Jew Vs. Jedi

On January 12th, Adas Emuno president Lance Strate's op ed for the Jewish Standard, Jew vs. Jedi: “May the Schwartz Be With You”, made its way into print, and here it is now on our congregational blog:

The Last Jedi is one of the best, if not the best, of the Star Wars cinematic series that first exploded onto theater screens in 1977. The film franchise, originated by George Lucas, was sold to the Walt Disney Company in 2012, and revitalized in 2015 by the first installment in the new trilogy, The Force Awakens, directed by J.J. Abrams.

Although it was a huge commercial success and generally well received, many fans were unhappy with the shift to a more progressive outlook in The Force Awakens, and expressed dissatisfaction with the casting, which deviated from the previous films, which were all but monopolized by white males. In this new trilogy, the lead heroic role of Rey is given to a young woman, while another main character is played by a young African-American man. Even when the sentiments expressed were not overtly racist and sexist, those undercurrents were apparent, especially given that the plot of The Force Awakens was quite consistent with the original Star Wars film.

Star Wars The Force Awakens cast Harrison Ford; Daisy Ridley; Bob Iger; J.J. Abrams; John Boyega; Lupita Nyong'o; Oscar Isaac

The Last Jedi, directed by Rian Johnson, extended the new sensibility by highlighting female leadership, including the late Carrie Fisher as the leader of the resistance and Laura Dern as a self-sacrificing admiral of their decimated fleet, while introducing a significant new character played by Kelly Marie Tran, the child of Vietnamese immigrants. Consistent with this move toward greater diversity in casting, the film also emphasized the progressive theme of breaking with the past.

Given the reactionary mentality of most disgruntled Star Wars fanatics, I was disturbed to read Liel Liebovitz’s December 18 piece in Tablet magazine, called “Reform Jediism.” Liebovitz explains his reaction to the film:

I felt a torrent of anger I haven’t known since gazing at the calamity that was Jar-Jar Binks. That’s because the movie, while otherwise engaging and enjoyable, introduced a radical new take on the Jedi religion. Call it Reform Jediism.

Anger is consistent with right-wing screeds against any form of liberal politics, but in this instance the target was Reform Judaism. As he puts it,

for American Jewish audiences… The Last Jedi can feel almost like a documentary, a sordid story about a small community eager to trade in the old and onerous traditions for the glittery and airy creed of universalist kumbaya that, like so much sound and fury, signifies nothing.

As a Reform Jew, I am deeply offended by Liebovitz’s disdain for those of us who practice a form of Judaism different from his own. And I have to wonder what it is about us that makes him so afraid. In the words of the Jedi master Yoda, who presumably represents Liebovitz’s idea of Orthodox Jediism, “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” Don’t we know this to be true? Isn’t our world big enough for different forms of Jewish worship, different modes of Jewish identity? Does he really want to open up an irrevocable schism in the Jewish population?

Responses from readers both sympathetic to his general outlook and supportive of the Reform movement have taken Liebovitz to task for misinterpreting the meaning of The Last Jedi, ignoring important details in the film or just getting them wrong, forcing facts to fit his views instead of vice versa. For my part, I find the entire conversation absurd. Its original sin is Liebovitz’s equating Jew and Jedi.

The Star Wars universe was created by George Lucas, who was raised a Methodist. The film’s underlying Christian sensibility is apparent in its emphasis on a savior figure. In the original trilogy, the messianic character is Luke (evoking the Gospels) Skywalker (paralleling walking on water). In the prequels, Anakin Skywalker is born via immaculate conception on the part of the Force and identified as the “chosen one” of prophecy, before falling from grace and becoming the equivalent of the Christian Satan, Darth Vader.

The Jedi are referred to as an “order” rather than a religion. Judaism does not have any orders, but there are many within the Catholic tradition (e.g., Jesuits, Dominicans), as well in as other forms of Christianity including the Methodists, and also within Buddhism, a major influence as well on Lucas and his creation. The Jedi Order is monastic. Worldly attachments—notably marriage—are forbidden; that’s a rule also associated with Christianity and Buddhism.

A fully trained Jedi is referred to as a knight, and Jedi knights are all but invincible warriors, in some ways modeled after Japanese samurai, but also after holy paladins, not unlike the Arthurian knights of the roundtable in search of the Holy Grail of Christian legend. Jedi also are much like priests, Christian or Shaolin, with a direct connection to the godlike Force, one that ordinary people lack. They are nothing like the great rabbis of Jewish tradition, learned sages who study and interpret our sacred texts.

The Christian sensibility of Star Wars is especially apparent in its valuation of redemption and forgiveness. At the end of the original trilogy, Luke is able to convince his father, Darth Vader, to turn on his master, the evil emperor. Luke insists that there still is good in Vader, and this final act allows Vader to die in a state of grace, and to appear in ghostly form alongside the good Jedi who have also left the earthly plane. But the fact remains that Vader was guilty of untold atrocities, including destroying an entire planet in the first Star Wars film.

In The Force Awakens, Kylo Ren is introduced as essentially worshipping Darth Vader as well as following the evil Supreme Leader of the First Order, and engages in acts of patricide and mass murder. In The Last Jedi, Rey tries to turn Ren away from the dark side, just as Luke did with Vader, saying that it’s not to late for him. The idea that you can be forgiven for all of your sins as long as you repent in the end has its origins in Christian theology, whereas in our tradition, as expounded by Maimonides, some sins are so heinous that no forgiveness or redemption is possible.

