Category: Social Justice

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CCAR Convention General CCAR Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

Celebrating the Class of 1964: “Being in the Right Place at the Right Time”

At the upcoming CCAR Convention, we will honor the class of 1964, those who have been CCAR members and served our movement for 50 years.  In the weeks leading up to convention, we will share and celebrate the rabbinic visions and wisdom of the members of the class of 1964.

I had a paternal grandmother who truly believed that much of life was “b’shert,” the result of fate. In my 50 years as a rabbi, I feel as though, I was often in the right place at the right time.

After ordination, I became an assistant rabbi in the Indianapolis Hebrew Congregation. My senior was Rabbi Maurice Davis z”l.  I learned so much from him. Both of us possessed a passion for working with teenagers. We had both been advisors to the Ohio Valley Federation of Temple Youth.  We were both deeply committed to Inter Religious Dialogue and Civil Rights. We opposed American military intervention in Vietnam.

Two and a half years into my assistantship, Maury invited me to his house for lunch. This was not unusual, because this was not an infrequent occurrence. You see, all of the sermons delivered from the bimah of IHC were recorded and he and I would evaluate my sermons.  But this day was different.  A few weeks earlier, I had been asked by the then UAHC to become the Southeast Regional Director with headquarters in Miami.  I wanted to remain in the Midwest, having been born and bred in Chicago. At that time, I believed only senior citizens lived in South Florida.  My grandparents moved there in 1935. Maury Davis’ message to me was simply: ”You’ve made a big mistake. They’re going to offer you the position again. Take it.”  Little did I know then, that within three months, he was going to become the rabbi of the White Plains Jewish Community Center. He had been one of the main reasons I wanted to be in Indianapolis – to learn from him.

And so, 48 years ago, my wife Penny and I and two of our three children, the third being born in Miami, moved to South Florida. We have never regretted the decision to journey to our “subtropical paradise.” In my new position, I travelled to and spoke to, at that time, 56 different congregations in five Southern states and Freeport, Grand Bahama Island.  I served as advisor to the Southeast Federation of Temple Youth and I was responsible for the creation of new congregations.

In 1970, after four years of travelling for the Union, I wanted to get back to being a Congregational rabbi.  A new temple forming in Hollywood, Florida  with approximately 35 families asked me to be their rabbi.  I was offered a one-year contract; the rest was up to Penny and me to make it work. It was a gamble. Should I take it? I asked CCAR placement. They said,” It’s up to you.” Was this “b’shert” or a mistake about to happen?  Well, that one year contract lasted for 37 years until I chose to retire as Temple Solel’s Founding Rabbi Emeritus.

Out of our large Temple family, we produced two rabbis, one a member of the CCAR and the other a Reconstructionist rabbi. We have produced an invested Cantor. We have produced two writers of Broadway shows – one who had three shows playing on Broadway at the same time and the other a Tony Award winning writer of “Avenue Q.” We have produced various congregational leaders throughout North America.  We have produced leaders in science, medicine, the arts, the commercial world, mayors, city commissioners, state senators and representatives and a member of the Congressional House of Representatives. We created the Interfaith Council of Broward County, Florida, the Broward Outreach Center for the homeless and hungry, and continue to serve in leadership positions in an African American Community in Hollywood.

Even though I’ve retired, I really haven’t! I keep busy with lifecycle ceremonies for so called “old timers” and 30 and 40 year olds who grew up in the Temple. I now conduct their wedding ceremonies and name their children and occasionally speak at the bar/bat mitzvah of their children.  I teach World Religions on two college campus’s and serve on numerous boards of directors. I lead services for Jewish holidays on various cruise ships. I just “can’t say no ” and I wouldn’t want it any other way!  My Orthodox colleague in the community sent me a delightful note congratulating me on my 50th year as a rabbi, in which he wrote: “Even a Hebrew slave is freed after 50 years!!!”

If these past 50 years were slavery, I’ll take it.

Do you think all of this was “b’shert?”

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Immigration Prayer Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

The Fast That I Desire: Honoring Esther, Seeking Justice

Our world has not been perfect for quite a long time.

In every age, our people have struggled to act in ways that can bring our world as-it-is ever closer to the world we know needs to be.  Two thousand years ago, when facing ravaging drought, plaguing disease, or devastating pestilence, our ancestors would abstain from food and drink.  We read of their reasoning in the Talmud: a fast day is decreed to petition God for compassion and the removal of calamity (Palestinian Talmud, Taanit 4a.  The title of the tractate, Taanit, is the word for “Fast”).   The hope of old was that the community’s choice to deprive itself of basic necessities would arouse Divine Compassion, and change the future for the better.

As we prepare for Purim, we remember how our heroine, Esther, spoke truth to power in Persia.  When Mordechai told her of Haman’s horrendous plot, Esther advised Ahasuerus to alter the royal decree; the story of the Megillah that bears her name testifies that Esther’s bravery and leadership prevented a great calamity from befalling our people.  But if the vivid picture that remains in our mind is of the Queen daring to speak up and challenge the King, often we forget a small detail that precedes this epochal moment.  When Mordechai tells Esther of Haman’s wicked counsel, her response is simple: Esther asks Mordechai to proclaim three days of fasting for the entire Jewish community of Shushan.  Esther hoped that a community united in purpose could not just alter royal rule, but even could help avert an unfortunate Divine Decree.

