(These
remarks are excerpted from the D’var Torah I delivered to my congregation on Friday
evening November 27, 2015. After this
service, four worshipers asked me to post this sermon online, so here
it is. Some may consider these remarks to
cross the line between the pulpit and electoral politics. I disagree. But I further believe that irrespective of the political
personalities that one may hear referenced in my comments, people of good will
must call out the recent remarks of those running for the highest office of our
land for what they are: racism, xenophobia, and prejudice. And the sooner we provide them with their
proper labels, the healthier a society we will have created.)
In this week’s Torah portion of Vayishlach,
we witness a unique kind of transformation, as Jacob our Patriarch emerges
from his birth-heritage of competition, trickery, and deceit, to the world of human
relationship. And in return for
acknowledging his human frailty and for making an act of repentance, our
tradition records that his name and persona are changed to reflect his new
status.
In
the initial part of this parashah, Jacob returns to Israel after a 20-year stay
with his father-in-law Laban, and sends emissaries to Esau in hope of
reconciliation. But Jacob’s messengers
return and report that his brother is marching toward him with 400 men,
presumably armed. Jacob prepares for confrontation, worships, and sends Esau a gift
of livestock to appease him.
That
night, Jacob ferries his family and possessions across the Yabok River; he,
however, remains behind and encounters a mysterious man with whom he wrestles
until daybreak. Jacob suffers a
dislocated hip but still vanquishes the supernatural creature, who bestows on
him the name Israel, which means “he who struggles with creatures human and divine - and is successful.”
Eventually,
Jacob and Esau meet, embrace, and kiss, and go their separate ways. Yet each one is changed; each one is
transformed. Each one expected something
different from this confrontation, and each one received a sincere blessing for
his future.
For
Jacob – and for us – Yisrael becomes not only a place designation or a simple
given name. Yisrael becomes our
identity as people who strive for meaningful purposes – and even with God – and
prevail. As we hope and pray for
transformation in our own day, we too should, at the same time, anticipate a
struggle: We know that nothing comes easy. And indeed we may have to face a struggle against
those who would divide our country along racial or ethnic lines.
I
say this because there are some who wish to transform our nation back into a chauvinistic and xenophobic society that supports
paranoia and bigotry. These are the
politicians and pundits sullying the reputation of our nation as a
compassionate haven for political refugees, as they advocate for identification
cards for Muslims, or the monitoring of what transpires in mosques.
Such
ideas degrade our nation’s history and tradition of compassion, justice, and
freedom of speech and fairness. Nothing could be farther from what our
nation stands for.
The
New Colossus, our “Mother of Exiles”, which is the nickname of our Statue of
Liberty, is bowing her head in shame; her torch is extinguished, for she, as a
‘mother of exiles’, knows that parents who treat their children in the manner
in which candidates such as Donald Trump and Ben Carson suggest should lose
their credentials as mothers and fathers.
We
Jews know well the bitter sting of bigotry, and we should be in pain and
despair over their outrageous proposals to establish a national registry for
Muslims, or to have them carry special identification papers, establish a
religious test for elected office, or to turn our backs to the refugees who
desire nothing more than to come to our shores and find freedom.
The
suggestion that Muslims require special documentation echoes pre-World War II
Germany, when Jews were compelled to wear yellow stars, to have their genealogy
noted on their identity cards, and to suffer the boycotts of their
businesses. Such proposals also sadly imitate the American paranoia of World War II, when we placed Japanese-American
citizens into prisoner and work camps in this country.
Politicians
attempting to score political points through the fears of our era are engaged
in an obscene pastime, and we need to say “Dayeinu” to that kind of
pornography. And Americans – and other
politicians – who are able to call out the bigots for their odious remarks must speak
out loudly and identify the hatred for what it is.
To
remain silent would mean that we have neither learned the lessons of history
nor understood the message of compassion for which our country is famous, which
our nation has – admittedly – not always practiced, but toward which we strive
in each generation.
It
is understandable for us to be fearful of terror, of being injured or killed in
a battle that is not of our own making.
But when society's values are threatened, we must stand up and fight
back regardless of the price. As Jonathan Sacks, the former
chief rabbi of Great Britain, has said, "The victims of terror are not
only the dead and injured, but the very values on which a free society is
built: trust, security, civil liberty, tolerance, the willingness of countries
to open their doors to asylum seekers, the gracious safety of public
places."
These
are casualties that we must prevent.
I
hold out the promise that someone – that many someone’s – will stand up to the
Trump’s and the Carson’s of the world, and tell them that ‘enough is enough’, that their attitudes and comments are unwelcome. Perhaps this is my struggle, and that of my clergy
colleagues, and that of every person in America who believes in fairness and
right. It is our task to transform our
national attitude, to a time when we think well, and not ill, of another
person.
Similar
to the Jacob story in this week’s Torah parashah, Jacob came to see in his
brother not a threat, but as part of his own flesh and blood, someone who
needed compassion and caring. Jacob was
able to transform his anger and fear into constructive ways of living.
Our
challenge is to wonder whether we can do the same in our day and era.
[1] This is an incident reported by Rivkah Lambert on http://jewishvaluescenter.org/jvoblog/a-little-hat-story