I don’t mean to imply that Star Wars is based only on Christian elements. Lucas weaved together a variety of influences, including Buddhism, Japanese samurai films, westerns, World War Two movies, old movie serials such as Flash Gordon, and Joseph Campbell’s notion of the hero’s journey (itself more consistent with Christianity than Judaism). What I want to emphasize is that Star Wars does not reflect Jewish sensibilities, and does not make for a good analogy with contemporary Jewish life.

We still can appreciate and enjoy the movies, which above all are entertaining. But we also ought to be aware of Lucas’s failings as a storyteller. His movies have been criticized for portraying democratic institutions as weak and ineffectual, supported only by the elitist Jedi. Only a few people exhibit the force sensitivity needed to become a Jedi, and that trait is inherited rather than acquired through hard work or ethical conduct.

Lucas drew on many stylistic elements from the World War II era, some in disturbing fashion. For example, the final scene of the first Star Wars movie is based on a scene from the Nazi propaganda film Triumph of the Will. Worse, in the prequel trilogy, Lucas drew on offensive ethnic stereotypes, trying to displace them onto alien beings. The character of Jar Jar Binks, whom Liebovitz and many other fans criticized for being too silly, was based on African-American Stepin Fetchit stereotypes, with a Jamaican/Rastafarian speech pattern. The leaders of the evil Trade Federation were based on East Asian “yellow peril” stereotypes. And the greedy slave owner Watto is hook-nosed and speaks with a Yiddish accent.

Liebovitz is wrong in thinking that the earlier Star Wars movies emphasized tradition. No, they were exercises in nostalgia, romanticized images of the past. And they are profoundly ahistorical, set “a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.” The fairytale-like formula stands in stark contrast to the Jewish invention of historical narrative. The events that occur in the Star Wars universe have no connection to our world. How long ago did they happen? What is the connection between their time and ours? Are we the descendants of the human characters in these stories? Are they even human? For this reason, as well as the fact that there is no rationale given for the “futuristic” science and technology, purists argue that these stories are fantasy rather than science fiction.

As Jews, we believe in progress toward a better future as well as continuity with the past. The Star Wars universe is as disconnected from our tradition as it is from human history. We can enjoy the films as entertainment, certainly, and I would suggest that also we ought to applaud the more progressive approach associated with Abrams, Johnson, and Disney. As for a Jewish take on the franchise, I can think of none better than the 1987 Mel Brooks movie Spaceballs, which teaches us to live and let live and not take ourselves so seriously.

And so I say to Liebovitz and others like him, “May the Schwartz be with you!”

Character Matters, The Prophets Say

Our friend Joanne Palmer, editor of the Jewish Standard, published an article on this year's Sweet Tastes of Torah that is worth noting here on the congregational blog of Adas Emuno. 

The title of the article is Character Matters, The Prophets Say. The subtitle of the article, which was published in the January 19th issue, is "This year’s Sweet Tastes of Torah includes a talk on prophetic literature; also havdalah, dessert, and dancing," and here's how it begins:

In some ways, everything is different this year.

In other ways, things are the same; we build on successes and learn from missteps. The Sweet Tastes of Torah, the annual program that offers the community workshops with local rabbis, all of them members of the North Jersey Board of Rabbis, has been going strong for almost a decade now. About 18 Conservative and Reform rabbis will teach two sessions of classes on February 3 at the Fair Lawn Jewish Center.

But this year, in response to the increased urgency that many people feel to do something, to understand more about what they can do and to know more about the Jewish context that can nourish their instincts and actions, Sweet Tastes of Torah is reshaping the evening.

It will begin with the usual spirited Havdalah, and it will end with the usual and much-anticipated dessert, as well as Israeli folk dancing (to even out the dessert), but it will include a keynote address, which will provide the focus for all of the first session’s workshops and some of the second.

So far, so good, you may say, but what really makes this year's event different from all other years, you may ask. Well, then, read on!

The keynote speaker is Rabbi Barry Schwartz, who heads Congregation Adas Emuno in Leonia and is the CEO and editor-in-chief of the Jewish Publication Society. In what must have been his abundant spare time (assuming that either he never sleeps and has figured out a 36-hour day), he has written Path of the Prophets. The latest of his books—he wrote a children’s book, Adam’s Animals, that came out in October—looks at some of the prophets—both the obvious ones, like Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel—and biblical figures who were not called prophets but who functioned in that way, characters including Judah, the midwife Shifrah, and Ruth.

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Although Rabbi Schwartz worked on his book for five years, he said, and therefore he began the work well before today’s political situation evolved, “it just so happens that it’s coming out at a time when we are so conscious of the ethical issues that are swirling around the presidency and also the #MeToo movement. This invitation to deliver the keynote came smack at the time when the Harvey Weinstein story was just breaking, and it seemed that every day there was a new story.

Because his book is about prophecy—and about ethical living, which prophecy demands—it seemed absolutely timely, he said, and that is a great sadness. “I thought that I was writing it in order to make my contribution to the conversation about the prophets,” he said. “They inspired me when I was younger, and I wanted to do that for the new generation.

“So many people try to read the prophets, and their eyes glaze over. So much of it is written in high rhetorical style, in a poetical prose that is very hard to digest. I wanted to write a book that makes the prophet’s works, and even their lives, accessible and relevant and compelling.”