Our Jewish calendar commemorates Esther’s request by observing Taanit Esther—the Fast of Esther—every year, on the day before Purim.  In my entire life, I must admit, I have never observed this “minor fast” (as our tradition calls it).  But this year is different.  From the evening of March 12th through to sunset on the 13th, I will observe Taanit Esther as I never have before: I will abstain from food and drink.  What make this year different from all other years?

This year, the National Council of Jewish Women has led the charge in organizing Jewish women to fast on Taanit Esther in order to speak truth to power—human and maybe even Divine—in our day.  A national group, We Belong Together, is partnering with SEIU and the Fair Immigration Reform Movement (FIRM), in leading a month-long, nationwide women’s action involving daily fasts for immigration reform. NCJW is sharing in this project by bringing together Jewish women (and some sympathetic male rabbis, such as myself) in a religious fast on March 13th.  On that day, our community will be united in speaking up for the immigrant women and families in our communities who suffer because of a broken immigration system that divides families and keeps many of our undocumented neighbors fearfully living in the shadows.   In the spirit of Queen Esther, Jewish women will fast on this sacred day in order to rouse compassion—Divine and maybe even human—for the immigrant community in America.

I hope our fast brings not only compassion, but also justice.  Unfortunately, in today’s immigration system, justice is far from achieved. Justice is delayed for the millions of family members who face up to decades-long backlogs in acquiring visas. It is denied to the 11 million undocumented immigrants who must live in the shadows of our society, away from the protective shelter of workplace standards and legal recourse. It is delayed for the 5,000 children who entered the foster care system when their parents were deported. It is denied for the LGBT Americans who cannot sponsor the visa of a spouse or partner the same way that a straight husband or wife can. We as Americans—we as Jews—can no longer delay our own pursuit of justice. The time is now to fix this broken system.

When our ancestors faced the broken systems of winds that brought locusts, or skies that held back the rains, they organized a fast.  They wondered, as Ruth Calderon captures:  What has the power to cause rain to fall?  What can bring the abundance of the heavens down on a parched Earth? What succeeds in piercing the hardened heart of a God who withholds rain? (Ruth Calderon, A Bride for One Night, p. 4).

I wonder in our day: What succeeds in piercing the hardened heart of a Congress, a House of Representatives, the government of the United States of America, who withhold justice? Our current immigration system fails to reflect the values I hold most dear as a Jew and an American. For too long, justice has been denied to 11 million undocumented men, women, and children.  As a Rabbi, I am proud to stand with American Jewish women: united, we have the power to stand together and use the Fast of Esther to demonstrate our resolve to ensure immigration reform remains a top priority in the House of Representatives and becomes a reality for the United States of America.  As happened to our heroic Queen Esther, the time has come for us to speak truth to power.

Rabbi Seth M. Limmer is rabbi of 
Congregation B’nai Yisrael of Armonk, New York.
This post originally appeared on rabbilimmer.cbyarmonk.org.

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News Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

In Response to Kansas Bill HB2453

This speech was delivered at the Equality Kansas Rally on February 25, 2014, in opposition to Kansas Bill HB2453, which explicitly protects religious individuals, groups, and businesses that refuse services to same-sex couples.

Look around you! Look where you are standing! You are standing at the State Capitol in Topeka, Kansas. In less than 3 months, on May 17th, it will be exactly 60 years since the Supreme Court of the United States decided that school segregation is illegal and against the Constitution of the United States. 

My God, people: have our legislators learned nothing?  How long will God tolerate our stubborn insistence rebelling against God’s word: Human beings are created, every one of us, in God’s own image?

I am Mark Levin. I am a Jew; I am a rabbi; and I am a founder of the Mainstream Coalition.

I am here today as an American, the land of the free and the home of the brave.  I know what preserves our freedom. It’s the rule of law.

I remember segregated schools. I attended racially segregated schools. How dare people in Topeka, Kansas, 60 years after Brown vs. the Board of Education, argue that religious exclusionists have a right to exclude citizens from equality? Many churches argued that blacks were inferior human beings, and did not have the right to be educated with whites, as the local Westboro Baptist Church argues that God hates gays today.  Really!  Our legislature wants to side with the Westboro Church? 

What protected those African American families, the 13 families and 20 children who sued the Board of Education for equal rights under the law? What integrated our schools and brought African Americans and whites together: equality under the law!

“NO JEWS OR DOGS ALLOWED.” That sign kept my father out of the public swimming pool where I as a child swam 30 years later. My father was routinely called a Christ-killer; only one anonymous phone-caller ever dared call me “a damn Jew.” Between dad’s childhood and mine came the Nazi murder of millions of Jews, gays, lesbians, and Roma. American soldiers fought the Nazis. The Nazis murdered Jews. Therefore suddenly in the public mind Jew-hater meant Nazi. Auschwitz killed the Nazi brand because it taught where hatred leads.

In my father’s childhood, businesses discriminated by religious belief. In Johnson County the City of Leawood excluded Jewish and African American home ownership. Blacks could not swim in my childhood pool in Baltimore because they were considered inferior to whites. All this murder and hatred was religiously justified.

Fashions change. Hatred remains. The Nazis made hating Jews unfashionable, at least overtly in polite society. But the law forbids Americans to turn their religious hatred into refusal to do business. Society demands that if you are open for business to anyone you are open for business to everyone.

