familiar in the chequered career of ‘the people of God’ from that day forth. Now, if you were God, would you wish these things on your favourite people? Then why does God gull the children of Israel with an offer that is a poisoned chalice? And why on earth does he announce to the nations that the Israelites are the apple of his eye (Deut. 32:10)? If he really loves them, why not do his favourite people a favour – and stay shtum?

Unless there is more to God’s partiality than meets the eye. At first sight, it seems as if, with the insouciance of the divine, God reaches down onto the plane of the nations and picks out one – the people of Israel – that happens to catch his fancy, promising them the earth (or at least a portion of it somewhere in the vicinity of the river Jordan). But, on second thoughts, there is something wrong with this picture of events, something missing from this depiction of God: God. God, the master of the universe, is not just another petty, despotic, nepotistic, totemistic, Mesopotamian deity, some tinpot stone idol, a god or goddess whose dominion is purely local. “For the Lord your God,” explains Moses to the Israelites encamped in the land of Moab on the outskirts of the promised land, is elohei hoelohim va’adonai hoadonim, the God of gods and the Lord of lords, “the great, the mighty, and the awesome God, who shows no favor and takes no bribes” (Deut. 10: 17). Really? Shows no favour? Yet, only two verses earlier, Moses reminds the people of Israel: “He chose you … from among all peoples” (Deut. 10: 15). Can a God who shows no favour have favourites? Moreover, in the previous verse Moses points out God this way: “Mark, the heavens to their uttermost reaches belong to the Lord your God, the earth and all that is on it!” (Deut: 10:14). Or, in the words of the psalmist: “The earth is the Lord’s and all that it holds, the world and all its inhabitants” (Ps. 24:1). The dominion of God, who shows no favour, extends to the whole of creation. So, if there is anything to which he is partial it must be the whole; it cannot be one part over and above the rest. God is God of all peoples. Yet Israel is ‘the people of God’? Go figure!

I figure it this way. When God enters the frame, the whole of the frame shudders. If he singles something out, the thing in question, whatever it might be, is not granted a special privilege over and against everything else. Rather, it is raised to a higher power. The part, while remaining a part, is not merely a part: it comes to signify or stand for the whole (which is not the same as the sum). So, on the one hand, when Moses says, “Today you have become the people of the Lord your God”, he does not add “and you have ceased to be what you were yesterday”. Their brand new identity does not erase the old. Nor does ‘raised to a higher power’ mean elevated to a superior rank. They are still the humble house of Jacob, the scruffy, ragtag mob that staggered out of slavery in Egypt. On the other hand, today this mob has taken on a meaning. Becoming the people of God, they become a signifier, signifying what it means to be a people, in the full sense of the word, where being a people means meeting the standard God builds into the word. This makes them representative, rather than exceptional, representing the idea of a people, a people that is wholly a people. As such, they are the apple of God’s eye. As such, they are the people of God. Of God, that is to say (recalling and continuing Moses’ invocation), “God, who shows no favor and takes no bribe, but upholds the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and befriends the stranger” (Deut. 10:18). If such is God, then being of God means partaking of these selfsame qualities. It means being, like God, partial to the utmost impartiality: partial, in a word, to justice. “Justice, justice shall you pursue” (Deut. 16:20): thus Moses directs the Israelites, calling them out of Egypt, calling them to go from being slaves of the ruler of an empire to being subjects of the ruler of the universe. Raised to a higher power, they are called to a higher standard. Called ‘the people of the Lord your God’, they are called to book. The blast of the shofar, the summons “Hear, O Israel”, calls them to the bar of justice. God is a calling; doing justice is the hearing that Israel, being his people, owes the Lord their God.

But he is no more theirs exclusively than they are his exclusively; for then he would not be himself and they would be the people of a god, not God. The choice of Israel is thoroughly inclusive, for they are chosen as an epitome, not as a pet. But why Israel? What makes Israel greater than any other nation? Nothing; that is the point. Not only not greater, but least of all. Consider how exquisite is this choice. God in heaven is seeking a people whose peoplehood is exemplary. As his gaze passes over the mighty empire of Egypt, his eye is caught by a miserable band of wretches who have been downtrodden for generations and have no prior experience of exercising sovereignty as a nation: the obvious choice for the people of God! For God, oddly, it is. Being the lowest of the low makes them attractive to God, who has a penchant for the humble and oppressed. We have seen this in the way Moses emphasizes his concern for the orphan, widow and stranger. We see it again in the assertion of the psalmist that “the Lord is close to the brokenhearted; those crushed in spirit he delivers” (Ps. 34:19) and in the topsyturviness of the just society: “the lowly shall inherit the land” (Ps. 37:11).

Could it be that their innocence – their virginity as a nation, their lack of familiarity with self-government – commended them too? Did God regard them as a tabula rasa, a blank political slate, primed to receive the indelible stamp of his two tablets of stone? Absolutely not! Not for one moment does God harbour the slightest illusion about the feckless people he has chosen. As he tells Moses near the end of the forty-year saga, it is inevitable that Israel will let him down and betray their promise: “You are soon to lie with your fathers. This people will thereupon go astray after the alien gods in their midst, in the land that they are about to enter; they will forsake Me and break My covenant that I made with them” (Deut. 31:16). To put it mildly, this is not a people distinguished by its outstanding merit, a point that Moses immortalizes in his song, written at the end of his life, a swansong, composed at God’s behest, not exactly a love song, sung “in the hearing of the whole congregation of Israel” (Deut. 31:30), whom he addresses thus: “O dull and witless people” (Deut. 32:6). Not that the enemies of Israel get a better press. They are “a folk void of sense, Lacking in all discernment” (Deut. 32:28). It comes to this: neither better nor worse, par for the course: this is Israel. Fundamentally, they are no different from the rest of their kind: humankind: a typical bad lot. And God knows it.

And yet he chooses them, making the offer of a covenant, calling on them to become “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Ex. 19:6). It is a beautiful idea. But no actual people is – nor conceivably can be – a thing of beauty; not as a people, not as such. A priesthood of priests is one thing, but a kingdom? A holy woman or man perhaps; but a nation? How can an entire people be of God? How can this whole transaction not end (as my grandmother and Elli’s great aunt used to say about almost everything) in tears? Perhaps the Israelites needed the services of a business advisor when they were made the offer in the wilderness “Yes,” this astute advisor might have cautioned, “You are being showered with promises, promises that are practically irresistible, a land of milk and honey, and so on, and certainly they come with a cast iron guarantee from an impeccable source – but on conditions that you cannot meet and with a penalty clause that will strip you of all your assets. Beware!” But they did have an astute advisor – in the person of Moses. For, not only is Moses completely up front about the penalties, he forewarns them of their fate. He lays out the future before them and it’s grim: they will break the terms of the covenant and lose the whole caboodle. (True, there is light at the end of the tunnel of history, but this is hardly of interest to them in their predicament). He could not be clearer about the disastrous consequences of the offer they have received from God:

I call heaven and earth this day to witness against you that you shall soon perish from the land that you are crossing the Jordan to possess; you shall not long endure in it, but shall be utterly wiped out. The Lord will scatter you among the peoples, and only a scant few of you shall be left among the nations to which the Lord will drive you (Deut. 4: 26-27).

So, what the devil is God up to? What the heck is going on in the drama enacted with the children of Israel in the wilderness?

There is something vaguely reminiscent about this drama, an echo of events that took place long, long ago, when the dust had barely settled on a newly-created world. Let me try to bring out some of the resonances. God, who had brought every kind of being into existence after its kind, singled out one, the human, which he made in his own likeness: b’tzelem elohim, in the image of God (Gen. 1:27). Think about it: every other creature on the planet knows exactly what it is doing and gets on with its business. Humankind is the only kind that is confused, troubled and, by and large, clueless. Yet we are made ‘in the image of God’: What a heavenly joke! Be that as it may, the human being, being God’s chosen creature, is raised to a higher power vis-à-vis creation as a whole. At this point, the whole of creation is a garden in Eden, a kind of promised land. Being like God, the human couple, Eve and Adam, are called to a higher standard. A beautiful idea! But being all too human, they fall short of their billing (which is their very being) and, unable to avoid going astray, do not long endure in their paradise (or their paradise does not long endure: it comes to the same thing), but are utterly expelled, their progeny scattered to the ends of the earth, where they can be found to this day. Sounds familiar? Hearing these echoes of Genesis in Exodus, it is tempting to say that, in the crucible of Sinai, amid the divine fire and smoke, a bit of humankind is remade in the image of God – with the same instantaneous fall from grace as first time round. How human are the people of God! They are just like the rest of their kind! So much so, that in their story every people – even every person – can recognize themselves; they are less a light, more an illuminated mirror, to the nations. Sinai, which might have been a reprieve (whether for one people or ultimately for all), turns out to be a reprise of an old, universal story.

This is how the Torah tends to work: it tells a universal story through a particular case: one couple (Eve and Adam), one individual (Abraham), one people (Israel). In each case, the flesh-and-blood characters in the story seem to transcend themselves – but never by becoming abstractions. A creation is the opposite of an abstraction and the Torah is the book of creation. And also re-creation. Twice in the narrative the children of Israel are presented with the aseres had’vorim, the ten words or commandments: first at Sinai shortly after they leave Egypt and then again in the land of Moab just before they enter the promised land. But with the fourth clause – the commandment to keep the Sabbath day holy – there is a striking difference between the two versions. In Exodus, the reason given is that God made the world in six days and rested on the seventh (Ex. 20:11). In Deuteronomy, the explanation is that God freed the Israelites from slavery in Egypt (Deut. 5:15). How can this be? Unless the two reasons are ultimately one: unless the second is a reminder of the first, and the creation of the people of God is the re-creation (in some sense) of humankind.

In any case, the outcome of the torrid affair at Sinai is never in doubt for any of the participants. God knows it from the outset, Moses too, and the people are told it in the most forthright fashion. Each party in advance knows fully what lies in store. Yet God (who loves his people) asks of them the impossible; Moses (who led them to freedom) urges them to choose it; and the hapless people, eyes wide open, do. They choose to be what they cannot be. Again, go figure! But this time I won’t. For this intimate triangle – God, Moses, Israel – with an intricate, indecipherable plot, is a paradox on a cosmic scale, a riddle too far for one day: a riddle made for eternity. Suffice to say that becoming ‘the people of God’ seals the fate of the Israelites. The rest, as they say, is, so to speak, history.

But whose? One answer lies inside the text, where the story is handed on from book to book, from Moses to Joshua to the judges to the prophets and duly recorded in the annals of Kings and Chronicles. These are chapters in the career of a people inscribed in a book, a book forever closed: a complete testament. But outside, in the world, beyond the pale of the book, where the future is open: whose history and whose fate?

Enter the Jews, whom I have not mentioned since I began this reading of the biblical narrative, for they are a kind of twist to the Hebrew tale. Who are the Jewish people? They – we – are the people who, peering over the lip of the book, espy the children of Israel and exclaim: “Look! That’s us: We’re them. See?” But no one on the page looks back at them – at us – to confirm our view. There is no mutual embrace. It is a one-sided relationship. We Jews might identify with the Israelites, but the Israelites don’t identify with us. They interest us but we don’t concern them. They are too occupied with being themselves, the people in the book. Seen as holy writ, the book is a finished work: it is complete unto itself and set apart in a manner unlike any other text. Here is God’s word, there God’s world, and between them – a gap, a little like the chasm that separates heaven from earth. In the beginning, God divides the one from the other, earth from heaven; which does not mean that there cannot be passage to and fro – think of the traffic on Jacob’s ladder – but it does mean that every rung is a reach. Likewise, passing from Tanakh to terra firma, every step is a trek that is longer than the distance between Egypt and Canaan – even via the route that the Israelites took; it is infinitely longer. (Imagine the Torah suspended forever one tantalizing inch above the tips of your outstretched fingers: this shows how short infinity can be.)

We take Israel’s story to be ours; but it is a take. We take it as given; but many a slip twixt give and take. What is given is the Torah; but how we take it is down to us. Seeing it as given specifically to us, seeing ourselves in the part of the people who receive it in the text, is already a take – for which we bear full responsibility. We have to see it as our choice; if we don’t, then we are certainly not the people of Israel, who become the people of God through choosing. Let us by all means identify with the Israelites, but let us see this for what it is: an act of identification: an act, a doing, and a pretty audacious one at that, identifying with the people of God: a risk we run, a choice: a choice, like the choice that Ruth the Moabite makes when she declares herself to Naomi, saying: “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God” (Ruth 1: 16). Seeing the Torah as ours, we receive it; but until we receive it, it is not ours. It is not ours till we take it upon ourselves to see it as given to us.

But we would be well advised to think twice about such an undertaking – just as the people whom we choose to regard as our ancestors, the chosen people, might have been wise to ponder what was on offer to them. For, like them, we run a risk or two. For what are we doing when we assume their mantle? We are inserting ourselves into the intimate triangle at Sinai, with its intricate paradoxical plot, writing ourselves into the middle of a riddle ‘made for eternity’. The awesome complexity of this riddle might be the making of an eternal people – but is liable to be the undoing of us, a people in time. We say the Torah is given to us; the risk we run is that in taking it we snatch at it and, thinking we get it, lose the plot. Unless we are very careful (which we are not), we end up spoiling the very thing that we say we prize, leaving our grubby paw prints all over the text as we grab it, flatten it, pocket it, plunder it, laying claim to its promises, covering ourselves in its glory – to our lasting shame. In short, we run the risk that every ‘dull and witless’ people runs when presented with an unfathomable gift: becoming a nation of nudniks – just like the biblical people of God. Being like them, we lack “a mind to understand or eyes to see or ears to hear” (Deut. 29:3).

Who are we, what are we, we Jews, wandering from box to box, from people to nation to culture to ethnicity to religion to race (God forbid!), traversing all the known categories, unable to settle into being one thing and not another? Why is ‘Jewish’ the Houdini among identities: always escaping the boxes in which it is put? Because our point of origin is a conundrum. Taking Israel’s story to be ours, we appropriate the name ‘the people of God’. The people (particular) of God (universal): the very idea is a kind of surd: a quantity that does not add up or make sense, a logical scandal, a formula that is always liable to split apart at the seams. When it does, when it splits, its splinters become fragments that fit, more or less, one box or another. We settle for being a nation, religion, ethnicity, whatever. We settle down, finding our niche, knowing our place, fitting in, adding up, making sense.