He talked about his book’s structure, and how the workshops at Sweet Tastes will mirror that structure.

“The book is divided into three sections—justice, compassion, and faith—reflecting Micah’s admonition to ‘do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God,’” Rabbi Schwartz said.

“Certainly we are seeing ethical crises of leadership, particularly political and sexual in nature; these crises are happening so fast that we can hardly keep up with them. My thesis is that the prophets of ancient Israel brought forth an ethical revolution, and we need to retrieve their often overlooked or forgotten messages today. It will help inform us, perhaps it will help steady the ship.

“Part of what I will raise in the keynote is that it is not enough for us to lament what is going on. It is not enough for us to raise our concerns and then move on. In some ways, that is putting our heads in the sand, and the prophets would say no, that is not enough.

“We very much need to hear the prophetic message that every person has a responsibility to do their part. The prophets didn’t turn their ire just on the leaders, but on the people as well, and in some ways that is even more daring. If the leaders are making a mistake, we need to speak truth to power, but we also need to speak truth to the people, and to understand, as Rabbi Heschel put it, that especially in a democratic society, not all are guilty, but all are responsible.”

Rabbi Heschel, of course, is Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, the 20th century Jewish theologian and political advocate whom Rabbi Schwartz counts as among his inspirations. So, he said, was the rabbi of the shul to which his family belonged when he was growing up, in Croton-on-Hudson in New York. “Rabbi Michael Robinson, of blessed memory, was a disciple of Heschel’s, and one of the dozen Reform rabbis who were arrested with Martin Luther King in St. Augustine,” he said. “He was a true advocate for social justice, and I grew up with him, listening to him quote King and Heschel and the Hebrew prophets.

“It was JPS that published Heschel’s book The Prophets in 1963, and I feel a great kinship as the head of the JPS with Heschel’s work.”

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Rabbi Schwartz begins each of his chapters—each dedicated to one official or unofficial prophet—with a biographical sketch based on the information available in the Bible and fleshed out by his imagination. “I combine biography and theology by taking an episode from their lives that illustrates what their lives were about,” he said. “Sometimes the biographical bits in the text are sparse, but I elaborate on it by what I call creative first-person midrash. I have the prophets themselves speaking in the first person, and I take some poetic license to do it.”

Among the prophets Rabbi Schwartz writes about are Judah, who walks the “path of repentance,” he said. “Judah is the first character in the Bible who undergoes what we think of as repentance, and he changes.” And then there is Caleb the spy, “who had the audacity and the courage to stand up to his fellow spies, and he countered their terribly pessimistic report about the land they were about to enter with a more optimistic report. He was an example of someone whose spirit gave him the ability to stand forward.

“And the prophets are not all doom and gloom,” Rabbi Schwartz continued. “Some of it is about compassion, forgiveness, kindness, and hope. All of this is very much part of the prophetic message. That’s the second group, compassion. And then there’s the third one, walking humbly with your God. That’s the path of joy and faith and humility and wisdom; it’s more about internal characteristics.”

So, will his keynote address at Sweet Tastes of Torah be overtly political? It probably depends on how you define political, and for that matter how you define overt.

“I definitely will reference what is going on today,” Rabbi Schwartz said. “I am going to recall the names of so many people caught up in scandal today, without dwelling on any of the particular individuals or the details of their stories. But I do want to begin by painting a picture of the sordid state of affairs. I certainly will mention political figures and the figures in the worlds of entertainment and the like who have been caught up in political and sexual scandals, without going into detail.

“And then I will move directly to the message of the prophets, which is about not making ethics peripheral. They should be central to our lives.

“Character truly counts. To all those who say that our leaders’ character does not matter, the prophets would say that you can never separate character from the office. It’s reaffirming an old-fashioned message, that leadership is not just about a person’s ability, but about that person’s character. It’s not just about their ability but also their integrity.”

And then, of course, after all the discussion and soul-searching, there always is dessert.

The article also includes a nice picture of Rabbi Schwartz:

And it concludes with the following information: 

Who: The North Jersey Board of Rabbis sponsors

What: Sweet Tastes of Torah

Where: At the Fair Lawn Jewish Center, 10-10 Norma Avenue

When: On Saturday evening, February 3; doors open at 6:30 and Havdalah is at 7.

How much: $15 per person until January 31; $20 at the door

For more information, including a list of breakout sessions and teachers, and to register: Go to sweettastesoftorah.weebly.com or Google “sweet tastes of torah 2018”

We hope to see you there!

 From the pages of Kadima, the newsletter of Congregation Adas Emuno:

A Message From Our President

Dr. Lance Strate

Exclusively Inclusive

Adas Emuno is a small congregation, as we all know, and that means that membership in our shul is something of an exclusive club. Of course, the final word on exclusivity was uttered by Groucho Marx, who famously said, "I wouldn't want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member." This harkens back to a time when many private clubs had a policy of deliberately excluding Jews and other minorities from membership.

Marx's mocking aside, over the past century and a half, our congregation has never aspired to be one of those big, impersonal temples with many hundreds or even thousands of members. We embraced the approach so well expressed by the British economist, E. F. Schumacher, small is beautiful. I hasten to add that we do have room to grow, and we wouldn't mind a few more members.

In keeping things on a human scale, we don't force congregants to fit into predetermined molds. We remain flexible, able to tailor our expressions of faith, learning, and action to the needs and desires of our members. Ours is a shul that is personal, custom-made for our members.