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 legally ended discrimination in public accommodations against racial, ethnic, national and religious minorities, and women. Restaurants had to serve blacks, no matter how much a religion justified hatred. But now, some Kansans again seek to get the law to permit their religious hatred of other Americans. We’ve walked this path before.  Have we learned nothing from hatred and bigotry?

Christians and Jews both believe in a God of love. Genesis teaches that all humans are created in God’s own image. For those who believe that there is to be divine punishment of actions you consider to be a sin, then let God take care of it. God commands God’s people to love the image of God: every human being

We do hold something sacred as a nation and a people: it’s called the Declaration of Independence of the United States of American:  We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

We are the mainstream in Kansas.  We are the truly religious, who value God’s creation.  Let segregation, bigotry, and hatred cease. Let us rise to the love that God commands for all of God’s creatures.

Rabbi Mark H. Levin, DHL, is the Founding Rabbi of Congregation Beth Torah in Overland Park, KS.  He was ordained at HUC-JIR in Cincinnati in 1976.

 

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Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

Biennial 13: Reflections from a Biennial-o-phile Rabbi

I attended my first Biennial in 1987 in Chicago, when I was 16. Rachel Shabbat Beit-Halachmi, then a leader in our synagogue and NFTY, invited me to attend. Anatoly Sharansky (now Natan Sharansky), symbol of Refusnik’s worldwide, had just been released and came to the Biennial.

And when they brought him to the dais, the NFTY members spontaneously ran forward, armed linked, singing as only chutzpadik youth can:

Anatoly as long as you are there /We the children of Israel share your prayer. /Anatoly as long as you’re not free /Neither are we. (Doug Mishkin)

Our hearts soared—we welcomed a dissident, a global leader for freedom. Ani v’atah n’shaneh et haolam. We believed we could change the world. And we did.

I’ve been to every Biennial since 1987, save for two. Why keep going? Beyond the programming and the gathering and the worship and the leadership development, somewhere in the back of my psyche I’ve been hungering to recreate that perfect moment from my youth. There have been terrific conventions along the way and memorable speeches and worship and awards. But this past week in San Diego, I felt that same energy, that same sense of Jewish promise and potential, that same hope and belief that we could transform the world as I did 26 years ago. There isn’t “one” thing that made this Biennial so magical; all the parts fit together to make a more beautiful whole.

1477632_718678161477877_637043718_nIt was Duncan on the bimah, a 13 year old advocating for marriage equality, because his rabbis and his congregation call forth their youth to believe in justice and speak for human dignity and it was Jonah Pesner’s stirring tribute to Nelson Mandela.

It was the soaring Shabbat morning worship with Rabbi Rick Jacobs and Cantor/Rabbi Angela Warnick Buchdahl (a classmate of whom the kvelling knows no end).

It was learning Torah with Paul Kipnes, Donniel Hartman and Amichai Lau Lavie and Shira Klein and Sharon Brous, Yehuda Kurtzer and Ruth Messinger who stirred our souls in ways that were provocative and soul stirring and agonizing and inspiring.

When David Ellenson placed his hands on Aaron Panken’s head and blessed him as he becomes President of HUC-JIR, it felt as though we were watching the first s’micha.

Rick’s Thursday night address was captivating and bold and creative, as were many of the workshops.

The URJ Professional leadership didn’t shy away from the tough issues facing congregations and our relationships with the URJ and the world, but they weren’t defeatist or depressive. The Campaign for Youth Engagement is serious, compelling, and resourced.

Friday night’s D’var Torah was a personal, clarion call to engage in gun violence prevention on the eve of the first anniversary of Sandy Hook. We celebrated Women of Reform Judaism and Anat Hoffman, who lifts our souls and whose tenacious advocacy for an Israel hospitable to our values and our dignity and our worth is prophetic.

At Biennial, we wept together, as colleagues and friends, for Phyllis and Michael Sommer, as they held their dying son Superman Sam, who was their son and touched all our hearts. The bitter and the sweet, darkness and light, together.

In Chicago 87, I met Dolores Wilkenfeld, a strong, elegant, gracious leader of WRJ. She was a courageous role model, a visionary supporter of NFTY and women’s reproductive health care. On motzei Shabbat, I embraced Dolores again. She’s a bit older now, as WRJ celebrates their 100th Anniversary and NFTY 75th. But seeing her, remembering all that we have done and become in the past quarter century, I was transported back to the future. Old friends, a new beginning.

1395226_10201045463995621_1517806018_nTo all the URJ leadership, professional and lay, who organized this Biennial 13; for all our colleagues who taught sessions and lead worship and embraced each other with ideas and weeping and tenderness; for everyone who continues to challenge us to be the most creative, welcoming, inviting movement in Jewish life, who demands we surpass our prophetic ideals of justice and compassion, who will settle for nothing less than spiritual excellence, I lift up my heart in my hands and offer deep, profound, humble gratitude. Thank you.

Rabbi Michael Adam Latz serves Shir Tikvah Congregation in Minneapolis, MN.