But suppose this idea, remaining in tension with itself, holds: then something choice comes into being: a people defined by a surd: an absurd people, conceived within the leaves of a book (or the rolls of a scroll) and dedicated to a simple but untenable proposition: that they are both radically apart from the world and thoroughly a part of it. That’s us, the Jewish people. How can we possibly maintain this impossible stand? By taking the narrative of the Israelites and turning it into a stance, a posture towards existence; in a word, an attitude. Not one but three in one: aspiration, the continual striving to be exemplary; atonement, the sorrowful acknowledgement of repeated and abject failure; and hope, a broad hope, hope not just for ourselves but for the whole creation: the stubborn belief in the light at the end of the tunnel that will wipe away all the tears of history from the anguished and wrinkled face of the earth. It is not so much a stance as a step, like the dance of the lightly-clad David, whirling like a dervish before the Ark of the Lord on the road to Jerusalem, (2 Sam. 6:14). Put on the spot, we are always on the hop, shifting from one position to the other, from aspiration to atonement to hope, and back again, constantly, faithfully, religiously. Holding the pose, performing the dance: this is the inner sense of our ceremonies. This, our style, our ritual, is our raison d’être. (If ritual can be empty, it can also be full.) Thus we loom in the dark, part light, part mirror, to the nations.

Judaism, on this reading, never solves the conundrum that lies at its point of origin. Christianity does. Parsing a human being into ‘spirit’ and ‘flesh’ and substituting the one for the other, it proclaims itself to be ‘the new Israel’, ‘the new people of God’: a people constituted (to quote from Lumen Gentium, one of the principal documents of the Second Vatican Council) “not according to the flesh but in the Spirit”. With this distinction, Christianity resolves the logical scandal posed by the very idea of ‘the people of God’, converting the people into a worldwide church, a spiritual union, a union via communion. Thus, in effect, Christianity replaces the particular (people) with the universal (church). Judaism does not know a systematic distinction between ‘flesh’ and ‘spirit’. It resolves nothing. It is not so civilized. Embracing the scandal at its heart, it insists on the flesh-and-blood particularity of the people – but aglow in the supernal light that pervades the whole creation. Seen in this light, how can we, the Jewish people, be taken for a normal people? And seeing in this light, how can we possibly keep ourselves to ourselves?

Seen in this light, how do the Jewish people appear? Not altogether steady on their feet. How could we be steady on our feet when we cannot fill our own shoes? How can we fill our shoes when we are never merely or quite ourselves? For there is more to being Jewish than being Jewish. We do not add up. We are a wild thing. Our cup runneth over and, looking slightly the worse for wear, we stagger from point to point, doing our dance, recalling our calling, retelling our tale, preparing to meet our maker at the ends of the earth. Who is our maker? “He is bright, he is ruddy; his clothes are red, as when he came from treading the winepress in Edom” (Anim Zmiros, Song of Glory). It behooves us, being the people of such a God, peering over the lip of his luscious creation and drinking in what we see, always to be a trifle tipsy, perpetually a bissel shikker.

If we stand out, it is only to signify that none of the nations stands above any other. For, seen in the celestial light that pervades the whole creation, the Jewish people are to the rest of humankind what an instance is to a universal: an example: a case in point: illustrative, not illustrious. And if, in some sense, we hold ourselves apart, this is not to keep our distance but, on the contrary, to re-establish our involvement in the here and now, where we belong. What is the place of the Jewish people in the world? In the world, wherever we find ourselves, living in its midst, steeped in its joys, immersed in its tsuris [troubles], disquieted by its injustices. A people apart? Only in order to recollect ourselves and, reinvigorated, re-enter the fray of creation, with all our heart, all our soul, all our might.

II. The Pursuit of Justice

So far, based on certain passages in Tanakh, I have been giving a reading of the idea that the Jewish people are the people of God. This reading is implicit in the title of my new book, Being Jewish and Doing Justice. If I stress ‘justice’ it is not only because that is where I wish to place the emphasis; it is also in consequence of a recent experience when I was lecturing in Germany. Perhaps it was the language barrier, but my host misunderstood and called the book ‘Being Jewish and Doing Nothing’: an interesting concept and, as I told her, proffering my thanks, possibly the title for my next book. Certainly, it would be easier to research. Besides, doing nothing has an honourable place in Jewish thought. It is, after all, what God does on the seventh day after completing the work of Creation. Some people think he has been on holiday ever since. Or on strike. Heaven knows! But here on earth there is a job to do. And perhaps this division of labour is part of a divine plan: for six days God makes the world, leaving it to us to make something of it thereafter. But what? In the Mishna, Rabbi Tarfon says “The day is short, the task is great …” He adds, “You are not obliged to complete the task, but neither are you free to give it up.” What task? No one puts it more succinctly than Moses, who, when he tells the Israelites what they must pursue, sums it up in a word (or two): tzedek, tzedek: justice, justice (Deut. 16:20).

Today, the pursuit of justice is often expressed in the language of human rights. And when this language is spoken, many of us hear the voices of those Hebrew prophets, rabbis and other Jewish figures, going back to antiquity, for whom Judaism means nothing if it does not mean social justice and protection of the vulnerable. We think, for example, of the reiterated concern for “the stranger, the orphan and the widow” (Deut. 14:29 and passim) and of Amos denouncing “those who devour the needy, annihilating the poor of the land” (Am. 8:4). We recall the passage in the Mishna that says that “Adam was created alone to teach you that if anyone destroys one life, Scripture reckons it as if he had destroyed a whole world.”  The strength of this admonition reminds us of the right to life.

But are we being anachronistic? Are we reading a modern concept – human rights – into the thought of another era when the concept did not exist? This is a complex question, but the answer, on the whole, is: no, we are not. Let us look briefly at both sides of the argument.

On the one hand, it could be argued that when the Torah enjoins us, say, to care for “the stranger, the orphan and the widow” it is saying that we have a responsibility for their wellbeing, rather than saying that they have a right to our care, let alone a human right in the modern sense. Michael Berger and Deborah Lipstadt maintain that there is “a fundamental theoretical difference between Jewish law and modern notions of human rights”. And the Jewish political theorist Milton Konvitz observes, “There is no word or phrase for ‘human rights’ in the Hebrew scriptures or in other ancient Jewish texts.”

On the other hand, as Konvitz goes on to say, the absence of the word or phrase does not necessarily mean that “the ideas and values” that we associate with human rights in the modern sense did not exist; he thinks they did exist. The scholars who produced the 1985 edition of the Tanakh for the Jewish Publication Society appear to have taken the same view. If you consult their widely-respected translation, you will find that Deuteronomy says: “You shall not subvert the rights of the stranger or the fatherless…”; “Cursed be he who subverts the rights of the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow” (Deut. 24:17, 27:19). Similarly, Isaiah says, “Uphold the rights of the orphan” (Is. 1:17). And when Jeremiah rebukes Jehoahaz, king of Judah, he contrasts him with his father Josiah who “upheld the rights of the poor and needy” (Jer. 22:16). I assume that the translators chose the word ‘rights’ because they wanted to find a contemporary idiom that conveys the ancient ‘ideas and values’ expressed in the Torah.

Besides, what exactly are human rights in the modern sense? Berger and Lipstadt go back to the Enlightenment for the “philosophical basis of modern human rights”. As they see it – and their view is not unusual –, the underlying concept, roughly, is this: each of us (or each adult human being) is an independent individual who, in seeking his or her own interest, comes into conflict with other individuals. Our human rights, on this basis, are the claims that each of us is entitled to make – against each other and the state – in order to promote our own interest and protect our own individual liberty.

This might be the basis for the concept of human rights in the American Declaration of Independence or the American Bill of Rights. But is it the basis for the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR), adopted by the UN General Assembly in 1948, which is the source for subsequent human rights documents? Is this the view of life that it contains? The answer is ‘no’. The preamble does not begin with the principle of the independent self-seeking individual. It refers to “all members of the human family”. In the same vein, Article 1 says that all human beings “should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood”. The sense of this is that we ought to matter to each other and not only to ourselves. Rabbi Akiva, nearly two thousand years ago, ‘reduced’ the Torah to the biblical commandment “You shall love your neighbour as yourself” (Lev. 19:18)..  Similarly, the implication of Article 1 of the UDHR is that the principle of brotherhood – or siblinghood – is fundamental. It is as fundamental as the principle of equality (that no one matters less – or more – than anyone else).

Thus, the UDHR model of the human family is radically different from the model of universal competition commonly associated with the modern idea of human rights. The ‘spirit of brotherhood’ that the UDHR invokes is closer to the spirit of cooperation or at least of mutual concern. ‘Family’ mean kinship; kinship suggests ties; ties imply that we are responsible for each other. (You could say that the ‘R’ in ‘UDHR’ stands for Responsibilities as well as Rights.) With this in mind, Francesca Klug, one of the prime movers behind the United Kingdom Human Rights Act of 1998, has argued that the UDHR represents a ‘second wave’ of human rights, the emphasis shifting from liberty to community. This shift affects the whole sense of the language of human rights today.

Now, just as the UDHR begins with ‘the human family’, so does the human story in the opening chapter of Genesis. Eve and Adam are not just the original couple, they are the originating couple, ancestors of us all. Thus, in both texts, we human beings are not a mere collection of individuals. We are mishpachah: members of a single – a universal – extended human family, sharing the same bubbe and zeyda: grandma Eve and grandpa Adam.

Furthermore, from the notion that Adam and Eve are made b’tzelem elohim, in the image of God (Gen. 1:27), the Talmud infers the principle of kevod habriyos [honour of the created] or kevod haodom [honour of humanity]; or, in ordinary language, human dignity. This inference assumes that the same quality imparted to Eve and Adam – the image of God – is inherited by all their descendants; that is to say, it assumes that this quality is inherent. In other words, human dignity, according to the Talmud, is inherent. This is precisely what the UDHR asserts with the opening words of its preamble. Moreover, the idea of inherent dignity grounds the whole of its system of universal human rights. It is no less basic in Judaism. “The dignity of every person is sacred”, writes Rabbi Chaim Shmulevitz, who for fifteen years was Rosh (head) of the famous Mirrer Yeshiva in Jerusalem. Underlining the point, he adds: “Rabbinic enactments and various scriptural prohibitions are set aside when they conflict with human respect and dignity.”

So, when I, along with many fellow Jews, hear ancient voices from Hebrew scripture and rabbinic literature in the modern language of human rights, are we wrong? I do not think so. This is not to say that the old ideas and values are identical with human rights in the modern sense; they are not. Nor is it to suggest that these are the only voices in the Jewish tradition; far from it. But these are the ones that speak to us – just as they have spoken to countless Jews, observant and non-observant, secular, religious and neither (or not-exactly-either), in past generations. And when at the outset I confessed that I am a fan of your rabbi, Rabbi Sarah, it is partly because she calls those voices to mind, time and again, in her sermons, articles and talks, calling for a Judaism of justice – as she did last Passover in her sermon to this congregation in this shul, from which I have quoted at length in the epilogue to my new book.

We the Jewish people are, in our peculiar way, a particular people. (Let’s be honest: no people are more particular than we are.) But when, as Jews, we refuse to give our particular interests more weight than those of fellow members of the human family; when we reject a politics that asserts our prerogative and privilege over other groups; when we are partial to justice and insist on putting it first: when we choose to live in the world rather than keeping ourselves to ourselves; we are not turning against our Jewish identity: we are turning towards it. We are affirming a Judaism of justice. We are heeding the directive that Moses gave to am Yisroel, the people of Israel, who, finding themselves at Sinai, heard the words pointing the way to the promised land and beyond: “Justice, justice shall you pursue”: words that resound down the centuries and, like the blast of the shofar, remind the people who they are.

Brian Klug

St Benet’s Hall

Oxford

The two parts of the lecture are adapted from the prologue and epilogue to Being Jewish and Doing Justice: Bringing Argument to Life (London: Vallentine Mitchell, 2011). A version of part one appears as ‘A People Apart?’ in the Spring 2011 issue of Jewish Quarterly (no. 217).

Rabbi Sarah makes a similar point when she says, “The Eternal One is not a tribal God, concerned only with Israel, any more than Israel is a tribal people.” She adds, “God does not belong to us alone” (‘Beyond Tribalism’, Sermon given on Yom Kippur, 2 October 2006, available on the Brighton & Hove Progressive Synagogue website at  HYPERLINK “http://www.brightonandhoveprosynagogue.org.uk/sermons/beyond-tribalism/” http://www.brightonandhoveprosynagogue.org.uk/sermons/beyond-tribalism/).

In her sermon ‘Beyond Tribalism’ Rabbi Sarah reminds us of the following remark from the Mishna: “It was for the sake of peace among us that Creation began with a single human being: So that none might say to the other: My ancestor was greater than your ancestor” (Bab. Tal., Sanhedrin, 4:5).

Bab. Tal., Sanhedrin, 4:5, in Solomon (ed.), The Talmud, p. 503. In a footnote to the phrase ‘one life’, Solomon points out: “The words ‘of Israel’ appear in some copies, but manuscript evidence as well as the sense of the passage suggest that this is a very late interpolation.”

Michael S. Berger and Deborah E, Lipstadt, ‘Women in Judaism from the perspective of human rights’, in Michael J. Broyde and John Witte, Jr. (eds.), Human Rights in Judaism (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1998), pp. 80-1.

Milton R. Konvitz (ed.), Judaism and Human Rights (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 2001), p. 13.

Ibid.

Emphasis added in all cases.

Berger and Lipstadt, ‘Women in Judaism’, p. 82.

Solomon (ed.), The Talmud, p. 522. There is a debate within Jewish tradition about who counts as a ‘neighbor’. Rabbi John Rayner discusses this in ‘The Golden Rule’ in his Signposts to the Messianic Age (London: Vallentine Mitchell, 2006), pp. 7-10. He argues that, aside from ‘technical-legal’ considerations, the injunction in Leviticus 19:18 “was always understood in Judaism as applying to Jews and non-Jews alike” (p. 9).

Arguably, it is closer to Kant’s concept of a kingdom of ends, a rather different model that also goes back to the Enlightenment; but this is beside the point.

She believes a ‘third wave’ is now emerging which has to do with a change in the place of human rights in society, rather than a change in the concept. See Francesca Klug, Values for A Godless Age: The Story of the United Kingdom’s New Bill of Rights (London: Penguin, 2000), Introduction, esp. pp. 9-12. I owe my present understanding of human rights to her work.

Chaim Shmulevitz, Reb Chaim’s Discourses (New York: Mesorah Publications, 1989), p. 241. I owe knowledge of this volume to my former schoolmate James Rosenfelder.

Ibid., p. 242. Emphasis in original.

‘The world stands on justice, truth, and peace’

The Hebrew Bible is full of powerful statements about shalom, peace.  Both Jews and Christians often quote the text found in the Book of Isaiah (2:2-4), and also in the Book of Micah (4:1-3), which looks to a time in the future when ‘they shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, and they shall learn war no more.’  These famous words express an ideal state – but they also say something very real about what it takes to create peace:   That, like making war, it demands energy and effort – all that beating of metal – and involves learning the ways of peace.    And Micah adds something else – a vision of the peaceful life that is also very instructive: ‘Rather, everyone shall sit under their vine and under their fig-tree and none shall terrorise them’ (Micah 4:4a).  Creating peace involves making it possible for everyone to create prosperity and to live in security.  Peace is not an end but a new beginning.