In this sense, we are also an inclusive congregation, open to all who want to join together with us in the practice of our Reform Jewish faith. We are open to all who seek to worship, learn, and work together to heal our world.

We are exclusively inclusive, or maybe it's inclusively exclusive? Either way, if you think there are any ways we can do better, that we can improve in being open and intimate, warm and welcoming, inclusive and exclusive, please let us know. Let's make sure this is a club that we all want to belong to, that we all are proud to be members of, that even Groucho would be happy to join.

Lance Strate's Yom Kippur Appeal 5778

Shana Tova! And Shabbat Shalom!

Every year we ask someone different to deliver the Yom Kippur Appeal. That's because we don't want to bore you. And it's because different members of the congregation have different experiences of Jewish life. Different memories that they can draw upon. Different relationships to our synagogue. And different reasons that they can give in asking for your support.

So why is this year different from all other years? Because this year is my last year as president of our congregation. I've been president of our congregation for a long time now. In fact, I'm in the second year of my third two-year term, and if you do the math, that means that I'm in my sixth year as president. I was a young man when I started out! Now I'm old.

But I want to make it clear that I still love Adas Emuno, and I will continue to serve our synagogue. And sure, I could continue for another two years. And another two years after that. And another two after that. But we all know that it can't go on forever. And it's healthy to have new blood. Because that brings with it new ideas, new approaches, new ways of thinking and doing, new styles and skills and competencies. It's a process of renewal. And I am very pleased that we now have several officers who are able to step into the leadership position at our shul.

So why is this appeal different from all other appeals? Because it's my last year as president, they thought you might be a little bit more willing than usual to listen to me. I'm not sure that's true, but maybe there are other reasons why this year is different.

For example, there's the recent resurgence of anti-Semitism here in the US. I'm sure you all saw the footage of the neo-Nazis marching in Charlottesville this summer. I don't know about you, but their chanting sent a chill down my spine: "Jews will not replace us!" It should serve as a warning against complacency and complete assimilation. Some of us may forget who we are, but they will not. And our position here in America may not be as precarious as a fiddler on the roof, but neither is it as secure as a bass drummer in the basement. Benjamin Franklin's words have some resonance with our own situation: "We must all hang together or assuredly we shall all hang separately." And how can we all hang together unless we have a place, like this one, where we can all hang out?

This has special meaning for me because both of my parents were Holocaust survivors. My mother lost one of her sisters, she was married, had a little baby boy, they moved to another town before the Nazis came, and my mother never heard from them again. In the immediate aftermath of the war, my mother witnessed her mother die as a consequence of the war. The Holocaust was a fire that continued to smolder even after Germany surrendered. And even today, the smell of that smoke still lingers.

My parents met in Paris, after the war, as refugees, and were married there. They couldn't come to America because of restrictions on immigration, a problem familiar to us today, so they went to Australia and lived there for three years, until the rules changed, and then they came to New York. I was born soon after. By that time, I was a last minute idea.

I grew up in Kew Gardens, Queens, a Jewish neighborhood, full of immigrants, some survivors like my parents, some refugees who escaped before the war broke out, some who arrived earlier in the century. And some who were just running away from Brooklyn.

But between neighbors, family, and friends, I grew up in a Holocaust survivor milieu. Some, like my uncle, had the numbers tattooed on their arms. Some didn't. Some were in concentration camps, others ghettoes, others different situations. Some were deeply troubled, bursting into tears without warning, suffering nervous breakdowns, talking to themselves out loud about gas chambers and crematoriums. Some had to be taken away, committed. Others lived among us. I remember this. Most of all, I remember the nerves. Always the nerves. Today we call it PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder. Me and my friends, we just called it freaking out. I know it affected me, I had to learn to be calm in the midst of these emotional storms. I've read that the effects persist through many generations, and that troubles me.

But growing up in a Jewish neighborhood, I never experienced anti-Semitism directly while I was in elementary school. I grew up feeling safe and secure, confident and proud of my heritage. And for that reason, my reaction to the neo-Nazi footage was mixed. Part of me couldn't help but see them as almost comical, as buffoons, palookas. And I couldn't help but think, why in the world would we want to replace the likes of you? But clowns can be quite scary, as you may know, at least from Stephen King and American Horror Story, if not from personal experience. And a sadder response that came to mind was, how can we possibly replace you? There are so few of us left? So few of us. So very few.

My father never finished high school back in the old country, and as an immigrant here, he worked in an automobile body shop. My mother was a homemaker, as was the norm at that time. So we didn't have much money when I was growing up, and when I asked my parents to buy me a toy or game that I saw on TV, the answer was usually no. But I never felt deprived. And whenever I asked my parents to buy me a book, the answer was always yes. For books, always yes. We had some differences of opinion on whether comic books counted, but there was room for negotiation. Books, school, education, those were the values that were instilled in me from an early age. Jewish values. Not unique to us as Jews, but central to our culture. Read, study, learn, think, use your head, and hopefully, make something of yourself.

And we joined a nearby synagogue, Temple Isaiah in Forest Hills. My parents were not especially observant. Like some of you, they were more of the once-a-year-on-Rosh-Hashanah-and-Yom-Kippur kind of Jews. They never heard of Reform Judaism before, but the flexibility and meaningfulness of the services appealed to them. So did the friendliness, the socializing. We didn't have much money, but membership was a priority, and so was sending me to religious school there.