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Ethics Israel News Rabbis Social Justice

Learning from the Matter: Our Fallen Leaders

Mine is a strange relation to the tragic 50th anniversary we commemorate today, because I was not alive the day John Kennedy died.  I came into this world a decade later, and when I was finally ready to learn about the 1960’s, I studied as one unit the assassinations of three national leaders: the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy, and John F. Kennedy.  November 22nd is not a date that sticks in my memory, as I do not belong to that generation that heard reports on radios and then steered cars to the curb with tear-filled eyes.  I carry mental images of Kennedy’s children at Arlington National Cemetery, but would have been hard-pressed (until recently) to remember even in which month this tragedy occurred.

November 4th, 1995: that date I remember very well.  We had just bid farewell to Shabbat in Jerusalem, and before hitting the still-opening city, some friends and I gathered in my sixth-floor apartment.  Before we walked out the door, the phone rang.  I was shocked to hear the voice of a friend who had just returned to the States the previous week.  “What’s going on over there?” he demanded.  When I reported it was just an average Saturday night, he cut right through: “Seth, didn’t you hear the news?  Yitzhak Rabin was just shot at a peace rally in Tel Aviv.”

We are in a month of remembrance for fallen leaders, for symbols of a better tomorrow who were shot down in their prime.  Today we mark the 50th anniversary of the assassination of an American President; earlier this month we marked a significant 18 years since an Israeli Prime Minister was murdered after singing a song of peace.  We are in a season where we confront continuous violence and base hatred.  We risk doing dishonor to our dead if we memorialize their passing with only words of sadness and regret, without doing the difficult work of learning the lessons of these tragedies.

I can only share a single story.  I lived in Jerusalem in the fall of 1995, when Israel’s election season was in full swing.  On my daily walk through downtown streets on my way to the Hebrew Union College, I saw almost every empty wall plastered with posters: for Labor, for Likud, against Likud, against Labor, and—of course—with the positions and politicians of every other party.  Some of these political posters were remarkably troubling: Yitzhak Rabin against giant letters declaring him a “TRAITOR”, Rabin’s face superimposed over the infamous keffiyeh of Yasser Arafat, and—most painfully and inexplicably—the elected Prime Minister of the State of Israel dressed as a member of the Nazi SS.

UnknownSuch base hatred sickened me.  Yet, I remember well, it seemed par for the course for Israeli discourse, especially regarding politics.  The days after Rabin was killed, I remember Israel was—almost to a person—in shock that the assassin was Jewish.  It was simply inconceivable to Israelis that a Jew could perpetrate a heinous crime against a Jew.  “Why,” I recall thinking, “Are so many Israelis surprised?  Had they not seen the literal signs?  When an elected government official can not only be called a traitor but also labeled a Nazi, when such hate is fomented on such a widespread scale, what other outcome could have been predicted but this?”

This week’s Torah portion, Vayeishev, tells a similar cautionary tale of unchecked antipathy.  We are familiar with the famous story of Joseph the dreamer, who regales his brothers with visions of how he will one day rule over them; we also know this leads to his brothers’ conspiracy to sell Joseph into slavery, to deceive their family into thinking he died.  Often lost in this saga is the pivotal role played by a silent bystander: Jacob.  We read in Genesis 37:11 that: [Joseph’s] brothers became jealous of him, and his father observed the matter.  On first glance, the meaning of the verse is obvious: Jacob does nothing about the growing and apparent enmity between his children.  Various commentators, favorable to Jacob, have tried to mitigate this passivity: Saadiah Gaon claims he “entered the matter into his memory”, as if to do something about this strife in the future; Rashi reads the second half of this verse against its context and hints that Jacob was ignorant of the discord in his home.

Jacob’s silence in the face of growing hatred was a contributing factor to the enslavement and imprisonment of his favorite son.  His guilt is not on the level of Judah, who negotiated the sale, or the other brothers who were willing accomplices. However, it seems clear to me that Jacob bears responsibility for failing to try and mitigate a remarkably hostile situation.  Likewise, only one assassin killed Yitzhak Rabin.  While those who helped create and foster that hate didn’t have their fingers on the trigger, they are nonetheless accessories to the crime.  And, as we learn from the story of Jacob’s stony silence, those of us who literally walked through Israel’s environment of animosity on a daily basis—and could pretty well guess where it might lead—are not without blame ourselves.

Those who fan the flames of hatred bear responsibility for the ultimate incarnation of the hostility they generate.  But those who stand by idly while they watch temperatures boil, in my opinion, need to bring themselves to account as well.  I cannot comment on the killing of Kennedy; that was not my time.  But as we—on this 50th anniversary of his life being stolen—gather to learn the lessons of painful assassinations, we should examine the epidemic of enmity in our world today, and figure out how we make sure we do not replicate Jacob’s sin of keeping silent.  On this day of sad memorial, let us work to unsure there will be fewer days of sad memory for our children and grandchildren.  Let us commit to counter the culture of ceaseless hatred that threatens to unravel the very fabric of our civilized society.

Rabbi Seth M. Limmer is rabbi of 
Congregation B’nai Yisrael of Armonk, New York.  

 

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Immigration News Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

Mi Sheberach for All Immigrants and the Descendants of Immigrants

The following is a Mi Sheberach for a person who immigrated to the United States, to be used on Rosh HaShanah.  The accompanying introduction could be rewritten not for an individual but for all in the sanctuary: “I want to offer this mi sheberach for all who are in our sanctuary who immigrated to the United States and for all who have a parent who immigrated here, or a grandparent or a great-grandparent, or ancestor.  In essence, this mi sheberach is for all of us.”