Significantly, many of the references to peace in the Bible connect peace to justice.  Several passages in the biblical Book of Isaiah, for example, indicate that peace and justice are inextricably linked.  We read, for example, in Isaiah chapter 32, verse 17:

For the work of justice shall be peace; and the service of justice, quietness and security forever’

hayah ma’aseh ha-tz’dakah shalom; va’avodat ha-tz’dakah hashkeit va-vetach ad olam

And so, working for peace involves working for justice – and indeed, pursuing both:  In the Torah, in the Book of Deuteronomy, in a section dealing with the laws of justice, we read at chapter 16, verse 20: Tzedek, tzedek tirdof – ‘Justice, justice, you shall pursue’.  And the Psalmist declares in Psalm 34, verse 15:  Sur mei-ra va-aseih-tov; bakeish shalom v’rodfeihu – ‘Turn away from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.’   In Hebrew, nouns, adjectives and verbs are all derived from three-letter roots:  That is, each word is rooted in three consonants.  The word ‘pursue’ in Hebrew, indicated by the three consonants, Reish Dalet Pei, conveys a sense of urgency, as it does in English.  In Hebrew syntax, it is usual for the verb to come first, and so, in the verse, Tzedek, tzedek tirdof – ‘Justice, justice, you shall pursue’, the tone of urgency is heightened, not only by the repetition of the word, tzedek, Justice, but also by the word order:  Justice, justice, you shall pursue.’   Meanwhile, the repetition of ‘justice’ suggests something else, impartiality: where two parties are involved, pursuing justice for the one also necessitates pursuing justice for the other.

So, peace cannot be separated from justice – and both require us to actively pursue them.  To understand the relationship between the two more deeply, and the conditions necessary for people to make peace, I would like to share with you a paragraph found in rabbinic literature.  It is a quotation from the Mishnah, the first post-biblical code of Jewish law reflecting the deliberations of the early rabbis, who gave themselves the task of interpreting the teachings of the Torah.  One section of the six ‘orders’ of the Mishnah, Pirkey Avot, The Chapters of the Sages, is devoted to the rabbis’ philosophical teachings.  This particular teaching is attributed to Simeon ben Gamliel II, Principal of the Rabbinic Academy in Usha, in the lower Galilee, from 140-170 CE, whose son, known as ‘Judah the Prince’ (Y’hudah Ha-Nasi), was responsible for editing the Mishnah around the year 200 CE.

Here is the text from Mishnah Avot 1:18:

Al sh’loshah d’varim ha-olam omeid:  al ha-din, v’al ha-emet, v’al ha-shalom.

The world stands on three things:  on justice, and on truth and on peace.

This brief statement reminds us that from a Jewish perspective, the Bible was not the last word on the subject of peace; it also deepens our awareness of the connection between peace and justice, while making another powerful assertion: both peace and justice are inextricably connected with truth; indeed, the world stands on all three together – conjuring up an image of pillars, which suggests that if just one pillar were removed, the world would collapse…

‘The world stands on three things:  on justice, and on truth and on peace’ – and so, there can be no justice without truth and peace; no truth without justice and peace; no peace without justice and truth.  That is the challenge before all of us; before all humanity.  To understand the challenge more fully, it helps to have a sense of the Hebrew meanings of these three pillars of the world.

There are four words for justice in the Bible and rabbinic literature.  The text before us speaks of ‘din’.  In biblical Hebrew din means ‘judgement’, and the early rabbis extended this meaning of the word, by using it denote ‘law’, a law-suit’ and a ‘claim’, as well as ‘justice’.  Din conveys justice in the sense of the legal system for executing justice, and in the Bible we also find another word that plays a similar role, mishpat – based on the three consonants, Shin Pei Tet, meaning to judge; the ‘judges’ of the Bible were the shof’tim.   The Bible also uses two other related words for justice:  tzedek and tz’dakah, which are both based on the three-letter root: Tzadi Dalet Kuf.  And so, as I indicated a moment ago, we read in Deuteronomy chapter 16, verse 20, in the context of a passage dealing with how the system of justice is to be administered:  Tzedek, tzedek tirdof – ‘Justice, Justice you shall pursue’.  And then, in Deuteronomy chapter 24, in a section dealing with economic justice, we read that when giving a loan, returning a garment taken as a pledge before sunset is an act of tz’dakah – justice (:13). While the words tzedek and tz’dakah relate to the individual’s responsibility to act justly, the words din and mishpat focus on the legal system that creates a framework governed by rules of impartiality, which regulates the conduct of individuals, and attempts to ensure that the stronger members of the society come to the aid of the more vulnerable and dependent members of the society – designated in the Torah, in particular, as ‘the stranger, the orphan and the widow’ (Deuteronomy 24: 17) (in that order).

In British society we speak of a ‘fair’ system of justice.  From a Jewish legal point of view, fairness is not only about impartiality – for example, as it says in the Torah, not favouring the rich on the one hand or the poor on the other (Deuteronomy 16:19; Leviticus 19:15) – it is also about correcting inequalities.  And so the pursuit of justice, tzedek, involves what we now call ‘redistributive justice’.  While charity – from the Latin word caritas – suggests an act of kindness that expresses our loving feelings towards others, the Hebrew equivalent, tz’dakah, connotes an act of justice that we are obligated to perform in favour of the poor and the needy.  The point about tz’dakah is that we are supposed to do it even when we don’t feel charitable.

And what of truth?  As soon as we use the word truth in our post-modern society, we are aware that truth is not quite as absolute as it once seemed.  In a British Court of Law, a witness must speak ‘the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ – but nevertheless truth is subjective as well as objective, and the witness speaks the truth as she or he understands it.  The Hebrew word for truth – and, interestingly, there is only one word – is emet.   Emet is based on the same root from which we derive the word ‘Amen’ – pronounced ‘Amein’ in Hebrew.   The three-letter root, in question – Alef Mem Nun – means to confirm or support.  And so, when we respond to a prayer with the word ‘Amen’, we are basically indicating our support or affirmation for the sentiments expressed – as if we were saying:  ‘I agree!’  Or: ‘So may it be!’ – with an exclamation mark.  Similarly, the word emet has a sense of affirmation about it.  Truth becomes firm and solid when we affirm it. Just as justice requires action and a system of regulation, so truth requires acknowledgement.   And so, where there are competing truths, the challenge becomes:  How can I affirm my own truth and also, acknowledge the truth of the other person?    Justice is not possible while we remain unable or unwilling to acknowledge that we are not the sole guardians of ‘The Truth’.

Like truth and justice, peace is a much-used word that carries with it a significant, additional freight of meaning in Hebrew.   The word we translate as ‘peace’ – shalom – is based on a three-letter Hebrew root, Shin Lamed Mem – meaning to be complete or sound.  And so, a related word, shaleim, means ‘wholeness.’   Peace is not the same as ‘tranquillity’, shalvah, or ‘quiet’, sheket; and peace is not simply the absence of war or violence:  Peace is a state of completeness.  A passage in Leviticus chapter 5 (:16) speaks of a person committing a wrong, being obliged to make restitution, or reparation, using a verbal form of the root – y’shalleim.  And so making peace involves putting right what is wrong, in order that that what is broken may be repaired and become whole again.

The notion of ‘making whole’, reinforces the connection between peace and justice. In the Torah, in the Book of Books of Exodus, Leviticus and Deuteronomy, the rules of justice, encompass all aspects of society, including economic behaviour.  Interestingly, in this regard, while Leviticus chapter 19 speaks of the need for ‘just’ balances, weights and measures – using the word tzedek; Deuteronomy chapter 25, expresses the same teaching, emphasising the requirement of justice, by adding the word, sh’leimah, ‘whole’:  And so we read at verse 15:  ‘You shall have whole and just weights; whole and just measures’ – Even sh’leimah va-tzedek yihyeh lach; eifah sh’leimah va-tzedek yihyeh lach.  Incidentally, the verb to ‘have’ doesn’t exist in Hebrew, so the literal translation of the verse is:  ‘a weight whole and just [there] shall be to you; a measure whole and just [there] shall be to you.’

So, peace, shalom, suggests, ‘wholeness’, shaleim – and so, also, ‘well-being’ and ‘welfare’.  That is why the Hebrew greeting, when people meet is ‘Shalom’.  There is a telling example in the Torah that centres on the greeting of ‘Peace’, which illustrates beautifully the potential for peaceful relationships of respect and integrity between different peoples.   When Moses is about to leave Midian and return to Egypt on a mission to persuade Pharaoh to liberate the slaves, his father-in-law, Jethro, the Priest of Midian, says to him, lech l’shalom – ‘go in peace’ (Exodus 4:18) – or, rather, more literally, ‘go for peace’ l’shalom – that is, for the sake of peace.  Later, after the slaves have made their grand Exodus, Jethro comes to Sinai – the site of the impending Revelation – to wish Moses well, before returning again to his own land.   We read that when ‘Moses went out to meet his father-in-law, he bowed low, and kissed him; and each man enquired about his friend’s welfare’ (18:7) – Va-yishalu ish-l’rei’eihu l’shalom – or, rather, more literally, ‘They enquired, each man of his friend, for the sake of peace’.

Yes, Moses and Jethro were ‘friends’.  But more than this: the word rei’a friend, also means ‘neighbour’ – as in, ‘you shall love your neighbour as yourself’ – in Leviticus chapter 19 (:18).  And even more significantly: Jethro – as all the references to him emphasise – was Moses’ father-in-law.  When Moses became the ‘groom’ – chatan – of Tzipporah; Jethro became his ‘father-in-law’, chotein.  Both words chatan, ‘groom’, and chotein, ‘father-in-law’, are based on the root, Cheit Tav Nun, which means to ‘make an alliance’.  When Moses married Tzipporah the Israelites and the Midianites entered an alliance; a relationship rooted in establishing peace between them.  Indeed, the Israelites and Midianites entered a covenant – as the curious tale of Tzipporah circumcising her second son on the journey back to Egypt suggests:  ‘A bridegroom of blood, you are to me!’  Tzipporah proclaims to Moses – adding:  ‘A bridegroom of blood because of the circumcision’ (Exodus 4:25-26).  The root Cheit Tav Nun meaning to ‘make an alliance’ is also related to an Arabic root meaning to ‘circumcise.’

Of course, marriage is not the only way to build bridges between peoples and alliances need not be sealed in blood.  What this narrative about Moses, Jethro and Tzipporah teaches us, above all, is that it is possible to forge relationships of respect and integrity across the cultural, religious, ethnic and racial divide and so create the conditions for justice, truth and peace to flourish.

It is possible – but it is also a tall order!   We only have to think about the major conflicts raging in the world today.  But nevertheless, the Hebrew meanings of justice, truth and peace, both help us to identify the connections between these three pillars of the world, and also suggest the steps we need to take to be in a position to make peace – or, rather, suggest how we might go about hewing the stones for the pillars and setting them in place.

Israel and Palestine: A personal perspective

So, how does this all connect with the conflict between Israelis and Palestinians?  I’ll address this question directly in a moment – but first, a short detour.  I spent my student days at LSE in the mid-seventies as a Marxist activist turned Radical Feminist.  I then visited Israel for a month’s holiday in July 1978, after a year at the Institute of Education, and fell in love with the place.  So much so, that I returned in November to work as a volunteer on a very small secular, radical kibbutz called Adamit in the Western Galilee, very close to the border, where my sister-in-law lived.  Having been an eternal student, I loved being immersed in agricultural tasks that included long hours in the citrus and avocado groves.  It was wonderful working the land, but I also got a bit of a feel for life underground:  At that time, k’tushah rocket attacks from Lebanon were quite frequent, so I became quite familiar with the kibbutz bomb shelters – although most of the missiles went over the top of us and landed on the kibbutzim in the valley below.  While I was living on Adamit, Israel signed a peace-treaty with Egypt and Jordan, which involved leaving the Sinai desert occupied after the Six Day War in 1967 and evacuating the settlements there – but meanwhile, the rockets from the North kept coming.

I left the kibbutz after seven months to try and get on with my life and decide what I was going to do – all I knew was I didn’t want to teach.  And then the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982 changed my life.  Strange as it may seem, living on the kibbutz had not really impinged on my sense of Jewish identity because although most of that small community were Jewish, like me they expressed their Jewishness by being passionate about socialism.  When I returned to the kibbutz four years later in 1983, I felt a new atmosphere – a certain tension:  All Israeli men do a month’s Reserve Duty in the Army every year until they are fifty or so – but for those who had served in Lebanon over the past year, the experience felt very different; they did not want to participate in a new occupation.  Everyone was pleased that the rocket attacks had ceased, but meanwhile relations with the Israeli Arab villages close by, formerly very genial, had cooled.  Perched on the top of a rugged hill, facing Israel to the South and Lebanon to the North, the place really felt like it was on an edge.

The Israeli incursion into Lebanon forced me to take responsibility for my Jewish identity.  After I got back from my holiday I struggled with two choices:  Should I go and live in Israel and participate in the burgeoning Peace movement, Shalom Achshav – Peace Now – which had burst onto the political scene following a massive rally in Tel Aviv, involving hundreds of thousands of people, or should I start learning more about my Jewish heritage, so I could begin to understand what Judaism was about; what Jewish life was about – and, more importantly for me at the time, why Israel?   Not to mention, why the Diaspora?

I decided to become a student again.  In one sense it wasn’t a hard choice for an eternal student, but in other ways it was the most challenging of the two options:   I had left cheder – synagogue classes for children – at the age of eight, when my elder brother became Bar Mitzvah.  I knew nothing and had to begin right at the beginning with the Alef-Beit – the Hebrew equivalent of ABC.  What is more, I had no experience of Jewish communal life because my parents had chosen not to participate in it – which meant that I’d have to venture into an entirely new terrain.  And, there were two other key factors involved that other people thought might create a few difficulties:  I was a lesbian; and rather than simply pursue a little Jewish study in my spare time, I felt what I really needed to do was become a rabbi.

Much has happened since then.  I’ve been a full-time professional Jew now for twenty-seven years – including five years rabbinic training – and I’ve visited Israel many times. During the past five years, my experience of Israel has been particularly intensive: In February 2005, I was part of a delegation of rabbis involved in a Liberal Judaism/Rabbis for Human Rights Mission, meeting with Jewish and Arab Israelis and with Palestinians who are working for peace. Then for four months, from December 2006 to March 2007 I spent my sabbatical there. I returned again for three-week-long trips in January 2008 and January 2009, and, shortly, in mid-October I will be co-leading a Liberal Judaism tour. The purpose of this little meander into my beginnings as a Socialist Radical Feminist Jew choosing to live Jewishly, is to enable you to get some idea of who I am and where I’m coming from when I engage with the painful conflict between my people and the Palestinian people:  I am involved and I can’t give up because it’s my problem.