I loved religious school, especially the Judaica, the stories, the history, the ethics. I drank it all up. And because we were Reform, I was never told what to believe. We weren't told, here are the answers and you better learn them. We were told, here are the questions, let's all try to answer them for ourselves.

I loved religious school and I loved the services. And those feelings and experiences gave me vital resources to draw on, to call upon, when I was nine years old and my father died.

If you want to know what is really important, think about where we turn to when dealing with a death in the family, with grief and mourning. You can't find it on Facebook or HBO, or through sports or games. It's only here, in our house of worship. And it is the same source that we turn to, the only source that there is that can consecrate our life-affirming moments, marriage, and the miracle of the birth of a child.

I didn't understand it at the time, but our temple made accommodations for my mother, as a widow, so that we could remain members and I could continue to attend religious school. I had my bar mitzvah. The temple gave me a scholarship so I could go to Jewish summer camp. I went on to my Confirmation, and became active in temple youth group. Then I went away to college, and my strong sense of connection to Judaism faded a little, and after college a little more. I became a once-a-year-on-Rosh-Hashanah-and-Yom-Kippur kind of Jew, along with lighting candles on Hanukkah, the Passover Seder and not eating bread. And the culture was still very much a part of me.

And the pride.

And the friendships.

And the questions, the searching. And I do believe in something, I'm not sure what, but something greater than ourselves. Something beyond the physical world, beyond what science can tell us. And there is something else I believe in: Our people. I believe in the genius of our people, not that we are inherently better than everyone else, but that we have a unique history and tradition, a culture and religion that calls upon us to be our best possible selves. I believe that, as a people, we have been guided by something greater than ourselves, but only when we listen to that still, small voice. I believe that we have a responsibility to be, in the words of Isaiah, "a light unto the nations". But to do so, we have to follow the words of Peter Yarrow: "don't let the light go out".

I married a Jersey girl, crossed the Hudson River to live in Bergen County, we had two children. And we tried a few other congregations before we found a home here at Adas Emuno, a warm, welcoming, and nurturing environment.

And it hasn't been easy for us. Not long after we joined, my daughter was diagnosed with autism. I won't try to convey to you what life has been like under these circumstances, it's really not possible. But as all-consuming as it has been, dealing with my daughter's disability, it was still important to maintain our membership here, to send my son to religious school, to have his bar mitzvah and confirmation, and to give my daughter a sense of connection to Jewish life, including a special needs bat mitzvah. Among the many hardships that we faced have been financial ones, and I will confess to you that we have had to ask for accommodations ourselves. And I want to express our gratitude, on behalf of all those who suffer financial hardships, for the fact that ours is a congregation that will not turn away anyone in need. That only asks you to give what you can, however much you can, whenever you can. And if you can, to give as much as you can, because we're all in this together, our community, our congregation.

We are now four years away from our sesquicentennial, our 150th anniversary. And barring some unforeseen major disaster, we will be celebrating that auspicious occasion together, God-willing each and every one of us. But after that, will we survive for another 150 years?

We don't know what the future holds, but we can take action in the present to maintain and sustain our congregation, as a legacy and gift for the generations yet to come. And maybe I'm a bit biased, but I think our congregation is different from all other congregations, special in certain ways that are not always easy to explain, in some ways maybe even a little bit blessed. I think ours is the little shul that could, and maybe that's just because we think we can, we think we can, we think we can. But we do.

So my appeal to you is not so different after all, because I ask the same of you that we always ask. To give, if you can, to give what you can, when you can, as much as you can, to give, generously. To help us make ends meet, to help insure our survival, to keep our congregation going for many years to come.

And my appeal to you is a call to service, to join together in the work of running this congregation. We are a do-it-yourself congregation, and I ask you to give of your time and effort, whatever you can, whenever you can, as much as you can, to volunteer and help out, to serve on committees, to consider serving on our Board of Trustees. And I think that somewhere out there, sitting among you, are the future presidents of Adas Emuno.

And my appeal to you is to be Adas Emuno ambassadors, to help us bring in new members, new families, because first and foremost, Adas Emuno is us, a congregation, a community, not buildings, but people. Talk us up, show your pride in Adas Emuno, let others know about this warm and welcoming, one of a kind community. Help us engage in our ongoing process of renewal.

We are part of a tradition that goes back 4,000 years. And how can we not be filled with awe and reverence for our amazing history, for our survival against all odds, and for all that we have given to the world. As Reform Jews, we are part of a movement that is over 200 years old.

And how can we not be filled with gratitude and respect for an approach to Jewish life that emphasizes progress and evolution, flexibility within continuity, and the prophetic vision of social justice, to be that light unto the nations, to engage in tikkun olam, to heal our poor, broken world?

And we are part of a congregation that is almost 150 years old, and how can we not be filled with humility and happiness for being a part of this adas emuno, this assembly of the faithful? And how can we not dedicate ourselves to keeping the faith, and keeping faith with the future?

When I heard them chanting, "Jews will not replace us", I had another thought as well. I thought, but who will replace us? Who will replace us Jews, when we're gone. Over in Poland, where a once great Jewish community is no more, the Poles are trying to recreate the Jewish heritage of that country, lost through the Holocaust, by dressing up like Orthodox Jews and holding mock Jewish weddings and ceremonies. They're not trying to make fun of us, it's just a kind of historical recreation. Is that where we're headed?