Introduction.  For the first aliyah we invite (name) for the honor.  We do so not only for (name), but also to recognize him/her as someone who came to America many years ago to escape the horrors of the Shoah, the Holocaust, in Greece and built his/her life here, facing both challenges and successes.  After his/her aliyah, I will offer a mi sheberach for all who are immigrants and all who are the children of immigrants, or grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, or descendants, in essence for all of us.

After Aliyah: Mi sheberach avoteinu v’imoteinu….may God who blessed our immigrant ancestors, who left their homes because of the pain that was known and entered new lands with pains that could not be imagined, who left Egypt, who left Spain and Russia, Iraq, Greece, and Germany, bless you (name), who has come for an aliyah with reverence for God, respect for the Torah and this Yom HaDin, day of Rosh Hashanah.

May God bless you and all who came to America and found refuge, and all of us who immigrated or whose parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, or ancestors came to these shores beckoned by promise, liberty, and opportunity.

In this holy place and time we acknowledge the depth of our connection with our people’s story both ancient and modern.  We remember on this Day of Remembrance, Yom haZikaron, what it was like for us or for our ancestors to immigrate to this country and are mindful of Leviticus’ strong command repeated in similar verse 35 times in Torah: “When strangers sojourn with you in your land, you shall not do them wrong. The strangers who sojourn with you shall be to you as the natives among you, and you shall love them as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”  (19:33-34).

We acknowledge on this day that we live in an America where immigration policies are broken.  As we stand today before an open sefer Torah on our holy day—May we remain open to the possibility of comprehensive change in our immigration system.  May we remain open to the suffering of eleven million people who are undocumented, some say illegal, whose lives and whose children’s’ lives are limited every day because of their uncertain status. May we strive to balance our needed protections with their real, daily challenges as we work for clear, empathetic, and realistic policies.

May the Holy One of Blessing inscribe and seal you (name) and all of us into the Book of Good Life, together with all our fellow citizens, all who seek that claim, and all in our communities.  And let us say, Amen.

Rabbi Adam Stock Spilker is the rabbi at Mount Zion Temple, in St. Paul, Minn. 

Sign-on in support of comprehensive immigration reform

There are few issues that confront our country today that are more urgent or compelling than the need to fix America’s broken immigration system. This issue holds deep resonance with both the Jewish experience of migration and our tradition’s sacred texts with their repeated command to love the stranger.

We have set an ambitious goal to obtain signatures from as many rabbis and cantors as possible – of all Movements – on this letter to Congress in support of comprehensive immigration reform. Please join the over 1,200 of your colleagues who have already added their names. You can sign the letter and find more information at rac.org/clergysignon

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Ethics Immigration News Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

High Holy Day Inspiration from Rabbis Organizing Rabbis

As we enter the month of Elul, we are aware that Tishrei is almost upon us. Sitting in front of our computers, we might think to ourselves “Stop mulling and just write the sermon!” But writing High Holiday sermons really does require that we ponder what to preach. Every year, we ask ourselves the same questions: what message will resonate with our congregants, what are we passionate about saying, and what wisdom do our texts and tradition have to offer us.

This year, there is a new question to add to the list. In the past, I did not think much about what my colleagues were saying in their sermons. I might check in with a few friends, or bounce ideas off some people, but I was never speaking as part of the North American Reform Movement. This year, it will be different.

In 5774, like many colleagues, I will be speaking about the topic of immigration reform. This issue calls to us as Jews. We are immigrants. We fled slavery in Egypt to journey into freedom. More recently my great-grandparents fled the pogroms and mandatory military service in Russia to find a better life here in the United States. We know what it is to wander and to be treated as outsiders.

We also have a chance to make a real difference. The Senate has passed a comprehensive immigration reform bill. The House will be debating moving a bill to the floor in September, perfect timing for us to have an impact. Imagine what hundreds of rabbis can do together as we preach or teach about immigration reform this High Holidays.   

I’m going to be honest and say that while immigration reform is not my issue, justice is. Acting together powerfully is vital to who I am as a rabbi and who we are as Reform Jews.  At the CCAR Convention in Long Beach, we asked the question: Do we want to act together as a Reform Movement? The answer was a resounding yes, as hundreds of colleagues across the country joined the efforts of Rabbis Organizing Rabbis, a project of the Reform Movement’s social justice initiatives: the Justice and Peace Committee of the Central Conference of American Rabbis, the Religious Action Center, and Just Congregations.  Since then, we have worked on passing legislation through the Senate. Teams of colleagues in seven states met with key swing senators and their staffs. Many of us gathered in Washington DC for a lobby day, or participated in a national call-in day. Nearly 400 of us are staying connected through the Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Facebook group. We have worked together to amplify the rabbinic voice for justice, but there is more work to do.

Now we have another chance to act together to make a real difference in the debate in the House. In the weeks to come, we’ll share more with you about which legislators are crucial to the passage of compassionate, common sense immigration reform. But in the short term, there is something that only we as rabbis can do: speak from the heart to our congregants about this defining issue of our times.