Israel and Palestine: A case for Justice, Truth and Peace

So, if, as Simeon ben Gamliel says, ‘The world stands on Justice, Truth and Peace’, then perhaps, the same might be said about the resolution of the conflict between Israelis and Palestinians?

Let us first explore the issue of Justice.   Earlier I mentioned the short verse in Deuteronomy Chapter 16 – verse 20:  ‘Justice, Justice you shall pursue’ – Tzedek, Tzedek tirdof. It is clear to me that for there to be peace between Israelis and Palestinians, both sides of the conflict deserve Justice and both sides must pursue Justice – not only for themselves but for the other people.  In 1939, before the outbreak of the Second World War, Martin Buber, best known for his philosophical work, I and Thou, wrote a letter to Mahatma Gandhi – yes, in 1939; before the Nazi regime had transformed its evil vision of a ‘Jew-free’ Europe into gruesome reality, and the Jewish quest for a nation-state on the eastern seaboard of the Mediterranean became an issue of Jewish survival. Buber wrote (1985):

I belong to a group of people who from the time Britain conquered Palestine have not ceased to strive for the concluding of a genuine peace between Jew and Arab.

By a genuine peace we inferred and still infer that both peoples together should develop the land without the one imposing its will on the other. In view of the international usages of our generation, this appeared to us to be very difficult but not impossible. We were and still are aware that in this unusual – yes, unprecedented case, it is a question of seeking new ways of understanding and cordial agreement between the nations. Here again we stood and still stand under the sway of a commandment.

We considered it a fundamental point that in this case two vital claims are opposed to each other, two claims of a different nature and a different origin which cannot objectively be pitted against one another and between which no objective decision can be made as to which is just, which unjust. We considered and still consider it our duty to understand and to honour the claim which is opposed to ours and to endeavour to reconcile both claims. We could not and cannot renounce the Jewish claim; something even higher than the life of our people is bound up with this land, namely its work, its divine mission. But we have been and still are convinced that it must be possible to find some compromise between this claim and the other; for we love this land and we believe in its future; since such love and such faith are surely present on the other side as well, a union in the common service of the land must be within the range of possibility. Where there is faith and love, a solution may be found even to what appears to be a tragic opposition.

Martin Buber was a member of the German chapter of B’rit Shalom, a Jewish organisation founded in 1921, which argued for a bi-national state (Mendes-Flohr, 1983, p.73). For the past 17 years, since President Clinton facilitated a handshake between Yitzchak Rabin, Prime Minister of Israel at that time, and Yasser Arafat, the leader of the Palestinians, on the White House lawn in September 1993, the hope for a two state solution has been dashed again and again. And yet, despite the fact that many have given up that hope and some are arguing, once more, for a bi-national state, the majority of Israelis and Palestinians remain committed to the goal of two states for two peoples. The basic issue is one of Justice. To repeat what Buber said way back in 1939: ‘… two vital claims are opposed to each other, two claims of a different nature and a different origin which cannot objectively be pitted against one another and between which no objective decision can be made as to which is just, which unjust.’   And still today: there can be no peace between Israelis and Palestinians without Justice for both peoples.  Perhaps one day, both peoples will choose to share one nation together.   For the time being, securing peace depends on an equitable division of the land into two sovereign states.

But there is still something missing from the equation…  In order for there to be Peace, both peoples must acknowledge each other’s cause – and to do this both Israelis and Palestinians must find a way of acknowledging the other’s experience and way of making sense of that experience – the Truth as each people knows it.

For Israelis that means recognising, not only that the land was not empty and that it had been inhabited by another people for hundreds of years, but also the particularity of the connection between each Palestinian and Palestinian family, with their particular piece of the land – their house, their field, their olive grove.   This is not a nationalist issue. 20% of the population of Israel today are Arabs – often referred to as Israeli Arabs, but more accurately, they are Palestinian Israelis, who continue to live in the particular places where their families have lived for generations and have no intention of moving to another place – not even to the State of Palestine once it is founded.  When I visited Israel and the Palestinian territories in February 2005, our whirl-wind tour took us to the Jewish-Arab Center for Peace, established in 1963 at Givat Haviva, the Institute for Advanced Studies of the Kibbutz Artzi Federation, which is situated just a couple of miles from the Green Line, in the narrow strip, south east of Haifa. There we met three people – two Jewish and one Palestinian Israeli – who talked to us about a variety of different projects that bring Palestinian Israelis and Jewish Israelis together, encompassing encounter groups, peace education, teacher training, community leadership programmes, Arabic Studies, a bi-monthly young people’s magazine, called ‘Crossing Borders’ and a twenty-four hour Internet Radio Station, called ‘All for Peace’.  It was fascinating, inspirational and challenging.  Mohammad Darawshe the main Spokesperson for the Centre, responsible for Public Relations, summed up the challenge:  ‘We want Israel to be a state for all of its citizens.  Of course, Israel must be the Jewish homeland.  Every Jew must be able to come here.  But once here, we must all be treated as equal citizens with equal rights and responsibilities.’

Because the Zionist enterprise was imposed on the Palestinians without consultation we might conclude that as an oppressed people, they cannot be expected to acknowledge either the Jewish need for a homeland or the Jewish claim to this particular land.  But such acknowledgement is essential for there to be Peace.   The notion that the Zionists were and are western imperialists, intent on gaining a foothold in the Middle East simply does not concur with how Jewish Israelis understand Zionism as a movement for national determination that developed in the 19^th century in response to European anti-Semitism.  From a Jewish Israeli point of view, Jews needed – and still need – a home of our own, free from persecution, and the most obvious place for the Jewish people to be at home is in our own ancestral homeland.  From a Jewish Israeli point of view, the Shoah – the Nazi Holocaust – an outcome of centuries of Jew-hatred, has since proved the Zionist case for a Jewish refuge.

So, how do both peoples begin to acknowledge each other’s Truths?  Surely, acknowledging each other’s Truths, must eventually involve accommodating each other’s Truths, making space for the other, not only physically, but also psychologically.  But for this to happen, first there must be Justice:  As Simeon ben Gamliel said:  ‘The world stands on three pillars: Justice, Truth and Peace’ – in that order.   Justice demands that the Israeli and Palestinian leadership negotiate together concerning the withdrawal of Israel from the Palestinian territories occupied following the Six Day War in 1967 in Gaza and the land on the West Bank of the Jordan.  Justice demands that following withdrawal, Palestinian militants who continue to launch attacks against Israel are pursued and brought to Justice by the Palestinian leadership.  Justice demands that the Palestinian Territories become a sovereign state, with a democratic system of government, guaranteeing equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens – including lesbian and gay people.  Likewise, Justice demands that Israel undergoes a process of democratic reform in order to ensure that each and every Israeli citizen, regardless of religion or ethnicity, enjoys equal rights and equal opportunities.

‘The world stands three pillars: Justice, Truth and Peace’.  Later on in the same text, Pirkey Avot, The Chapters of the Sages, we read:  ‘The sword comes into the world because of Justice [haDin] delayed and Justice denied’ (Mishnah 5:8, Blackman, 1983, p.530).  There is no doubt that when it comes to the issue of the establishment of a Palestinian state, Justice has been delayed and denied – and that there has been much violence directed by Palestinians against Israel and Israeli citizens as a consequence.  But how can we be sure that once there is Justice, violence will cease and peace will be possible?  It comes back to the question of both peoples acknowledging each other’s Truths – and also something else that I learned when I participated in the Human Rights mission in February 2005.

I arrived in that troubled strip of land filled with despair and I saw much that echoed my worse fears – but also much that gave me cause for hope:  Meeting with Rabbi Arik Asherman, Director of Rabbis for Human Rights, who makes a habit of standing in front of Army bulldozers intent on destroying Palestinian houses, which don’t have building permits, and spends his days not only advocating the cause of Palestinians, but taking action on their behalf; meeting with Anat Hoffman, Director of the Israel Religious Action Centre, which challenges discrimination in every place across the religious and ethnic spectrum; meeting with Saab Erekat, the Chief Palestinian Negotiator, at his Headquarters in the free atmosphere of the pleasant Palestinian-controlled town of Jericho, and listening to him speak about his unshakable commitment to the peace process; meeting with Yasser Abed Rabbo, the Head of the Palestinian Peace Coalition in the midst of conflict-battered Ramallah, and hearing about the on-going Palestinian effort to achieve an independent Palestinian state by peaceful means.

Meeting with these two Palestinians leaders, in particular, showed me how Peace was a real possibility, despite all the obstacles:  Both men were furious about the way in which the recently constructed ‘Separation Barrier’ deviates from the Green Line and cuts into swathes of Palestinian territory. At that time, Ariel Sharon was Prime Minister of Israel, and both men were angry about Ariel Sharon’s unilateral, patronising approach and the way he delivered ultimata without entering into negotiation.  Both men were frustrated by the reluctance of the Israeli authorities to change some of the ‘facts on the ground’ to make the life of ordinary Palestinians a little easier.  Both men were well aware that in deciding to withdraw from Gaza, Sharon was planning to hold onto as much land in the West Bank as possible.  And yet both men remained totally committed to a peaceful solution.  As Saab Erekat put it:  ‘It’s a win, win, or it’s a lose, lose situation; either: both Israelis and Palestinians have a chance to live, or: both Israelis and Palestinians continue to die.’

To live or to die – yes, that’s the heart of the matter. As we read in the Torah, in the Book of Deuteronomy, chapter 30 (:19): ‘I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day, that I set before you life and death, the blessing and a curse; therefore choose life – u’varchata ba-chayyim – that you may live, you and your descendants’. As it happens, the Jewish toast is L’Chayyim! – ‘To Life!’ Courage; tenacity; commitment to humanitarian values – these were the qualities I have encountered among both Israelis – Jewish and Palestinian – and Palestinians.   And more than this:  the determination that both peoples should live.  Ultimately, it is that determination that is enabling all those involved in working for Peace to hew the stone for the pillars, and do everything in their power to put them in place, despite the back-breaking labour and the shattering setbacks.

But even more than determination is needed if there is to be a just peace between Israelis and Palestinians. The central prayer of Jewish thrice-daily worship – called, simply, ‘The Prayer’, Ha-T’fillah, by the rabbis of old – ends with a blessing for peace, followed by a passage of personal meditation, which concludes with a prayer that speaks of ‘making peace’.  It is traditional to take three steps back as one recites these final words.  I remember one of my teachers, Rabbi Jonathan Magonet, former Principal of the Leo Baeck College, where I trained to be a rabbi, telling us about an insight into this practice that he had learned from one of his teachers:  In order to make peace between people or peoples, it is essential to step back from one’s own position to make space for the other.  This insight seems counter-intuitive – doesn’t making peace with others involve moving towards them?  When we step forward, towards another or others, justice requires that we must also step back to allow space for she, he or them to speak and express their truth. This is what it takes to begin to make peace. So, what is needed more than anything else in the tragic conflict between the Israeli and Palestinian peoples is for both sides to take at least one step back from their positions, to make space for the other.

Creating Justice and Peace is very hard work – not least because it involves both sides in the conflict recognising that they cannot have everything they want, and that compromise between them is essential. The hard relentless work creating a just peace continues, and will continue – even after the establishment of the State of Palestine.  Again, as the prophet Isaiah proclaimed (32:17): ‘The work of Justice [Tz’dakah] shall be Peace; and the service of Justice, quietness and security forever.’   So, what can we do?  Very little, except support the efforts of the peacemakers, and add our voices to the call for a just and peaceful resolution to the conflict that fulfils the needs of both the Israeli and the Palestinian peoples – and does not promote the needs of one at the expense of the other.  In September 2000, as a new Palestinian Intifada began, I wrote a prayer for our High Holy Day services, which I have included in every Sabbath morning service that I’ve led since.  I would like to end with my prayer – in the hope that it might be our prayer today; our prayer for a just peace between the Israeli and Palestinian peoples:

El Malei Rachamim, God Full of Compassion, who heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds, we ask You to show all Your children the way of love and compassion, so that hatred ceases to scar their lives.

Ein Chayyim, Source of Life, we call upon You to send Your abundant blessings into every home, Israeli and Palestinian, so that new hope may overcome old fears.

Adonai Tzadik, Righteous One, who exhorts us to pursue Justice, we fervently pray that a spirit of righteousness may prevail, so that both peoples find the courage to reach a just settlement of their differences.

Oseh Shalom, Maker of Peace, who teaches us to be seekers of peace, we entreat You now to spread Your tabernacle of shalom over all the inhabitants of Your land, and to support the peacemakers among both peoples in their efforts to walk the path of reconciliation, so that a just peace may reign supreme at last – bimheirah b’yameinu, speedily in our own day.

And let us say:  Amen.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah,

Worthing Theological Society, 28^th September 2010

Introduction: ‘Finding’ the ‘lost’ woman rabbi

Good evening everyone.  Thank you for inviting me here to tell you about Fraulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas, who received s’mikhah, rabbinic ordination, in Germany in 1935.  I first heard about Rabbi Regina Jonas in 1992, when I had been a rabbi for just three years.  Intrigued to discover that a woman had become a rabbi Germany in the 1930s, before the Sho’ah, I decided that I wanted to find out more about her.  As it turned out, my research raised many more questions than it answered – questions that remain very relevant to this day.

I gave a lecture about Rabbi Regina Jonas at the Leo Baeck College in 1994, which was later published in the journal, European Judaism in 1995.  Prior to this publication, a briefer account of my research into her life and work was included in the first anthology of the writings of women rabbis in Britain, Hear Our Voice, which was published by SCM Press in December 1994 1.  At the time that I spoke at Leo Baeck College, I was honoured to be giving the first public lecture devoted to the life and work of Rabbi Regina Jonas, fifty years after her death in Auschwitz in 1944.  Research had already been conducted by a German Christian feminist, Katharina von Kellenbach – who, incidently, died a few months ago 2.  And in the years since my humble efforts, important work in the retrieval of Regina Jonas’ legacy has been undertaken:  Most significantly, Elisa Klapchek, rabbi of the Beit Ha’Chidush congregation in Amsterdam, who grew up in Germany, has written a biography, which was translated into English by New York-born, Toby Axelrod – who has also translated Regina Jonas’ 1930 treatise, “Can Women Serve as Rabbis?”  3

So, in an important sense Rabbi Regina Jonas is no longer ‘news’ – except, of course, to those who have yet to learn about her life and work.  And that is where I began – as a relatively new ‘woman rabbi’ back in 1992.  At that time, it had been exactly twenty years since Sally Priesand had received s’mikhah from the Hebrew Union College in the United States in 1972.  As far as I was aware, and as far as my women rabbinic colleagues were aware, Sally Priesand was the ‘first’ woman rabbi.  We largely saw ourselves in the context of a new era, which had been significantly shaped by the Women’s Liberation Movement which re-emerged in the late 1960s and led to profound changes in the lives and expectations of women, especially, in Britain, western Europe and the United States.  In other words, we saw ourselves as a new phenomenon. 