We see and hear of so many Americans who are not Jewish, but have a Jewish parent, or grandparent, or ancestor. They recall a connection, but Judaism and Jewish life for them is nothing more than a memory. We have to be more than that. To be more than just a memory, we must instead be the ones who remember. We are called upon to remember, to actively remember instead of passively becoming a memory. To remember who we are, what we are.

And we can only remember together, collectively, through our houses of worship, our synagogues and religious schools, remembering together, remembering from one generation to the next. Who will replace us? No one else will. It's all up to us.

So this is my appeal to you, my call to you, in my final year as president. Do all that you can to support our synagogue and our tradition. Not only to defy those who wanted to wipe us from the face of the earth.

Do it because it matters, because in the long run it matters more than most of what we think is important in everyday life.

Do it for all those who came before us, who kept the faith so that we could have this gift of Jewish life, this gift that we call Adas Emuno.

But more than anything else, do it for all those who will come after us, whose lives will be so much the poorer if we have not preserved and sustained our tradition, and movement, and congregation.

My friends and fellow congregants, it's all up to you. My final appeal to you is, don't let the light go out!

Rabbi Schwartz's Sermon for Yom Kippur 5778

ISRAEL AT SEVENTY

YOM KIPPUR 5778

RABBI BARRY L. SCHWARTZ

On Rosh Hashanah I shared my concern about what is happening here, in the United States of America, in a sermon entitled, simply, My Country.

Now on Yom Kippur I want to share my concern with what is happening in my other country, the State of Israel.

When I say “My Other Country” it’s not simply because I happen to have dual citizenship, and the fact that my family of five has ten passports.

It’s not simply because I studied there, got married there, worked there, served in the army there… in fact all of that was many years ago when I was young, and yes, had a full head of hair.

It’s because I believe if you are Jewish Israel is your second home, your spiritual homeland if not your physical one.

It’s because I believe that if America is your mother and Israel is your father, you should love both your parents.

It’s because you are a citizen of the United States and you are a citizen of the Jewish people.

And it’s because America happens to be Israel’s best friend, and sometimes only friend.

As you know, Israel will soon celebrate its 70th birthday. So let’s begin with some positive, before we get to the negative. That’s a good approach to take with family. It’s helpful at any time, even more so before a big birthday.

Let’s remember that just seven decades ago, in the life span of many of you here, against all odds, a modern miracle arose in our ancient homeland.

As I’ve said before, “I am sorry that I was not alive in May of 1948 to witness this miracle. The ingathering of the exiles, the revival of a Jewish state, the rebirth of Hebrew: is there a more astounding event in all of Jewish history?

What a marvel and privilege, after twenty centuries, to be able to board an airplane and eleven hours later touch down in the holy land of a sovereign Jewish state.

As Daniel Gordis, an American rabbi who made aliyah wrote after witnessing a concert celebrating Jerusalem, during the height of the intifadah:

“An amazing thing⏤thousands of people out to celebrate a city. And it struck me. This country is an unmitigated success. It’s an achievement of cosmic proportions.”

Gordis goes on to list Israel’s many problems. Then he says: “But tonight, the music and the dancing remind us that those… can be fixed. Not long ago, though, there were things we couldn’t change. Without our own country, there was nothing we could do to help ourselves, to save ourselves.… This is not a population or a generation that will be scared into leaving or into despair. The hope of this place runs too deep… there’s a pulse to life here that cannot [be] killed. Who wouldn’t want to live in a place where even concerts are miracles?”

This spring there will be a lot to celebrate, and I hope we will do our part. Israel’s joy is our joy. Israel’s successes are our successes. Because the Israeli flag is also the banner of the Jewish people. It's no coincidence that the colors are blue and white. Those are the colors of the tallit⏤the traditional prayer shawl⏤which inspired the flag design. And the Jewish star in the center? That is the symbol not just of the nation, but of the Jewish people everywhere.





 

So if Israel’s joy is our joy, it also means that Israel’s sorrows are our sorrows.

And if Israel’s successes are our successes, then Israel’s failures are our failures, and Israel’s disappointments are our disappointments.

It was a rough summer. Let’s start with that. First there was the collapse of the Western Wall compromise. After years of negotiation to create an egalitarian prayer space next to the divided plaza of the Kotel, the Prime Minister pulled the rug out from under all those who had worked so hard on the plan. To add insult to injury he threw his support behind a bill that ensures that non-Orthodox conversions will never be recognized in Israel. It was all politics. The Prime Minister needs the ultra-Orthodox parties to stay in power.

Do you know that at the same time this was happening I performed a wedding here at the Temple for a daughter of this congregation, who was denied a legal marriage in Israel because she couldn’t prove that her grandmother’s conversion to Judaism was valid?

Do you know that I told the young couple that Debby and I were denied a legal marriage in Israel 36 years ago because we wanted to get married by a Reform rabbi on the grounds of the Reform seminary⏤the Hebrew Union College⏤in Jerusalem?

Israel at 70 is a remarkable place, but it is not an egalitarian, pluralistic place for non- Orthodox Jews… and that should concern us and trouble us.

