(A recitation of kinot, poems of lament, from Temple Beth Tzedec.)
When someone — myself included — comes straight out of rabbinical school, they know everything. It is only with time and experience, you figure out how mistaken you were. “If only the Jewish people had more passion and discipline,” I firmly believed, “the American Jewish community would not be approaching the precipice of collapse.” While there was some truth to that belief, I didn’t know enough at the time to 1) not say that out loud to the people who have been working without pay for years to keep American Jewish institutions alive and 2) understand the impact of the fatigue that comes from swimming against the cultural wave for years. Sometimes, we loosen our standards over time because it is too legitimately exhausting to hold onto something alone that others clearly no longer want.
And yet, there was something important in the youthful critique that my classmates and I lodged obnoxiously upon our ordination: if you keep cutting corners, eventually there is nothing left. The slide of the American Jewish community was clear. We went from a plurality of kids who could read Hebrew, chant Torah and haftarah, and had a clear understanding of the contours of Jewish tradition, history, and solidarity to kids who could only read transliteration and thought that the essence of Jewish identity was simply being a good person. Our exhaustion — or desperate attempt to be relevant and easy— led to a loss of faith, and ultimately of followers. That massive loss was not the result of a dramatic policy shift or a cataclysmic event in Jewish history (this was long before October 7th), but rather a slow slide that came from the culmination of small decisions made over decades. Each time a parent or educator put convenience before competence, and sentiment before knowledge, we moved closer to what has amounted to a cultural collapse with disturbing consequences.
The decline of Jewish education is not the only “slow slide” that has led to catastrophic consequences. We have also seen a slow slide in the ethical fiber and solidarity of our community in a post-Holocaust world. It has been all too common for Jews to call one another [insert epithet here] either because they have expressed 1) a warranted ethical critique of American Jewish institutions or the State of Israel, or 2) because they work for legacy institutions or have expressed the reasonable desire for Israel to exist and defend itself. Though hatreds and enmities have always existed within the Jewish community (even during the Holocaust itself,) it feels as though these hatreds are broader and deeper than they have been for quite some time. What began as insults, suspicions, and slights a few decades ago has come to the full dehumanization and demonization of one another. We have become totally mired in the inability to conduct a helpful conversation on how to balance the need to survive and the responsibility to live up the ethical standards of our tradition.
That said, this kind of division is not new — we have been here before. In many respects, our current moment resembles the cascade that led to the destruction. of the Second Temple.
We learn in the midrash from Eicha Rabbah 4:
There was an incident involving a certain man in Jerusalem, who made a feast. He said to a member of his household: ‘Go and bring me my friend, Kamtza.’ He went and brought his enemy, bar Kamtza. He entered and sat among the guests. [The host] entered and found him among those invited to the feast. He said to him: ‘You are my enemy, and you are sitting in my house? Get up and leave my house.’ He said to him: ‘Do not shame me, and I will give you the cost of my meal.’ He said to him: ‘You will not recline [at the feast].’ He said to him: ‘Do not shame me and I will sit, but I will not eat and I will not drink.’ He said to him: ‘You will not recline [at the feast].’ He said to him: ‘Do not shame me and I will give the cost of this entire feast.’ He said to him: ‘Get up [ and leave].’
Rabbi Zekharya ben Avkulas was there and it was within his ability to protest, but he did not protest. Immediately, [bar Kamtza] left. He said to himself: ‘These who are reclining at the feast are sitting in serenity; I will slander them.’ What did he do? He went to the ruler and said to him: ‘Those offerings that you send to the Jews for them to sacrifice, they eat them and sacrifice others in their stead.’
According to our tradition, what led to the destruction of the Second Temple? A single fight that got out of control. When a host’s enemy was accidentally invited to his party, this host wouldn’t let the man stay and eat, even at his enemy’s expense. He threw his enemy out, and humiliated him in front of the whole community. A rabbi saw the fight spiral from a simple slight to a grand public humiliation, and said nothing. The host’s enemy then approached the emperor, accused the Jewish community of a horrific offense, and brought tragedy not only against the host who humiliated him, but also against the entire Jewish community. Ultimately, the Temple was destroyed, Jerusalem was lost, and the entire Jewish community was banished to exile and slavery.
The story of Kamtza/bar Kamtza from our midrash was a gift and a warning from our ancient scholars. We learn from this story that great tragedies befall us not because of zeitgeists, systems, and charismatic leaders alone. The winds of history are directed by the choices that individuals make every day — the choice to dignify or demean, the choice to give or to withhold, the choice to speak up or stay silent.
It isn’t “the man,” or the “the system,” or “the way things are” — it’s us. It’s who we invited to the party, and who we didn’t. It’s who we shamed and who we made feel included. It’s decrying every grievance to the point of irrelevance, or never speaking out because you’re convinced that you’re already irrelevant.
As we approach the Shabbat before Tisha B’av, and come into the holiday Saturday night, let us remember that both the grandeur and the demise of a civilization come down to the little things. Because the little things become big things if we don’t stand up and say: the dignity of our fellow is the foundation of a healthy society. Our actions and our voices matter, in private and in public, in the dining room and the board room. Our collective identity is the result of individual decisions made in a variety of venues that add up into the essence of who we are. We may not have lost Jerusalem if the host in our ancient story just let his nemesis eat — either because he remembered it was the right thing to do, or because his rabbi reminded him of the One before Whom we all stand. As we mourn the destruction of the Second Commonwealth two thousand years ago, let us not imperil what remains and what we have built today. Let all come and learn, let all who are hungry come and eat.
Shabbat Shalom.
What I’m reading:
On Israel and Gaza: Yair Rosenberg, Haviv Rettig Gur, Daniel Gordis, Michael Kopolow at the Israel Policy Forum on Gaza hunger and intergeneration conflict in the Jewish community.
On thinking: Mary Harrington