So, will you join our effort and make preaching and teaching about immigration reform part of your High Holidays this year? To make it as easy as possible we have compiled text resources and sample sermons. If you willing to join the effort please share your thoughts and plans on the Rabbis Organizing Rabbis Facebook group so we can log your participation. And, it never hurts to reach out to another colleague or two to ask them to join us as well.

As we move into Tishrei we have the opportunity to begin our year by speaking out for justice. Join us in showing our legislators, our congregants and ourselves what it means to be part of a national movement and to put justice at the center of the Reform rabbinate. 

Categories
Ethics Immigration News Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

Judaism and Immigration Reform

Judaism has something to say about Immigration Reform. And, it starts with Welcoming the Stranger, and Protecting the Weak.

Immigration Reform has been a hot issue, these past few months. A Comprehensive Immigration Reform bill has recently passed through the Senate, and the house is now debating what, if any, bill it might pass. What does Judaism have to offer this conversation?

Clearly, there isn’t a single “correct” Jewish position on Immigration Reform. That’s especially true when we’re talking about specific policies or legislation. Judaism doesn’t tell us precisely how long is too long for a path to citizenship to take. Judaism has little if anything to offer in helping us decide what percentage, precisely, of our money should we be spending on border security, as opposed to other aspects of Immigration policy.

But, Judaism does have quite a bit to say about values — which values should be important to us, and which values should undergird our society.

One of the values integral to Judaism is Hachnasot Orchim—welcoming the stranger. Welcoming the stranger has always been part of Judaism. In the Book of Genesis, we hear of Abraham, the first Jew, who was sitting in the entrance of his tent, when three strangers passed by. He immediately invited them in, and treated them like royalty — preparing a meal for them himself, not even letting his servants do it for him. That was probably fairly common and expected — we still see echoes of this kind of behavior in that part of the world. Our people inherited this tradition, and we built it into our theology.

You see, there is a natural, human tendency to favor those to whom we are the closest. We tend to take care of our own, and to be wary or afraid of “the other.” The mitzvah of welcoming the stranger is, in part, a counterbalance to this reflex. It reminds us that this person, whom I do not know is, among other things, a human being. And that means that they were created in the image of God. The moment I encounter him or her, I have an obligation to him or her. There is no one — not a single, solitary person — from whom I can completely turn away, and to whom I have no obligation.

These people — these immigrants — who are not, at least not yet, part of our nation are still people. And we have an obligation towards them. We have to welcome them.

We can’t welcome everyone equally, of course. No one is suggesting that we don’t have any Immigration policy — that we open our borders and make everyone and anyone a citizen. But, our starting place has to be one of care and welcoming. We have to work to figure out how we can bring the greatest number of people possible into our country, and into our lives, rather than starting from a place of rejection and isolationism.

It would be incredibly ironic for us, as Jews, to be less than welcoming when it comes to immigration policy. Because, we’ve often been the victim of it. We’ve been the victims of restrictions on our own migrations for centuries. We’ve fled persecution and been told, time and again, “you’re not welcome here.” Even when others were trying to wipe our people off the map, we’ve been told to go somewhere else. Just not here.

And, in less dramatic times, we still had to leave one home to seek a better life elsewhere. Very few of us in the Jewish community have an American heritage which goes back more than a few generations. We are a people of immigrants in a nation of immigrants. It is our repeated memory of being a stranger in a strange land which is supposed to drive our moral dedication to helping others to never feel like strangers themselves. Or, as it says in Leviticus (19:33-34), “When strangers sojourn with you in your land, you shall not do them wrong. The strangers who sojourn with you shall be to you as the natives among you, and you shall love them as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

Because we were strangers, we know how it feels. And so, we are commanded to help other strangers. We have an obligation to immigrants not in spite of the fact that they are strangers, but precisely because of it.

We also have to remember that many immigrants, whether legal or illegal, are among the most vulnerable in our society. And that’s another, perhaps even greater reason that we are obligated to help them. We are told over and over that we are obligated to protect the weak — the Bible commands us to protect the widow and the orphan, because those categories were the weakest, and the most vulnerable, in ancient society.

By contrast, “They’re not my problem” appears exactly never in our text.

It’s so easy to get caught up in the specifics of policy, discussions about “who should get in first” and rhetoric about amnesty and such that we can forget a very basic, fundamental fact: we’re talking about people here. Were talking about people — not “illegals,” but people — who are suffering. People who, perhaps because they came here illegally, are not afforded, or do not know about, the legal protections to which they are entitled. They are exploited and abused, with startling regularity and severity. Even if we hold them accountable for entering this country illegally, it should still shock our moral centers that human beings are treated in this way. Workers are abused physically, and are threatened with deportation should they utter any protest, or seek help. Children are left without their parents, often put in dubious foster care, because their parents were deported, while they weren’t. Husbands and wives are kept apart for years and years because the one who came here, legally or not, doesn’t have the right, or perhaps just the resources, to bring their loved one over. Young women are forced into slavery and the sex trade, because as far as society is concerned, they don’t even exist. It’s an abomination.

As I said, the policy issues are deeply, deeply complicated. And, no one policy, or set of policies, is going to solve all these problems. But, that simply doesn’t give us the right to lose our sense of empathy for people who are suffering. The fact that we can’t make the problem go away in no way diminishes our responsibility to make it better. We have to remember that behind every story, behind every argument, behind every policy debate live real people with real lives. And they’re in real pain.