In fact, earlier this year, at the urging of Norman Rosen, our Board of Trustees passed a resolution urging the Prime Minister to cease delaying the implementation of the Western Wall plan, which was brokered by Natan Sharansky. And after receiving an unsatisfactory reply, Norman wrote a strongly worded opinion piece in the Jewish Standard entitled “The Disgrace of the Western Wall”. It begins, “Imagine a place that is the holiest spot on earth for the Jewish people. Now imagine a place where peaceful worshippers are pushed and shoved, stones are thrown at them, and they are insulted, spit upon, and cursed. Sadly, the Western Wall… fits both descriptions."

We are proud Reform Jews. We have nothing to apologize for. Non-Orthodox Jews make up 90% of the American Jewish community and 60% of the Israeli Jewish community.

Seven decades after its founding, Israel should officially recognize all streams of Judaism.

Seven decades after its founding Israel should support Reform Judaism, Conservative Judaism and Reconstructionist Judaism.

Seven decades after its founding Israel should uphold religious marriage, civil marriage, and gay marriage.

As ARZA, the Association of Reform Zionists of America, commented, “Zionism… is premised on the idea of collective Jewish peoplehood as expressed by the Jewish state. Israel must remain true to its founding Zionist vision expressed in its Declaration of Independence: “Israel will ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture.”

Now as unfortunate as this inequality is within Israel’s borders, I believe that Israel at 70 faces an even greater problem with its occupation beyond its borders.

This past June marked the 50th anniversary of the Six Day War. One Israeli journalist has called that War the “cursed blessing”.

Blessing⏤because the Six Day War sent the unequivocal message to the world: We are strong; we can take care of ourselves; we are here to stay!

Curse⏤because the Six Day War resulted in Israel control of today more than 4 million Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza.

Blessing⏤because Israel gained defensible borders, in the south with Egypt, in the north with Syria, and in the middle with Jordan.

Curse⏤because Israel’s borders are still unsafe with the rise of Hamas in Gaza, Hezbollah in Lebanon, and the Al Aqsa Brigade in the West Bank.

Blessing⏤because from Israel’s strength came the astonishing peace treaty with Anwar Sadat and Egypt; and with King Hussein and Jordan.

Curse⏤because the failure of a peace treaty with Arafat and then Abas has given Israel three intifadahs and endless strife in the territories, and fuel for the fire of a looming nuclear Iran.

The haunting question for Israel at 70 is how the Jewish State can remain democratic and Jewish while seven million Jews rule four million Muslims.

Can we continue to avoid this dilemma indefinitely?

I have said this before⏤unconditional love does not mean uncritical love.

You love your children unconditionally; that does not mean that you look away when you think they are wrong.

You speak up for their own sake; precisely because you care.

Israel is family. We have to be careful about criticism in public. We have to combat Israel’s enemies and naysayers. We have to say to the BDS movement⏤those who would boycott, divest, and sanction⏤you go too far; you are not fair or balanced or objective; you question Israel’s very right to exist, don’t you?

We need to love Israel. We need to stand with Israel.

We need to visit Israel. We need to lobby for Israel. We need to praise Israel.

We need to celebrate with Israel in this milestone year.

And we need to work for a more just Israel, inside and out.

In the words of the ancient prophet:

“For the sake of Zion I shall not remain silent… until her righteousness shines like the dawn and her triumph like a flaming torch.”

Rabbi Schwartz's Sermon for Rosh Hashanah Morning 5778

OUR COUNTRY

ROSH HASHANAH 5778

RABBI BARRY L. SCHWARTZ

This summer a new chapter in an old debate erupted in the American Jewish community.

Rabbi David Wolpe of Temple Sinai in Los Angles, among the best known congregational rabbis in the country, published a column, Why I Keep Politics off the Pulpit. In it he says that he is "endlessly besieged by requests to take on this or that political or social issue." He remarks that, “with each new presidential administration the pressure grows greater." Rabbi Wolpe then explains why he avoids talking about politics from the pulpit. He concludes, “don’t tie your Torah to this week’s headlines. We are better, bigger and deeper than that.”

The reaction was fast and furious, in defense of Rabbi Wolpe and opposed to Rabbi Wolpe. The most talked about rebuttal was from Rabbi Rick Jacobs, president of the Union for Reform Judaism, our movement. He begins, “There are few colleagues for whom I have more respect than Rabbi David Wolpe.… I count him as both a teacher and a friend. Which is why I was struck by… [his] recent op-ed… How could someone who is usually so right be so wrong on something so important?”

Rabbi Jacobs entitled his piece, A Politics Free Pulpit is an Empty Pulpit. He distinguishes between partisanship and politics. While maintaining that the former has no place in the pulpit, he argues that the latter is indispensable. According to Jacobs we have both the right and responsibility to speak out on the moral issues of our day. So whereas Wolpe claims that, “what you may not do, if you are intellectually honest, is say the Torah points in only one political direction,” Jacobs counters that “although once can certainly love Torah and follow different political paths, one cannot claim to be a lover of Torah and nor care about how our society treats those in need, the weak, the vulnerable, the stranger and the oppressed.”

Jacobs continues, “the Judaism that I believe in does not limit Torah lessons to the parchment of our… scrolls… The Judaism that I live compels me to use those lessons to understand the most urgent challenges we face." He goes on to quote Rabbi Stephen Wise, perhaps the most influential rabbi of the early 20th century, who said, “the pulpit of the synagogue is charged with the responsibility of… prophetic memories and prophetic aspirations… pledged to… truth- speaking under freedom… a most solemn and inescapable duty. I could not with self-respect remain silent.”