And then we heard about a German woman rabbi called Regina Jonas who worked as a pastor, preacher and teacher in the Berlin Jewish community and in the Terezin ghetto and died in Auschwitz in 1944.  And we wondered: What contribution might she have made to Judaism if she had survived?  What difference would her survival have made to the development of women in the Rabbinate?  If Hitler has not come to power shortly after Regina Jonas completed her studies… if German Jewry had not become preoccupied with simple survival… if European Jewry had not been consumed by the fire of Nazism…  What would have become of Regina Jones and the other twenty-six women who studied with her at the Hochschule fur die Wissenschaft des Judenturns (the ‘High School for the Science of Judaism’) in Berlin? 4

Once I began my research into the life and work of Rabbi Regina Jonas, these questions, vital though they are, were soon overtaken by other questions – which amounted to one big question:  Why was the historical record so silent about her?  There is no reference to Regina Jonas in the Encyclopaedia Judaica .  There is no reference to Regina Jonas in H.G. Adler’s monumental work, Theresienstadt, 1941-1945, published in 1960.  Ditto the testimony gathered by the Council of Jewish communities in the Czech Lands, entitled, Terezin published in 1965.  Ditto Richard Fuchs’ article on ‘The Hochschule fur die Wissenschaft des Judentums in the Nazi Period’ published in the Leo Baeck Institute Year Book (XII) of 1967.  Similarly, in his article included in Living Judaism in Spring 1967, in which he argues for the ordination of women, Aryeh Dorfler, Lecturer in Rabbinics at the Leo Baeck College at the time, makes no mention of the precedent set by Regina Jonas. 5

Interestingly, in the account of “The Last Days of the Hochschule’ by Alexander Guttman published by Hebrew Union College in 1972 – the year that the first woman, Sally Priesand, was ordained by that institution – Guttman refers to the dissension regarding Regina Jonas, both prior to, and following, her ordination.  And yet, in  Response to Modernity.  A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism, published in 1988, Michael Meyer makes only passing reference to Regina Jonas in his discussion of the controversy about women’s ordination at the Hebrew Union College. 6  Even more perplexing, the specialist study, Women of Theresienstadt.  Voices from a Concentration Camp by Ruth Schwertfeger, published in 1989 7  does not include the voice of Regina Jonas – a spectactular omission.  Regina Jonas lost her life in Sho’ah, and, it seems that the memory of her life and work also vanished practically without trace.

Of course, there was the problem of written evidence.  While Regina Jonas is included in institutional records of the Hochschule, the Judische Gemeinde (Jewish Community) of Berlin, Theresienstadt (Terezin) and Yad Vashem – and there is lively discussion of the special ‘case’ of Regina Jonas in the Jewish newspaper of the time, Israelitisches Familienblatt – until the Berlin Wall came down, Regina Jonas’ letters and papers – including her rabbinic thesis – rested undisturbed in the Bundesarchives (State Archives) in Coswig, 100 kilometres east of Berlin for over four decades. 

But the political realities of Germany after 1945 do not explain why the official records were not investigated earlier.  And then there is the question of the leading Jewish figures who knew Regina Jonas and survived the Sho’ah – like her teacher at the Hochschule, Rabbi Dr Leo Baeck, and Viktor Frankl with whom she worked in Terezin.  As far as we know, they did not breathe a word about her. 8  Why is this?  A surviving fellow Hochschule student – who became a senior Progressive rabbi in Britain – told me when I made enquiries that she simply had not interested him;  she was not his ‘type’! 9

But at the time at least, there were others who were far less indifferent and dismissive.  During her early years at the Hochschule (1926-1929), Regina Jonas corresponded with two of her teachers there, Eduard Baneth, Professor of Talmud, and responsible for rabbinic ordination, who supervised her final thesis, and Ismar Elbogen, Professor of Liturgy – and their letters to her are preserved in the archives. 10   Indeed, there is clear evidence from this correspondence that these distinguished scholars recognised the difficulties she faced as a woman.  As early as 1927, Elbogen wrote to Regina Jonas at Purim urging her not to be pessimistic of her chances of getting work.  He added that the community should not pay her less than the rate 10.  Perhaps Ismar Elbogen and Eduard Baneth would have remained stout supporters of their colleague following her ordination.  But Eduard Baneth, who originally conducted the rabbinic examination of Regina Jonas, died in 1930, during the course of it 11 and Ismar Elbogen, emigrated to New York in 1938 where he joined Hebrew Union College and died in 1943 12 .  These two scholars did not live to relate their experiences of Regina Jonas.

And what of Leo Baeck, who survived the Sho’ah and lived in London for eleven years until his death in 1956?  His letters to Regina Jonas span the period from 1934 to 1940, and reveal that he was not just a teacher, he was a friend.  Indeed, this is also true of Leo Baeck’s wife, Natalie, who also corresponded with Regina Jonas. 10 What is more, Leo Baeck and Regina Jonas were in Thereseinstadt – in Terezin – at the same time – although Regina Jonas was deported to the ghetto in November 1942, and dispatched to Auschwitz two years later and Leo Baeck was incarcerated there from 1943 until its liberation in 1945.

So why didn’t Leo Baeck keep the memory of his student alive and pass it on to the next generation?  One can only speculate – and in all fairness to the memory of Leo Baeck himself, speculation is dangerous.  Perhaps he did mention her.  But if he did, nothing he said seems to have been recorded 8.  Perhaps, too, Ellen Littman, a fellow student of Regina Jonas, who taught Bible at Leo Baeck College in the early years, also mentioned Regina Jonas to her students.  But if she did, the knowledge that a woman student at the Hochschule had received s’mikhah, does not seem to have excited the curiosity of the first post-war generation of European progressive rabbis.

And yet, by contrast, for a woman who was taught by Regina Jonas as a girl between the years 1934 and 1937 at a non-Jewish school in Berlin where she was a visiting teacher, ‘Dr Jonas’, as she was known there, left a ‘lasting impression’. 13  When the news of Regina Jonas’ ordination certificate and photograph was published in Inform, the  newsletter of the Reform Synagogues of  Great Britain in December 1993, a delighted Inge Kallman of Southport quickly wrote to the Leo Baeck College and the Principal, Rabbi Dr Jonathan Magonet, kindly passed her letter on to me.14   In her letter to me,15  she recalled that at twelve years of age, she was encouraged by ‘Dr Jonas’ to attend her first Oneg Shabbat.  And she went on to say that it was also at the instigation of Regina Jonas that she attended an Erev Shabbat service that her teacher conducted at an old people’s home near the Jewish Hospital in Berlin.  It was here that she remembers seeing Regina Jonas in her rabbinical robes for the first time.  In addition to these more formal settings, this former pupil also remembers:  ‘one occasion when the few Jewish children still remaining at the school were invited to her flat for biscuits and coffee, a flat she shared with her mother.’

Why did it take so long for these memories to surface?  Inge Kallman writes:  ‘Whenever I asked previously, it seems that although her existence was known, there was no evidence.’16   No substantial written evidence, clearly.  But if those who had known Regina Jonas, who taught her, studied with her, worked with her, had made an effort to transmit their experience of her to others, we would have had the evidence of oral testimony, and it would not have been necessary to rediscover Regina Jonas almost fifty years after her death in the archives where she herself deposited her letters and papers.17

Regina Jonas may have expected to retrieve her own work from the archives after the war – or perhaps, she did not think she would survive and hoped that future generations would rediscover her contribution to Jewish life.  But she died in Auschwitz and so it became the responsibility of the next generation to engage in to the task of retrieval. 

In addition to reading Katharina von Kellenbach’s article published in the journal Schlagenbrut  in 1992 2 and also the tribute by Hans Hirschberg published in Leo Baeck College News in 1993 11, I conducted my own piece of research in November 1993, when I visited the archives at Coswig – which have since been transferred to Potsdam, near Berlin.  Although I was only given access to a few letters, they helped to illuminate aspects of Regina Jonas’ experience as a student and rabbi and her relationships with her scholars/teachers.  Fortunately, after going to see Dr Hermann Simon, Director of the Zentrum Judaicum Foundation at the Oranienburger Strasse Synagogue in East Berlin, he agreed to let me have the microfilm containing all the archive material – including Regina Jonas’ rabbinic dissertation on the ordination of women – which I finally received in March 1994 and deposited in library of the Leo Baeck College.  And so – technical issues of translation aside – for the first time, the written evidence of the contribution of Regina Jonas became accessible. 

From Teacher to Rabbi

So, what do we know about the first woman rabbi?  Regina Jonas was born on August 3^rd 1902 in Berlin.  At the age of twenty-one she began working as a teacher of Religion in the Orthodox Jewish School in Berlin, where her brother, Abraham, also taught, and spent the next twenty-one years until her death intensively engaged in Jewish learning and teaching.

However, Regina Jonas was not content with being a teacher.  She attended the Hochschule from 1924 to 1930 attaining the qualification, ‘Academic Teacher of Religion’ 18.  Did she plan to become a rabbi or did her studies at the Hoschschule lead her in that direction?  Further research may yield an answer to that question.  What we do know is that towards the end of her studies, she clearly sought ordination.  She devoted her thesis to an exploration of the Talmudic sources regarding Women’s Ordination and waited to receive s’mikhah.

But it was not to be – at least not under Hochschule auspices.  Although Regina Jonas had the support of the majority of her teachers, the Talmud Professor, Dr Chanokh Albeck, declined to put his name to a Rabbinic Diploma.  The controversy raged but was unresolved 19 and despite the fact that Leo Baeck was her teacher for many years he did not ordain her.  Hans Hirschberg argues that: ‘[a] possible explanation might be that Baeck presided over the General Association of Rabbis in Germany which also included Orthodox and Conservative Rabbis.  The ordination of a woman as Rabbi’, he writes, ‘may have led to unwanted arguments, likewise in Berlin, where Leo Baeck had to work with non-liberal colleagues in unified congregation (Einheitsgemeinde)’. 

But the issue of ordination – or rather the lack of it – did not end there.  At the request of the Union of Liberal Rabbis in Germany on 27 December 1935 Regina Jonas received s’mikhah from Rabbi Max Dienemann in Offenbach who having examined her declared her ‘qualified to occupy the office of Rabbi’ 20.  Interestingly, Leo Baeck wrote to her just four days later on 31 December, congratulating her on her performance in her examination 10.  And it was Leo Baeck again, who, over six years later on 6 February 1942, signed a certificate confirming her s’mikhah  21.

It is the certificate alone – presented by Dr Hermann Simon, to Leo Baeck College on 3 October 1993, together with a photograph of Regina Jonas in her rabbinic robes – that provides the incontrovertible evidence of her ordination which sets her apart as the first woman whose status as a Rabbi received formal acknowledgement.  Interestingly, Inge Kallman recalls her teacher saying that ‘apart from a woman rabbi in America, she was the first woman rabbi’. 22    Who was that woman rabbi?  Perhaps Regina Jonas was referring to Martha Neumark, the daughter of a professor at the Hebrew Union College, who provoked an outcry when she requested ordination in 1922.  Michael Meyer discusses the controversy briefly in Response to Modernity (1988).  Apparently, while the HUC faculty were unanimous in their support of Martha Neumark, a majority of the College’s Board of Governors decided against changing the policy of ordination for males only 23.  So, Martha Neumark did not receive s’mikhah.  But if Regina Jonas was alluding to Martha Neumark when she spoke of ‘a woman rabbi in America’ then it seems that Fraulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas, at least, considered her a colleague.

Working as a Rabbi

What kind of woman was Regina Jonas?  And what kind of a rabbi did the first woman to officially assume that role, turn out to be?  The evidence explored so far reveals a picture of a determined individual, a dedicated teacher and pastor.  Here are some of the pieces in the puzzle:

The first piece is a picture:  a photograph, which now hangs in a classroom at the Leo Baeck College dedicated to the rabbis of the pre-war Hochschule generation.  Her face is strong: piercing eyes, firm chin, resolute mouth; her stance is defiant.  She looks like a force to be reckoned with.

Regina Jonas was a bold individual.  There are clear signs that she would not allow the absence of ‘official’ recognition to stand in her way.  And no doubt the fact that the dispute spilled out into the wider Jewish community, turning her into a public figure, helped to embolden her still more.  Shortly after she completed her examination at the Hochschule, the Jewish Journal, Israelitisches Familienblatt, published an article entitled ‘It strikes us’ on 4 June 1931, in which the author expressed his ambivalent reaction – and perhaps that of many others – to the anomalous position of Regina Jonas.  He wrote:

One is rightfully permitted to be proud of her.  One is rightfully permitted to see this as a good sign of the times when a young woman out of her own inclination and zeal grasps hold of the Jewish teaching profession …  But nevertheless it strikes us that in this certificate which the Hochschule for the Science of Judaism has bestowed, it was not stated that it is only a teaching and not a preaching Diploma …  As long as it is not the regular norm that women ministers are appointed and as long as …  many small communities …  give people with Academic Religion certificates, rabbinic functions, it must be said that this Diploma when bestowed on a woman should not include the qualification to preach which normally a certificate like this includes.  Otherwise it could happen that other Academic and Seminary-educated women religion teachers could climb the pulpit and claim to be qualified by their educational institutions to do so …

Perhaps if the German Jewish community had not been overtaken by external events, some of the other female students at the Hochschule  may have risen to this challenge.  In any case, Regina Jonas pursued the case for woman rabbis.  She gave a lecture at the Judischen Frauenbund in Berlin with the title, ‘Can Women Become Rabbis?’, which was reported in the same journal (Israelitisches Familienblatt) on 5 November 1931.  Beginning with an historical sketch of the origin of rabbinic ordination, she explained:

In earlier times, there existed no exams for rabbis.  Leaders of the community were learned people who were authorised by other learned people to practice the rabbinical function.  They themselves had the right to name as rabbis, men who seemed to them to be worthy.

Regina Jonas knew that there were rabbis who considered her to be worthy – and members of the Berlin community with which she worked, too.  Perhaps that is what made her so tenacious.  And yet there continued to be many detractors 24 and the ambiguity which surrounded her role persisted even after she received s’mikhah.  A survivor recalls: 25

In Berlin there lived at this time in the thirties the first woman rabbi, Fraulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas.  She watched carefully that one said ‘Fraulein Rabbiner’ to her because a ‘Frau Rabbiner’ was the wife of a rabbi … She came into the hospital and old age home very often, and there she wanted to function as a rabbi.  Generally, this worked in the old age home.  In the hospital, she came into the synagogue, wearing a purple robe – not black – she sat herself downstairs next to a man on the rabbi’s seat.  She wanted to give her lecture or sermon during the prayers, but always when this doctor was there and prayed with the people, he said to her, ‘You can do what you want, but for the prayers you go upstairs to the women, and afterwards you can come downstairs’.

Fraulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas worked with the old and with the young primarily as a pastor and teacher.  However, she found that despite the resistance of some people, once the violence and deportations began, she increasingly assumed an overt pulpit presence.  Hans Hirschberg writes 26:

Contemporaries praised her extraordinary personality and oratorical gifts.  Where and whenever she preached to those who were to perform forced labour, they filled the place to capacity and those who did not manage to get in, stood in the doorways as far as the street.

On 3 November 1942, Regina Jonas completed a declaration form listing her property – including her books – which was officially confiscated ‘for the benefit of the German Reich’ two days later.  On 6 November, she was deported to Theresienstadt 27.  But her rabbinic work did not end with deportation.  In the ghetto, she continued functioning as a rabbi, working together with the well-known psychologist, Viktor Frankl.   Her particular task was to meet transports at the railway station and help people deal with their initial shock and disorientation 28.

Curiously, Viktor Frankl, while he wrote extensively about what he learned from his experience in the camps after the war 8 did not mention his work with Regina Jonas.  However, when approached by Katharina von Kellenbach in 1991 and asked directly about her, Frankl described Regina Jonas as ‘loaded with energy and a very impressive personality’.  He also called her ‘a blessed preacher and speaker’ 29 – a reference to the fact that, in addition to her pastoral work, Regina Jonas also gave sermons and lectures.  The amazingly full cultural life of Terezin is well-documented, and she contributed to the programme of activities.  A hand-written list of her lectures, entitled, ‘Lectures of the one and only woman rabbi, Regina Jonas’ has survived in the Terezin archives. 30   Of the twenty-three different titles, five concern the position, meaning and history of Jewish women, five deal with Talmudic topics, two with biblical themes, three with pastoral issues, and nine offer general introductions to the  basic contents of Jewish beliefs, ethics and the festivals.

Like Viktor Frankl and her teacher, Leo Baeck, who both survived Terezin, Regina Jonas was clearly an inspiration for all those who knew her.  A glimmer of her spiritual strength is apparent in the one sermon delivered in the ghetto to have survived – which includes these words of hope. 31

Our Jewish people is sent from God into history as ‘blessed’, ‘from God blessed’ which means, wherever one steps in every life situation, bestow blessing, goodness and faithfulness – humility before God’s selflessness, whose devotion-full love for His creatures maintains the world.  To establish these pillars of the world was and is Israel’s task.  Men and women, and women and men have undertaken this duty with the same Jewish faithfulness.  This ideal also serves our testing Thereseinstadt work.  We are God’s servants and as such we are moving from earthly to eternal spheres.  May all our work which we have tried to perform as God’s servants, be a blessing for Israel’s future and Humanity.

After two years of tireless work on behalf of her fellow prisoners in the ghetto, Fraulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas was dispatched to Auschwitz.  There is some dispute about the date.  Katharina von Kellenbach, citing the Transport List held in the archives at Yad Vashem on which Regina Jonas is included as No.722 32, says that the date was 9 October 1944.  Hans Hirschberg states that the date was 12 December 1944 33.  The Yad Vashem reference itself seems to be dated 20 December. 34   von Kellenbach later revised her estimate and suggested that the date was 12 October. 35   What is certain is that Rabbi Regina Jonas did not live to see the New Year of 1945 and liberation in the Spring.36

Although since the time that I conducted my research, there have been further studies 3, much of the mystery that surrounds Fraulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas remains. It is clear that she was a gifted, courageous individual and a committed rabbi.  The circumstances of her time meant that she was, in her own words, ‘the one and only woman rabbi’.  We cannot know how many other women may have become rabbis after her if the Sho’ah had not happened.  We cannot know if Regina Jonas would have made a special contribution to Jewish life if she had been one of many and European Jewry had not been rounded up and slaughtered.  The chain was broken.  But today, women rabbis, who now make up half of the progressive rabbinate in Britain, are creating a new chain, and as we do so, we are proud to restore a missing link with our past:

Frauline Rabbiner Regina Jonas – zichronah livrachah, ‘may her memory be for a blessing’.  Amen.

 

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The Jewish Historical Society, Brighton & Hove Branch

23^rd February 2010

 

 

 

 

Notes

1.            Elizabeth Sarah: ‘Rabbi Regina Jonas, 1902-1944: Missing Link in a Broken Chain’. In Hear Our Voice.  Women Rabbis Tell Their Stories. SCM Press, 1994; ‘The Discovery of Fraulein Rabbiner Regina Jonas: Making Sense of Our Inheritance’. European Judaism, 95:2, December 1995.

2.            At the time I conducted my research, Katharina von Kellenbach had published: ‘Frl. Rabbiner Regina Jonas: Eine religiose Feministin vor ihrer Zeit’ in Schlangenbrut Nr.38, 1992, pp.35-39(kindly translated for me by Maren Freudenberg); “Forgotten Voices: German Women’s Ordination and the Holocaust” in Proceedings of the Second Biennial Conference on Christianity and the Holocaust, Rider College II (1992);  and: “God Does Not Oppress Any Human Being: The Life and Thought of Rabbi Regina Jonas” in Leo Baeck Institute: Yearbook XXXIX (1994).  In 1998 a further article was published in the journal, Shofar: “Preaching Hope: Denial and Defiance of Genocidal Reality in Rabbi Regina Jonas’ Work”

3.            See Klapheck, Elisa, ed. Fräulein Rabbiner Jonas—The Story of the First Woman Rabbi. San Francisco: 2004. (Fräulein Rabbiner Jonas—Kann die Frau das rabbinische Amt bekleiden?. Teetz: 2000); Axelrod, Toby, 2009: “My years with Regina Jonas”.  In: Bridges. A Jewish Feminist Journal, Autumn 2009, Vol. 14, No.2, pp.27-31.  Also see: Herweg, Rachel Monika. “Regina Jonas (1902–1944).” In Meinetwegen ist die Welt erschaffen. Das intellektuelle Vermächtnis des deutschsprachigen Judentums. 58 Porträts, edited by Hans Erler, Ernst Ludwig Ehrlich, and Ludger Heid. Frankfurt, New York: 1997.  For a summary account of Regina Jonas, see the aricle by Elisa Klapchek in the Jewish Women’s Archive: jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/jonas-regina

4.            See Annual Report of the Hochschule for 1932 cited both in ‘The Hochschule fur die Wissenschaft des Judentums in the Period of Nazi Rule.  Personal Recollections’ by Richard Fuchs (Leo Baeck Institute Year Book, XII, 1967, p.7) and in ‘Frl. Rabbiner Regina Jonas: Eine religiose Feministin vor ihrer Zeit’ by Katharina von Kellenbach (Schlangenbrut Nr.38, 1992, pp.35-39).  Fuchs points out (p.7) that there was a rise in the student population at the Hochschule after the First World War.  In 1921, there were 63 regular students and 45 external students.  In the Summer of 1932, the total number rose to 155, including 27 women.

5.            My thanks to Rabbis Jonathan Magonet and John Rayner z”l for drawing my attention to the articles by Fuchs and Dorfler respectively.

6.            Michael Meyer, Response to Modernity. A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism. OUP, 1988.  He writes (p.379):  ‘When [women’s ordination] was raised again (note: the first time was in 1922 with the case of Martha Neumark) among Sisterhood leaders in 1958, even they were initially divided.  By then, however, one woman, Regina Jonas, had received private ordination upon completing her studies at the Liberal seminary in Berlin, and for a brief time had served as a rabbi before perishing in the Holocaust

7.            Ruth Schwertfeger, Women of Theresienstadt.  Voices from a Concentration Camp, Berg, 1989

8.            Leo Baeck’s biographer, Albert Friedlander does not recall any reference made by Leo Baeck to Regina Jonas (Private conversation, 20.6.94) and his biography, Leo Baeck, Teacher of Theresienstadt, Holt, Rinehart, Winston, New York, 1968 certainly makes no reference to her.  As for Viktor Frankl, he discussed his experience of the camps in his books, From Death Camp to Existentialism, later revised and included in a  larger work, Man’s Search for Meaning.  An Introduction to Legotherapy, Hodder and Stroughton, London, 1962.  However, although he worked with Regina Jonas in Theresienstadt, this text, at least, does not mention her.

9.            Rabbi Curtis Cassell.  Private conversation 14.6.94

10.          The Bundesarchives reference no. for the letters addressed to Regina Jonas is 75D JO 1

11.          See ‘Tribute to Rabbi Regina Jonas of Berlin’ by Hans Hirschberg (Leo Baeck College News 1993, p.46.

12.          Fuchs, 1967, p.23

13.          Inge Kallman, letter to Jonathan Magonet 4.1.94.

14.          ibid

15.          Inge Kallman, letter to Elizabeth Sarah, 27.4.94

16.          Inge Kallman, letter to Jonathan Magonet, 4.1.94

17.          Hirschberg, pp.46-7

18.          ibid. p.46

19.          Some of the controversy found public expression in the journal Israelitisches Familienblatt, quotations from which are included in Katharina von Kellenbach’s article (see note 2).

20.          Hirschberg, pp. 46-7

21.          ibid. p.47

22.          Inge Kallman, letter to Jonathan Magonet, 4.1.94

23.          Meyer, 1988, p.379

24.          von Kellenbach (Schlangenbrut 1992) quotes opponents of Regina Jonas.

25.          von Kellenbach, Schlangenbrut 1992, p.38.  Despite Regina Jonas’ express wish to be addressed as ‘Fraulein Rabbiner’ there is evidence that she continued to be addressed as ‘Frau Rabbiner’.  See, for example, a letter from the central office of the Judische Gemeinde (Jewish Community) of Berlin, of 11.9.40, concerning her work at the old people’s home (75 D JO1).

26.          Hirschberg, pp.47

27.          von Kellenbach, Schlangenbrut 1992, p.38

28.          ibid., pp.38-39.

29.          ibid., p.39

30.          ibid.

31.          ibid.

32.          ibid, p.38; footnote 22, p.39

33.          Hirschberg, p.47

34.          von Kellenbach, Schlangenbrut 1992, p.39

35.          von Kellenbach, “God Does Not Oppress Any Human Being”.   The Life and Thought of Rabbi Regina Jonas’.  Leo Baeck Year Book, No.39, 1994. 

36.          There is no doubt that the last transports to Auschwitz took place in October.  Perhaps Regina Jonas was killed in December

My contribution to this evening’s reflections focuses on a story, the formative story of the Jewish people, which Jews the world over will return to in three weeks time, when we celebrate the festival of Pesach – Passover.  Today, the human population of the globe has expanded to six and a half billion; of that number just 14.2 million are Jews; a tiny minority; it has always been so.  And yet this story has provided a powerful raison d’etre for Jewish existence – ultimately more powerful than persecution and genocide – because this story is about our liberation from persecution and genocide.

One might say that the Jewish people is still here, despite our recurring experience of persecution and genocide, because of the inspiration we have drawn from this story:  The Eternal One is a liberator; ultimately the oppressed must go free.  And yet, in recounting this story, we have sometimes forgotten the key individuals, whose actions made the liberation possible.  Even those, for whom the Bible is not their sacred literature, have probably heard of Moses – the fugitive-turned-shepherd, who was apprehended by the Eternal One in the wilderness, and then sent on a mission to return to Egypt and persuade both Pharaoh and the slaves that freedom was at hand.  But what about the other important characters?

Let me remind you on the story:  As the Book of Exodus opens, we read that a new king had come to the throne, who ‘did not know Joseph’ (1:8) – the Hebrew who had settled with his family in Egypt some time earlier.  Unlike his predecessor, who tolerated the presence of this minority people, the new Pharaoh was afraid that they might grow too numerous and pose a threat to his rule (1:9).  So, he decided to enslave the Hebrews (1:11-14), and then instructed the mid-wives to kill all the new-born males (1:15-16).  But he didn’t reckon on the courage of two particular midwives, Shifra and Pu’ah, who defying his orders, ensured that the baby-boys lived (1:17-19); and he knew nothing of one family, of a mother and her eldest child, a daughter – unnamed at this point – whose bold and decisive actions ensured that the baby boy of their family, did not die (2:2ff.).  Not only did the mother prepare a floating basket and hide her baby in the reeds of the river; standing guard, the daughter was quick to act when Pharaoh’s daughter came down to the river to bathe and found the baby – offering the princess the services of a Hebrew woman as a wet-nurse:  hence the baby Moses grew up in the Egyptian court, with his mother looking after him until he was weaned.

So, a small band of women subverted the great and powerful Pharaoh.  On one level this story serves no other purpose than to provide an explanation of how Moses survived to lead his people out of bondage and into freedom.  Looked at in this way, the women involved simply serve the narrative, which centres on the all-important male figure.  Nevertheless, their role in a story that is essentially about Moses doesn’t diminish the importance of what they did – and the immense courage and determination that exhibited in the face of tyranny.

But, as it happens, one female character in the Exodus story does much more than serve the plot – Moses’ sister.  The Torah makes no mention of her again until, years after she saved her baby brother, she surfaces once more:  The slaves have escaped Egypt, passed safely on dry-land through the sea of reeds, and Moses has led them in a song of exultation.  Then we read (Exodus 15: 20:21a):

Miriam, the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances.  / and Miriam sang to them.

It’s only a small word in Hebrew – lahem – ‘to them’ – but, interestingly, it is the masculine gender.  Hebrew is a gendered language – there are no ’neutral’ ways of speaking; by using the masculine gender, by saying lahem instead of lahen, the Torah let’s us know that Miriam sang not only to the women – lahen – but also, to all the people – hence, lahem.  It seems like a tiny point.  But it is very important.  We haven’t heard from the sister of Moses for fourteen chapters – three portions of the Torah – and now suddenly she not only appears, she is given a name, Miriam, and is described as ‘the prophetess, the sister of Aaron’.  This description is contradictory:  If Miriam is a prophetess – n’vi’ah – then she is parallel to Moses, who is later called a prophet – navi (Deuteronomy 34:10); but her designation as ‘the sister of Aaron’, suggests that, together with Aaron, who is not called a prophet, she shares a lower status than Moses.  And yet, Miriam not only leads the women – a secondary sub-set of the people – she also sings to the whole community.  But this short but dense reference to Miriam is very frustrating for readers of the Torah, interested in knowing more about her:  while Moses and Aaron take centre-stage, after this tantalising glimpse, Miriam immediately disappears from the narrative once more until chapter 12 of the fourth book of the Torah, the Book of Numbers.

Miriam’s absence from the story is baffling enough – but when we do meet Miriam again, she is leading a rebellion – against Moses!   If you read the English translation, you will find that it says:  ‘Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses’ (Numbers 12:1).  But the Hebrew puts the verb in the feminine singular: Va-t’dabbeir – which means ‘She spoke’.  So a more accurate translation would be: ‘Miriam spoke – and Aaron – against Moses’.  Aaron went along with her – but Miriam was the prime-mover.  The Torah tells us that Miriam – and Aaron – spoke against Moses, for two reasons: first, because of the Cushite woman, whom Moses had married (:1) – did Miriam perhaps feel aggrieved on the part of Moses’ existing wife, Tzipporah? – and, second, because of Moses’ exclusive relationship with God.  It isn’t surprising that Miriam, ‘the prophetess’ should feel aggrieved.  And, also, not surprising that although Aaron joins her in saying: ‘Has the Eternal indeed spoken only with Moses?  Has He not spoken also with us?’ (:2); Miriam alone is punished: her skin made leprous, as ‘white as snow’ (:10).