That, more than anything else, drives my support of Immigration Reform. It is a belief that, flawed, imperfect and incomplete as it will inevitably be, it is a step in the direction of justice, and of mercy. It is a step in the direction of forging a society which more closely holds to the ideals and values set out in our tradition.

Your conscience will tell you how to act, when it comes to laws and policies. Judaism can’t tell you, and neither can I, which candidate to support, or which bill to protest. but, I urge you to do something. Call your Senator, or call your representative. Urge them to act. Urge them to act in a way which will make our country, and our society, a place which welcomes the stranger, protects the weak, and strives to be a shining example of our greatest ideals.

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg is rabbi of Congregation Beth Am in Tampa, Florida.  This is a version of the sermon he gave at Congregation Beth Am on Friday, July 19th.

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Israel News Prayer Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

I Am The Egg (Wo)Man: Reflections on Rosh Chodesh Av with Women of the Wall

“Jerusalem has greatly sinned, therefore she is become a mockery. All who admired her despise her, for they have seen her disgraced;and she can only sigh and shrink back.”

–Eicha (Lamentations) 1:8

The first 9 days of Av are seen in traditional Judaism as days of, if not mourning, then solemnity. We do not feast, we do not celebrate; we are once again living through the days leading up to the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. And, as many have already noted, one of the most significant statements the rabbis make about that destruction is that the blame cannot be placed on Roman shoulders. Why, they ask, was the Temple destroyed? Because of sinat chinam–baseless hatred. And so Monday morning, as I looked at the faces of the Haredim crowding the Kotel plaza, as I looked at the faces of these men and women who are supposed to be my kinsmen (and women), I felt not anger and not hatred, but deep, deep sadness.

It seems that the same cannot be said from the other side. It is not sadness that compels one Jew–one human being!–to call another Jew a Nazi. It is not sadness that sent a hard-boiled egg flying through the air as a projectile, landing solidly (and not comfortably) on my neck. And it is not sadness that raised male voices to drown ours out.

Talking with a mentor last night, I asked. I asked about the deep anger, and hatred. I said: I just can’t understand. Why? Why such deep anger and hatred? And she, who comes from a far more traditional world than I do, said two things. First, the part I know but hate to acknowledge. There are people–and I refuse to paint the entire Haredi world with one brush, just as I wish they would not paint all liberal Jews with one–in that world who truly believe, to the depths of their soul, that I come to Jerusalem, I come to the Wall, I come to the world, to destroy Judaism.

But, she said something else that, rather than enrage me, gave me some hope. She said that their anger came from a place of fear. That these men and women are looking around and seeing a changing world. They are seeing a world that is increasingly adapt or die, and they choose–time and again–not to adapt. And so I thought back over the faces I saw in that space. And I thought to myself–maybe there is one girl, or one boy, there who looked at us and saw not rodfim, those who seek to do harm to Judaism and the Jewish people, but who saw something new. Maybe there was one boy–or one girl–who looked up and saw in my face, or the face of someone standing next to me, something familiar. Maybe there was one girl–or one boy–who heard in my prayers something exciting. Maybe someone there looked up and saw new possibilities, a different way to live, a living and breathing Judaism.

I happened to be standing next to one of my mentors during the tefillot, and she later shared with me the conversation she had with a little girl standing near her–a rabbi’s daughter. This little girl asked the simplest–and of course most difficult–question to answer. Why, she, asked, were the men on the other side of the barricade trying to drown out our prayers? “The women sing so beautifully,” she said. “Why would they do that?”

IMG_2645The men on the other side of the barricades alternated between screaming and blowing whistles to disrupt us, or simply trying to pray louder. I preferred the latter. Because there was a moment, maybe just before the egg jolted me back to reality, where I was able to live in a different reality–a vision of a Jerusalem that is truly ha-banuyah (rebuilt). In that moment, the voices of women were raised in prayer and song, and the voices of the men were raised as well. And I imagined–just for those moments–that together the voices of Israel, the voices of the Jewish people, reached straight up to heaven.

There is much to be said, and much anger to be shared, over the erasure of women’s voices and women’s bodies from the public sphere in Israel, over what seems to be a campaign by the Haredi community to silence women. There is much to be said, and much anger to be shared, over the role of the Haredi community and the rabbanut in controlling religious life in Israel. There is much to be said, and much anger to be shared, that even despite a clear court ruling, we were barred from the Kotel itself for the first time in 25 years. Others have and will say it better than I can. Because on Monday, for me, anger was not the predominant emotion coursing through my veins. Hatred was not the overriding feeling of the day. Sadness was.

But, that being said, I have to point out the feeling is NOT mutual. Only one side has interest in listening to the other, only one side speaks of shared space, and only one side uses vehement hate speech and physical violence to stake its claim. And the government, despite the progress in court, continues to cater to only the one side, the loudest side. And with all of my idealism, all of my hope–I simply don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know where that can go.

As a Reform Jew, I have long struggled with the meaning and ritual of Tisha B’Av. I have learned and studied over the years; this week at the Hartman Institute, we wrestled with the notions of and texts on communal mourning. I do not wish to see the Temple rebuilt speedily in my day, and so what do I do with this holiday?