Indeed, we studied Rabbi Wise in our History of Reform Judaism course at our Shabbat morning Torah study this past year. In 1905 Wise turned down the most prestigious pulpit in the country, Temple Emanu-El of New York, over the issue of freedom of the pulpit. He wrote a scathing letter to the chairman of the synagogue board, the famed industrialist Louis Marshall: “Dear Sir: If your letter of December first be expressive of the thoughts of the trustees of Temple Emanu-el, I beg to say that no self-respecting minister of religion, in my opinion, could consider a call to a pulpit which, in the language of your communication, shall always be subject to, and under the control, of, the board of trustees.” Wise went on to establish the Free Synagogue of NY, and spoke out on the great issues of the day. In 1919 he took on the steel industry, siding with the striking workers. A group of prominent trustees and members connected to the industry were outraged. They withdrew their building pledges and many resigned. Wise later recalled that “the ideal of pulpit freedom was put to the test, and the ideal was sustained. But the [new] building was lost.”

I don’t think it is hard for you to guess where I stand on this debate. Stephen Wise is one of my heroes for the moral courage he showed in his generation, like Rabbi David Einhorn showed in his generation, when he spoke out so strongly against slavery and for abolition that he was forced to flee his pulpit in Baltimore. More recently another of my heroes, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel spoke out for Civil Rights and against the Vietnam War, and so did my own rabbi Michael Robinson, in Croton-on-Hudson, NY.

All of them were inspired by the prophets of ancient Israel, who understood that religion and politics are inseparable; that ethics is the essence of piety, not ritual; that truth must confront power.

All of this is prelude to the point I make now. If what is happening in Washington now is the number one subject on my mind (and maybe yours); if what is happening to our country has been on my mind non-stop since November; if I cringe at the news night after night after night… how can I not talk about what is going on… from the pulpit, here at the High Holidays? Where do I begin?

I will take just one issue: healthcare. You will remember that is was the primary issue in the country… before Charlottesville.

National health insurance is considered a right, not a privilege, in first world countries around the world.

Here, the hard-won mandate to cover all in need, this summer’s debacle notwithstanding, is under constant threat of being repealed but not replaced.

Let’s not forget that at least 23 million Americans may yet lose their health care.

Let’s not forget that hundreds of thousands of the working poor may yet see their Medicaid program disappear.

Let’s not forget that hundreds of thousands of the elderly may yet see their Medicare program premiums skyrocket.

Let’s not forget that hundreds of thousands of the disabled may yet see their benefit slashed.

Many experts say that medical debt will surge. Untreated conditions will surge. Bankruptcy will surge. Extreme poverty will surge. The Nobel prize winning economist Paul Krugman calls the proposed repeal and the new budget lethal, and its effect, “apocalyptic.”

Paul Krugman puts it starkly: “Losing health care is a nightmare… tens of millions… [may] soon find themselves living this nightmare.”

What is happening? Who are we?

Look at what we have seen during and after this election.

I call this sad and cruel time, “the closing of the American heart.”

Make no mistake about it: the so called “America First” narrative is in reality an “America Divided” narrative.

As National Book Award Winner George Packer acerbically notes, “America First is the conviction that the country has lost its traditional identity because of contamination and weakness—the contamination of others, foreigners, immigrants, Muslims; the weakness of elites who have no allegiance to the country because they’ve been globalized.”

“This narrative,” Packer continues, “has contempt for democratic norms and liberal values, and it has an autocratic character. It personalizes power, routinizes corruption and destabilizes the very idea of objective truth.”

Is giving tax breaks to the rich while breaking the backs of the poor “America First”?

Is sowing fear among our immigrant population while quashing their entrepreneurial spirit “America First”?

Is blaming “both sides” for injustice while implying a repugnant moral equivalency between racists and those protesting racism “America First”?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

In American Covenant, his magisterial new study of civil religion in America, historian Philip Gorski notes how the Book of Exodus inspired our founding fathers. It speaks, of course, of the revolt against tyranny, the traverse of the wilderness, the making of a covenant, and the journey on to the Promised Land.

The Exodus saga inspired John Winthrop and Roger Williams. It inspired Benjamin Franklin, who wanted to depict Moses on the Great Seal of the United States. It inspired Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass. It inspired Martin Luther King Jr. It should inspire us anew.

At its heart and essence, the Torah is a prophetic narrative. All stand equal before God. All stand at the Mountain. All pledge loyalty to the covenant and to each other. As we will read on Yom Kippur, “You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord your God, your tribal heads, your elders and your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water drawer, to enter into the covenant"(Deut. 29:9-10).

A true American Covenant ethic, in contrast to a pseudo America First manifesto, promotes unity, not division. It promotes equality, not inequity. It promotes compassion, not cruelty.

A true American Covenant ethic does not build walls, but opens gates. It is not a fortress but a beacon. It cares for the widow, the orphan, the poor and the stranger… because it feels commanded to do so.

A true American Covenant faces out, like Lady Liberty.

And in the words of Emma Lazurus’ famous poem at her base, “From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome.”

This is our country.

This is our Promised Land.

This is the place where we reject division and defamation.

This is the place where say no to collusion and confusion.

This is the place where we speak truth to power.

This is the place where we say, “Dissent is patriotic.”

This is the place where we say, “Hate has no home here.”

This is the place where we sing, “My country, tis of thee, sweet land of liberty.” 

This is our country!