Miriam is punished for stepping out of line, for forgetting her place.  But that is not the end of the matter.   Like all those with ‘leprosy’, she is shut out of the camp for seven days until she is healed.  But the Torah makes a point of saying that ‘the people did not journey on until Miriam was brought in again’ (:15).  On the one hand, the Torah account marginalises Miriam; on the other, the Torah acknowledges the importance of her leadership role for the people.

Miriam’s challenge to Moses is the first of a series of rebellions against Moses – and, subsequently, against Aaron, too – recounted in the Book of Numbers.   The rebellions take place in the second year of their wilderness journey – when the people have already reached the border of the land beyond the Jordan, which is their destination. However, they are condemned, for their rebelliousness, to wander for forty years until the last member of the generation that left Egypt, has died (Numbers 14:28ff.).  Silent, once more, about Miriam following her outburst, the Torah says nothing about those thirty-eight years.  And then, significantly, when the narrative resumes in the first month of the fortieth year, the first thing is relates is that after arriving in the wilderness of Tzin, and settling at Kadesh, ‘Miriam died there’ (Numbers 20:1).  The eldest of three sibling leaders died first.  It makes sense.  But the brevity of the reference to Miriam’s death immediately after the yawning lacunae in the narrative, only serves to highlight how little is said about her in the Torah – less than thirty verses in total.

Interestingly, the midrash – rabbinic commentary – regarding Miriam goes some way to compensate for the marginal role she plays in the Torah.  Immediately following Miriam’s death, the Torah relates that the people murmured against Moses and Aaron for lack of water (Numbers 20:2ff.).  The rabbis made a connection between the two events:  And so we read in the midrash* that during their forty years of wandering in the wilderness, ‘Miriam’s Well’ accompanied the Israelites on all their journeys; it only dried up after she died – hence the clamour for water.

Why did the rabbis, the scholarly leadership of the Jewish people, following the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in 70 CE, choose to relate this whimsical tale about Miriam?  Was it perhaps, one of the forgotten stories about her that didn’t get included in the Torah?  Or does the story simply emerge out of the imperative of exegesis – interpretation – demanded by the text?  If the Torah says Miriam was a n’vi’ah, a ‘prophetess’, and shows us glimpses of her leadership, surely her role in the Exodus and wilderness narratives was much more significant than the Torah lets on.

That’s the point:  Miriam was one of the leaders of the Exodus – and more than this, her role was crucial.   Together with her mother, Yocheved, and the midwives, Shifra and Pu’ah, she played a key part in setting the Exodus in motion; together they were agents of change, long before Moses and Aaron became involved.

But there is another point – which is the reason why I have shared the story of Miriam with you this evening:  Judaism was not shaped by Miriam and Yocheved and Shifra and Pu’ah; it was shaped by Moses and Aaron and the men who came after them.  The Torah tells the stories that men have told about the creation of the world and the formation of the Jewish people.  The teachings of the Torah, elaborated later by the rabbis, were formulated by men for societal arrangements in which women’s role was circumscribed within the private, domestic arena.   Of course, women appear in the Torah, in the Tanach, that is, the Hebrew Bible, and in rabbinic literature, but only a few exceptional women are included – and even these exceptional women serve the narrative that centres on the experience of men.   The story of Miriam – the most exceptional of the exceptions proves the rule.

But that said, Miriam is also a very inspiring figure:   The American anarchist, a Jewish woman called Emma Goldman, who challenged the male radical leadership of her day once said, ‘If I can’t dance, it’s not my revolution’.  Miriam wasn’t only a woman of action, bold and intelligent, she spoke out against an exclusive patriarchal leadership and had the spirit to sing and dance her way to liberation.

Nevertheless, we can’t get away from the fact that Miriam was a lone woman leader in a male-dominated world – and that for generations, feisty women have been exceptions.  But today we inhabit a different age.   We still live in a male-dominated society, but during the past three decades something has begun to change.  For the first time, since the sages deliberated in their academies over two thousand years ago, Jewishly-educated women – many of them rabbis – writing, and engaging with one another consciously as Jewish women, have begun to study the Torah and the corpus of rabbinic literature.   In doing so, they have not only challenged the gender divide, but also the gender of God.  Despite Moses’ mysterious encounter with the nameless, elusive, ineffable One in the wilderness (Exodus 3:14), God is presented in both the Torah, and subsequent rabbinic teaching, predominantly as male.  Alongside new interpretations of the Torah and rabbinic texts, women have challenged the patriarchal God by re-interpreting the Eternal One – in myriad ways.  What all these new approaches to the Eternal share in common is the awareness of the power of language and imagery about the Divine to shape and reinforce gender relations:  When God ceases to be regarded as Adonai Tz’va’ot, ‘the Lord of Hosts’ and melech malchey ha-m’lachim, ‘the king above the king of kings’; the power of warrior lords and of kings and emperors and dictators of various kinds is no longer legitimated ‘on high’.

So, where once there were lone exceptional Jewish women; today women as a collectivity have begun to transform Jewish life and teaching.  What does it mean for Jewish women as a collectivity, to move from the margins to the centre; from the private to the public arena of Jewish life?   It means women becoming leaders of religious services and synagogue Councils.  It means women engaging in learning and teaching.  It means women re-interpreting the Torah.  It means that Jewish life is changing – not only for Jewish daughters, but for Jewish sons, too.

And the leadership of women rabbis has been crucial to this process.  The first woman rabbi in Britain, Jackie Tabick, was ordained in 1975 before Jewish feminism arrived on the scene.  Today, half of the seventy progressive rabbis in Britain are women.  To give you an example of the significance of women’s rabbinic leadership:  Directly as a result of the work of women rabbis, the Liberal and Reform movements have produced gender-inclusive liturgy.  Indeed, published in 1995, the Liberal prayer-book, Siddur Lev Chadash, for daily and Sabbath use, has had a significant impact on congregational life.  Alongside the development of gender inclusive liturgy, women rabbis have also been involved in developing new rituals, which celebrate women’s lives, for example, covenant ceremonies for girls, while enabling women to lay claim to rituals and practices, like the wearing of tallit, the prayer-shawl, which have previously been the exclusive prerogative of Jewish men.

Of course, there is still a long way to go before there is complete gender equality in Jewish life – but still, the transformations that have already taken place are bound to make us wonder:  What would the synagogue and the home look and feel like if women and men played full and equal parts in both domains?   What difference would it make to the life of the Jewish people as a whole if Jewish teaching was transformed in such a way that it reflected the perspectives and experiences of Jewish women as well as those of Jewish men?

For the first time in the history of the Jewish people, Jewish women as a collectivity have become agents of change, and are in the process of transforming Judaism into an egalitarian, inclusive inheritance.  And so it will that in three weeks time when Jews around the world sit around tables in their homes and synagogues for the seder, the ‘order’ of the telling of the Exodus story, which is a central feature of the observance of Pesach, among many progressive Jews a significant new element will be added to the proceedings:  Alongside the Cup of Elijah – the prophet, who, according to tradition, will herald the coming of the Messiah, the messianic future of liberation, justice and peace for all the world – they will place the Cup of Miriam.  While the Cup of Elijah contains the fruit of the vine, the Cup of Miriam contains water; while, in Judaism, the fruit of the vine is a symbol of joy and celebration; water is a symbol of life. As we celebrate Pesach in joy, we look forward with hope to the joy of deliverance from oppression in the future.  But the future will not simply happen automatically:  That is the lesson of Miriam’s life from the waters of the Nile, through the waters of the Sea of Reeds, to the River Jordan;   life is a journey and a commandment; every step along the way, we are challenged to act, so that the promise of liberation, justice and peace, may become a reality for all.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Interfaith Contact Group Women in Faith Dialogue Event

Brighton & Hove Progressive Synagogue

17^th March 2009

*See Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg, Vol. III (JPSA, Philadelphia, 1968), where the various midrashim about Miriam are compiled together under different headings, including, ‘Miriam’s Well’, pp.50-44.

Thank you for inviting me to say a few words in response to Michael Henderson and to offer a Jewish reflection on Forgiveness.

The most powerful aspect of what Michael Henderson has said to us today – amply illustrated in his most recent book, No Enemy to Conquer – Forgiveness in an Unforgiving World (Baylor University Press, Waco, Texas, 2009) – is how vital it is to listen to people’s personal testimonies, and so find out how and why they were able to forgive and be forgiven, and to reconcile with former enemies.

Michael Henderson gives us reason to hope and he also helps us to understand that ‘forgiveness’ is not a theological construct; it emerges out of people’s lives and their needs; forgiveness is a way people find for dealing with their feelings of hurt; not an idea.  And so, forgiveness takes place between people because individuals feel the urge to forgive, or to be forgiven – or both.  And so, forgiveness can not be imposed by external third parties; forgiveness cannot be given or received by those, who are not directly involved; forgiveness can not be isolated from the particular context in which the pain, the damage, the wrong has been inflicted and experienced.

It is important to remind ourselves of these things because alongside the reality of conflict and violence and injury and suffering – all the deadly ingredients that feed hatred of the ‘enemy’ and poison people’s hearts towards one another – there is a trope of Forgiveness that is very unhelpful – and may even damage any hope of people finding their way to forgiveness.  I call it a trope because it is basically a theological message that some people have absorbed from their religious teachings, and which they tend to articulate all too readily on behalf of others.  I’ll never forget one shocking example of this.  Do you remember the case, some years ago, when a young woman was raped by an intruder, in her own bed, in her parents’ home, and her father, a Christian minister, let it be known, when interviewed by the press, that he forgave the rapist?  The victim was silent; the perpetrator showed no remorse – and yet the father pronounced ‘forgiveness’ – I say, ‘pronounced’ because, although he was her father, he seemed to speak as a spokesman for Christian teaching.  Of course, it may be that he actually felt the need to forgive the man who violated his daughter.  But, even if he did – did he have a right to forgive him on her behalf?   Perhaps, he might have forgiven the rapist for the injury he experienced as a father; but could he forgive the rapist for the crime he perpetrated against her?

From the perspective of Jewish teaching, forgiveness is the outcome of a process that begins with expressions of remorse and sincere confession of the wrong we have done, and encompasses a journey of repentance that, where possible, includes making reparation.   Forgiveness is the gift that the one who has committed a wrong – or wrongs – receives from the one, or those, whom he or she has wronged at the end of this journey.   Of course, a victim may choose to forgive the perpetrator in the absence of any signs that he or she has made this journey, and may be moved to do so for a variety of reasons – because the perpetrator has disappeared, for example, or because the victim simply feels the need to let go of the hurt and pain he or she is carrying, and move on.  But, it is not possible for one person to forgive another for the wrong he or she did to someone else.

Only the victim has the power to forgive – and in the best circumstances, forgiveness is the outcome of a journey that the perpetrator makes towards their victim.   This is the Jewish approach to Forgiveness.  But what happens when the victim is also a perpetrator and the perpetrator is also a victim?   Some of the conflicts between peoples today – for example, that raging between Israelis and Palestinians – involves wrong and suffering on both sides.  As some of the examples of conflict Michael Henderson has given demonstrate, in these circumstances, any hope of breaking the cycle of wrong, injury and retribution, is dependent on both sides finding a way to acknowledge the narrative of the other, which necessarily involves acknowledging the humanity of the other, their experience and their needs.   In the case of the conflict between Israelis and Palestinians, such mutual acknowledgement would involve Israelis recognising why the establishment of the State of Israel on 15^th May 1948 represented a naqba – a ‘catastrophe’ for the Palestinians; and Palestinians recognising that re-establishing a nation in their ancient homeland as a refuge from persecution, represented for Jews the renewal of life following the murder of third of the Jewish people, and the destruction of thousands of Jewish communities across the continent of Europe.  Such mutual acknowledgement would be a first step towards reconciliation between Israelis and Palestinians.

When we think of conflicts between peoples, the key issue is reconciliation.  Individual Palestinians and Israelis may or may not feel moved to forgive one another, but both peoples do need to find a way of living side by side: two peoples, two sovereign states, occupying the one land that, rightfully, belongs to both of them.  Reconciliation does not mean succumbing to the other, but it does demand compromise on both sides; compromise that reflects acknowledgement, on both sides, of the rights of the other, and an understanding of where the other is coming from.

Only the direct parties to any conflict can become reconciled to one another – but they can be helped.  One of the most important aspects of the work that Michael Henderson is doing – and is being done by the other individuals and groups that he has brought to our attention – is that of enabling people in conflict to meet and speak together.  Whether or not people whose lives are caught up in conflict and violence are able to forgive and be forgiven is up to them, but outsiders do have a crucial role to play in bringing warring parties together, and creating the kind of safe and neutral conditions away from conflict zones that are a pre-condition for any possibility that enemies will see each other as human beings and begin to acknowledge one another.

Hinneh mah-tov u-mah-na’im, shevet achim gam-yachad – ‘How good it is – and how pleasant when brothers – and sisters – dwell together in unity’; so begins Psalm 133 in the Hebrew Bible.  It is an ideal.  How do we achieve it?  By acknowledging that we are all brothers and sisters?  Before such acknowledgement is possible, people need, simply, to sit together – the word shevet in Hebrew means ‘sit’ as well as ‘dwell’.  But in order to get people to sit together, someone needs to hold the vision of ‘how good and pleasant’ it could be – eventually, in the future – for everyone concerned.  What is so important about the work of all those involved in conflict resolution is that they help us all to see that it is possible for those engaged in conflict, to break the cycle of violence and direct their energies towards establishing justice and peace.  May we all summon up the courage, the sense of responsibility, the patience and the determination to be counted among them.  As we read in Pirkey Avot, the ‘Chapters of the Sages’ (2:16), the philosophical teachings of the early rabbis, compiled around 200 CE:  Lo alecha ha-m’lachah ligmor, v’lo atah ven-chorin l’hibateil mimenah – ‘It is not for you to complete the work, but neither are you free to abstain from it.’

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Interfaith Week Event with Michael Henderson, Friends’ Meeting House, Ship Street, Brighton, 15^th November 2009

A Jewish Response – Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Good afternoon everybody.  I am delighted to be here and welcome the opportunity to share in the discussion of the important question:  Material Wealth: Blessing of God or Root of all Evil?

My Jewish response to this question begins with a story – the foundational narrative of the Jewish people, which is also the foundation of Jewish teaching about material wealth – as of everything else. The Torah – broadly the whole of Jewish teaching; more specifically, the text known as the ‘Five Books of Moses’: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy – actually tells two great stories. The Torah relates the story – or rather stories – of the origins and early escapades of humanity, and also the story – or rather stories – of a particular people, most frequently designated as b’ney Yisrael, ‘the children of Israel’ – the descendants of Jacob – who was the grandson of the first patriarch and matriarch of the Israelites, Abraham and Sarah.