Yesterday might have given me an answer. I mourn not for what was, but for what could be and isn’t. I mourn for the fact that I, by virtue of biology, am denied full access to the Kotel. I mourn for the fact that this land that I love, this place whose vision was to be a home for the Jewish people, cannot get itself past a single definition of Judaism–even as its people define themselves in all shades of grey. And I mourn, perhaps most of all, for those voices, male and female, that could be rising up to heaven (or wherever I believe the Divine resides) together, indistinguishable by gender or religious definition, simply united in hope and in comfort, in petition and in praise, in sadness and in joy.

The next Rosh Chodesh we will usher in will be Elul, the month of penitence and preparation for the High Holy Days. I will be back in the United States, though my prayers and heart will be with Nashot HaKotel, the Women of the Wall. And as they–and we–pray the words of Psalm 27:

Only this do I ask of God,

Only this do I seek: to live in the house of Adonai all the days of my life,
to behold the beauty of Adonai, to frequent God’s  Temple.

I will be praying that that house, that beauty, is wide and rich and imaginative enough to hold all of us—male, female, Haredi, Reform, and everywhere in between–in one room, with one voice and one vision.

For the sake of Jerusalem I will not, I cannot, I must not be silent.

rabbi_sari_laufer_headshotRabbi Sari Laufer serves Rodeph Sholom Congregation in New York City.

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News Reform Judaism Social Justice

Help Needed Now for People with Disabilities Worldwide: UN Disability Treaty

Hillel, asks, “If I am not for myself, then who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, then what am I? And if not now, when?” (Ethics of the Fathers 1:14)

This month’s U.S. legislative agenda will give Americans with disabilities and their supporters (including we Jews) the opportunity to respond fully to the last two of Hillel’s three questions.  We can respond positively –IF we choose to take part in the current Senate debate regarding the ratification of the UN Disability Treaty.

What seems like yesterday to some of us and a world ago to others, the ADA became the law of the land.  Prior to that, we people with disabilities were treated as second class citizens.

In the last quarter of the 20th century, Americans with disabilities and our friends were “for ourselves” when we for the first time in history became an organized political force.  We did not rest until in 1990 we were given the full rights we U.S. citizens deserved.

No one was “for us” had we not been “for ourselves.” How dare we now sit back and be “only for ourselves,” enjoying our public accommodations or basking in our lawful, if not fully implemented, access to opportunity without looking outside of ourselves, beyond our borders.

We need not look far to see that worldwide not only are basic rights denied to people with disabilities but punishment is incurred simply for being born with or acquiring a disability.  It is tragic that throughout the world people with disabilities are denied fundamental rights.

Drafted in 2006, the UN Disability Treaty officially called “The Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities” or “CRPD” addresses this worldwide concern.  The UN Disability Treaty gives international affirmation to the rights of people with disabilities to equality of opportunity, full participation, independent living and economic self-sufficiency.

In 2009 our UN Ambassador signed the UN Disability Treaty on behalf of the U.S.  As per UN requirements, it now must be ratified by the U.S. legislature.  By U.S. law that means it takes a two-thirds majority senate vote.

Last winter, your voices helped bring the CRPD to a vote in the Senate, where it disappointingly failed by just five votes.  This summer, the Disability Treaty is to be considered for ratification once again by the U.S. Senate.

Therefore, we must define Hillel’s “what we are” by once again speaking out loudly – this time for those other than ourselves.  We all must educate our communities to write letters, make calls or actually visit senators and tell them, “You must vote YES to ratify the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities!”

We must especially urge all Republicans to vote “yes” and we must communicate our support of the “yes” leanings of Democrats.

We have many Americans who are “for us” now – Americans with and without disabilities. Let us take their hands.  Lead them to do what’s right.

The Disability Treaty is based on U.S. law.  The United States needs to continue to lead this effort on a global scale. According to UN procedure, the U.S. cannot formally have a leadership place at the table if we do not ratify it.

Those forces that oppose the Convention are small but mighty.  Senators are receiving 100 “anti” letters to one “pro” letter.  Many use unfounded religious reasons for opposition so we need to use our religious voices when we urge our senators to vote “Yes.”

And we must all ask ourselves, “If not now, when?”

Here are 3 easy ways you can help pursue justice for the one billion people around the world who live with a disability:

  1. Email your Senators, and urge those in your community to do the same. If you’d like sermon starters or talking points, let the RAC know.
  2. Your Senator will be home this week for the July 4th recess. Set up a meeting to speak with your Senator by calling his/her office.  To find your senators’ local office information, please go to: http://www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm    This meeting can have exponentially more effect than an email or a phone call. If you’d like talking points or tips for the meeting, the RAC would be happy to help you out!
  3. The press can amplify your voice. Submit a letter to the editor or an op-ed to your local papers. The Religious Action Center has sample language you can use and can help you place the article as well.

Thank you for your continued support towards equal opportunity and full inclusion for all. With your help, we hope to see our country step up once again to its role as a global civil rights leader.

If you have any questions or for more information, please feel free to email RAC Eisendrath Legislative Assistant Raechel Banks at rbanks@rac.org  or call 202.387.2800 to speak with Raechel.

Rabbi Lynne Landsberg is the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism’s senior adviser on disability issues, co-chair of the Jewish Disability Network and co-chair of the Committee on Disability Awareness and Inclusion of the Central Conference of American Rabbis.