From the outset, the story of Abraham and Sarah and their descendants centres on a great journey, that becomes many journeys; a journey that twists and turns, and turns again; a journey that has a destination: the land beyond the Jordan: a land ‘flowing with milk and honey’; a journey that becomes defined by the transformational experience at its heart: the liberation of the ‘children of Israel’ from slavery in Egypt and their wanderings in the wilderness.

So, what did the children of Israel learn from their extraordinary experiences?

Thanksgiving

An important answer to this question can be found in the Book of Deuteronomy; the fifth book of the Torah (1).  At the beginning of Deuteronomy chapter 26, we find a passage describing a sacred ritual of thanksgiving during Temple times that encapsulates the story of the people – and explains what the Israelites made of their experience (2).  Significantly, during the 2^nd century CE, the rabbis, that is, the scholars who reconstituted Jewish life after the Romans destroyed the Temple in 70 CE,  included a key part of the passage in the Haggadah, the text, ‘telling’ the tale of the Exodus that is narrated each year at the Passover seder (3).  Because it is so potent and revealing, let me quote the eleven verses from Deuteronomy chapter 26 in full (:1-11):

When you come into the land that the Eternal One your God is giving you for an inheritance and have taken possession of it and live in it, ² you shall take some of the first of all the fruit of the ground, which you harvest from your land that the Eternal One your God is giving you, and you shall put it in a basket, and you shall go to the place that the Eternal One your God will choose, to make his name to dwell there. ³And you shall go to the priest who is [in office] in those days, and say to him, ‘I declare today to the Eternal One your God that I have come into the land that the Eternal One swore to our ancestors to give us.’ ⁴Then the priest shall take the basket from your hand and set it down before the altar of the Eternal One your God.  ⁵ And you shall respond and say before the Eternal One your God, ‘A wandering Aramean was my father. And he went down into Egypt and sojourned there, few in number, and there he became a nation, great, mighty, and numerous. ⁶And the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us and laid hard labour upon us. ⁷Then we cried to the Eternal One, the God of our ancestors, and the Eternal One heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. ⁸And the Eternal One brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with great terror, with signs and with wonders. ⁹And he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. ¹⁰And behold, now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground, which you, Eternal One, have given me.’ And you shall set it down before the Eternal One your God and worship before the Eternal One your God. ¹¹And you shall rejoice in all the good that the Eternal One your God has given to you and to your house, you, and the Levite, and the sojourner who is among you.

The ‘wandering Aramean’ was Jacob and as we can see the great story of his descendants’ experiences generated a whole-hearted appreciation of the blessings of liberation and prosperity.  But more than this: thanksgiving for God’s blessings became translated into the obligations that prosperity entails; the obligation to give thanks and the obligation to give to others.   This passage describes a ritual associated with the harvesting of the very first fruits of the land.  During Temple times, a  ‘Day of First Fruits’, Yom ha-Bikkurim (Numbers 28:26), known best by the name, Shavuot, ‘Weeks’, took place each year in the early summer, and was the second of three Pilgrim festivals – the first being, Pesach, ‘Passover’, in the spring, and the third, Sukkot, ‘Tabernacles’ in the autumn.  At these key moments of the agricultural cycle, the people would go on pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem with their offerings and give thanks for the bounty of the land (Exodus 23: 14-17).

Although the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, and the people, over time, ceased to farm the land, and became increasingly dispersed, re-constituted by the rabbis, the three Pilgrim festivals, have remained a core feature of the Jewish calendar to this day.  And so, for Jews, wherever we live, the theme of thanksgiving remains paramount:  At Pesach , we thank the Eternal One for liberating us from slavery; at Shavuot we thank the Eternal One for  making a covenant with us at Mount Sinai; and at Sukkot, we thank the Eternal One for enabling us to survive forty years in the wilderness (4).

Tz’dakah –the obligation to give

We give thanks – and we give.  Let me remind you of the concluding verse of that passage from Deuteronomy chapter 26(:11):

And you shall rejoice in all the good that the Eternal One your God has given to you and to your house, you, and the Levite, and the sojourner who is among you.

Material wealth is an opportunity to share the gift of prosperity with others. The text here mentions two particular groups of ‘others’: ‘the Levite’ and ‘the sojourner’.  ‘The Levite’ is a reference to the members of the tribe of Levi.  Unlike the other Israelite tribes, the Levites were responsible for the Temple service and did not own land.  Consequently, they relied on receiving tithes and a portion of the offerings brought to the Temple.  Similarly, the sojourner, by definition, was also landless.  The Hebrew word for ‘sojourner’ – geir – denotes either a ‘temporary dweller’ or a ‘newcomer’.  Today, we might also translate geir as ‘outsider’, or ‘stranger’, or ‘immigrant’.  With no inherited property rights, the sojourner was, like the Levite, also dependent on receiving material support.  So the message of the passage from Deuteronomy chapter 26 is clear:  Everyone shall rejoice in the fruits of the land – including those who are landless.

But it is not just the facts of the circumstances of Levites and sojourners that demand that they share in the bounty of the land.  In the Book of Leviticus, that largely describes the worship rites of the second Temple period, we read in chapter 19, known as ‘the Holiness Code’ (:33-34):

When a sojourner sojourns with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. / The sojourner that sojourns with you, shall be to you like the home-born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt.

Elsewhere, in the first legal code of the Torah, Mishpatim, the text at Exodus chapter 23 underlines the connection between the people’s experience as sojourners in Egypt and their obligation towards the sojourner, once they are living in the land (:9):

A sojourner you shall not oppress, for you know the heart of the sojourner, seeing you were sojourners in the land of Egypt.

The Hebrew word translated here as ‘heart’ is nefesh – which came to mean ‘soul’ in rabbinic thinking.  However, in the Torah, nefesh means something much more material:  after the flood, Noah is told that the people may eat flesh, but not blood, because blood is the nefesh of the animal (Genesis 9:4).  In other words, nefesh is the palpable life-force.  So, the Israelites must not oppress the sojourner – the newcomer, the outsider, the stranger – because, having been sojourners, Israelites know the nefesh of the sojourner; they know what it feels like to be vulnerable and marginal.

The obligation towards the sojourner is so important it is re-iterated, in different ways, thirty-six times in the Torah.  No other injunction is repeated in this way, again and again – and the reason for this is clear:  Those who were once sojourners themselves must be concerned with those who are sojourners now.  But the just and compassionate treatment of the newcomer, the outsider, the stranger, is not only at the heart of the Torah, it also provides the model for the treatment of all other vulnerable and marginal groups.  These other vulnerable and marginal groups are identified in the Torah, in particular, as the orphan and the widow – that is those whose circumstances make them utterly dependent on material aid – but also include all those in need.

Rules governing the treatment of those who are vulnerable and marginal are set out in several places in the Torah – in particular in Leviticus chapter 19 and Deuteronomy chapter 24.  In Deuteronomy chapter 24, the continual emphasis on the story of the Jewish experience of injustice as the rationale for the just treatment of others is very striking.  After setting out obligations towards those who are in receipt of a loan or dependent on a daily wage, the text states a few verses further on (:17-22):

⁷ You shall not pervert the justice due to the sojourner, or the orphan; nor take the garment of the widow as a pledge. ¹⁸ You shall remember that you were a slave in Egypt, and the Eternal One, your God redeemed you from there; that is why I command you to do this.  ¹⁹ When you are harvesting in your field and you overlook a sheaf, do not go back to get it. Leave it for the sojourner, the orphan and the widow, so that the Eternal One, your God may bless you in all the work of your hands. ²⁰ When you beat the olives from your trees, do not go over the branches a second time. Leave what remains for the sojourner, the orphan, and the widow. ²¹ When you harvest the grapes in your vineyard, do not go over the vines again. Leave what remains for the sojourner, the orphan, and the widow. ²² You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; that is why I command you to do this.

Interestingly, in this text the rationale for the just treatment of  those who are vulnerable and marginal, and, specifically, for giving them a share of the fruits of the land, is not simply that the Israelites had been geirm – ‘sojourners’ – in Egypt, but, more pointedly because they had been slaves.  Again: You shall remember that you were a slave. A slave – eved in Hebrew – is not simply a sojourner – that is, marginal and vulnerable – a slave has no freedom to roam; a slave is totally economically dependent.

The concern for justice is at the heart of Jewish teaching.  Another section of the Book of Deuteronomy, called Shof’tim, ‘Judges’, dealing with the legal system itself, proclaims:  ‘Justice, justice, you shall pursue’ – tzedek, tzedek tirdof (16:18).   On a day by day basis, what those who are vulnerable and marginal need more than anything else is a just share in the material prosperity of the society in which they live.  Economic measures to alleviate the plight of all those in need are essential – and it is also essential that the obligation towards the needy is assumed by the ordinary members of the society.  And so, the biblical imperative of economic justice became translated in Rabbinic Judaism into the obligation of tz’dakah.  Related to the word for justice, tzedek, tz’dakah, is often translated as ‘charity’.  But this is rather misleading.  Based on the Latin, caritas, charity expresses the feeling of love that motivates giving.  By contrast, tz’dakah, stresses that giving is an act of justice; a way of putting right what is wrong; a vehicle for re-distributing wealth to the needy.

In Rabbinic law, tz’dakah is a mitzvah, a ‘commandment’ – that is, the individual Jew is required to give tz’dakah.  Nevertheless there are different ways of fulfilling the obligation.  The great 12^th century Jewish philosopher and codifier, Maimonides, that is, Moses ben Maimon, also known as Rambam (1135-1204), a refugee from persecution in Spain, who settled in Egypt, identified eight degrees of tz’dakah (5) – in descending order, from the highest to the lowest.  According to Maimonides, the highest level  of tz’dakah is to ‘strengthen’ the person in need ‘by giving him a present or loan, or making a partnership with him, or finding him a job in order to strengthen his hand until he needs no longer [beg from] people. For it is said, “You shall strengthen the sojourner and the settler in your midst and live with him,” (Leviticus 25:35), that is to say, strengthen him until he needs no longer fall [upon the mercy of the community] or be in need’ (paragraph 7).  In other words, the best form of tz’dakah, involves eliminating the thorny problem of dependence – a lesson which the richer nations of the world, forever pouring money at the scourge of poverty, but doing much less to enable poorer nations to help themselves, could do with learning today.  But from a Jewish point of view, in whatever manner the obligation of tz’dakah is carried out – even if, ‘unwillingly’; the lowest of Maimonides’ eight levels – the essential point is that the individual fulfills their obligation.

Conclusion

And so, to conclude:  The Jewish toast is L’Chayyim! – To Life!   Jews have learnt from the story of our people – a great saga of abundance and loss; and abundance and loss – to celebrate life and appreciate all the gifts of life, each and every day.   And so, from a Jewish perspective material wealth is a source of blessing.  I say ‘source of blessing’ rather than, as the title puts it, ‘Blessing of God’ because while Jewish teaching recognises that God is the source of all blessing, the rules governing the treatment of the vulnerable and marginal in society, encompassing all those who need material aid, make it clear that we – rather than God – are responsible for practising tz’dakah, and so, for ensuring that the blessings of life are shared by all.  Far from being the ‘root of all evil’, material wealth is an opportunity for thanksgiving and for giving to others who are less fortunate, so they, too, may reap the benefits of prosperity.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

One World Week Interfaith Encounter

Worth Abbey, 18^th October 2009 – 30^th Tishri 5770

Notes

1. The Book of Deuteronomy is set in the narrative context of the fortieth year of the wilderness journey, and takes the form of a series of orations delivered by Moses to the people encamped on the eastern side of the Jordan.  However, Deuteronomy – Greek for ‘Second Law’ – was actually written seven hundred years later during the reign of King Josiah of Judah, which began c. 638 BCE, and represents King Josiah’s attempt to reform the kingdom and its people (see II Kings 22:1ff.) – hence the repetition of key teachings at the heart of the Torah – and the reinforcement of core messages.
2. Interestingly, this passage from Deuteronomy chapter 26 constitutes a very early example of Jewish liturgy at a time when the system of worship focussed on the Temple in Jerusalem and its sacrificial offerings.
3. Seder means ‘order’ – and is the name given to the Passover meal, which centres on the Haggadah, the ‘telling’ of the story of the Exodus.
4. Although Shavuot, ‘the Day of First Fruits’ was, originally, purely agricultural, after the Temple was destroyed, the rabbis transformed the second of the Pilgrim Festivals into ‘the Season of the Giving of our Torah’ – Z’man Matan Torateinu, linking the period of the seven weeks from the second day of Passover to Shavuot (‘Weeks’) to the journey of the Israelites from Egypt to Mount Sinai (see Exodus 19:1ff.)Maimonides’ ‘Eight Degrees of Tz’dakah’ (Mishneh Torah: Hilchot Mat’not Ani’im (Laws of Gifts  of [that belong to] the Poor) 10:1;7-14).  See: Appendix

Appendix

7: There are eight levels of tz’dakah, each greater than the next. The greatest level, above which there is no other, is to strengthen the name of another Jew by giving him a present or loan, or making a partnership with him, or finding him a job in order to strengthen his hand until he needs no longer [beg from] people. For it is said, “You shall strengthen the stranger and the dweller in your midst and live with him,” {Leviticus XXV:35} that is to say, strengthen him until he needs no longer fall [upon the mercy of the community] or be in need.

8: Below this is the one who gives tz’dakah to the poor, but does not know to whom he gives, nor does the recipient know his benefactor. For this is performing a mitzvah for the sake of Heaven. This is like the Secret [Anonymous] Office in the Temple. There the righteous gave secretly, and the good poor drew sustenance anonymously. This is much like giving tz’dakah through a tz’dakah box. One should not put into the box unless he knows that the one responsible for the box is faithful and wise and a proper leader like Rabbi Hananya ben Teradyon.

9: Below this is one who knows to whom he gives, but the recipient does not know his benefactor. The greatest sages used to walk about in secret and put coins into the doors of the poor. It is worthy and truly good to do this if those who are responsible for collecting tz’dakah are not trustworthy.

10: Below this is one who does not know to whom he gives, but the poor person does know his benefactor. The greatest sages used to pack coins into their scarves and roll them up over their backs, and the poor would come and pick [the coins out of the scarves] so that they would not be ashamed.

11: Below this is one who gives to the poor person before being asked.

12: Below this is one who gives to the poor person after being asked.

13: Below this is one who gives to the poor person gladly and with a smile.

14: Below this is one who gives to the poor person unwillingly.

Maimonides: ‘Eight Degrees of Tz’dakah’ (Mishneh Torah: Hilchot Mat’not Ani’im (Laws of Gifts  of [that belong to] the Poor) 10:1;7-14).