Confronting Anti-Semitism, Embracing Who We Are
Confronting Anti-Semitism, Embracing Who We Are, Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann, October 11, 2024- Kol Nidre/Yom Kippur
Just a few months ago, in this very room, I experienced a personal highlight of my life so far — the B*Mitzvah of my 13 year old kiddo, Nadiv.
Of course, Bar/Bat/B*Mitzvahs are always meaningful for the parents — but what made that experience so profound was watching Nadiv take ownership of and pride in their Jewish identity in a new way.
A few days after the B*Mitzvah, a gift came in the mail. How rare and exciting! Nadiv excitedly opened the box and admired its content. It was a beautiful Star of David necklace. Nadiv looked at it for a moment and said: “I love it. But I don’t feel comfortable wearing a Jewish star out in public right now. I will put it away for later.”
My heart sank.
Could I ever have imagined a time in my life when my child would feel that it was not safe, “not a good idea” to wear an outward symbol of their Judaism? And in New York City — the most Jewish city in the United States?
I could never have imagined this moment. But… I understood it. For these are difficult, confounding, exhausting, scary, upsetting and lonely times for Jews and members of Jewish families and communities.
Tonight is Kol Nidre, a time for honesty about what is broken in our hearts and in the world, so it feels like the right time to address anti-Semitism. And in the spirit of teshuvah, repair and return, to think about how we navigate this extraordinarily difficult time we find ourselves in.
To start this conversation, I think it is both obvious and worth stating that anti-Semitism is not a new issue — it is after all considered “the world’s oldest hatred.” Anti-Semitism — which I will define as advocate Stacy Burdett names it: “a lie about Jews to blame them for whatever is wrong” — is not even new to us as American Jews.
Those of us who, at one point, naively believed anti-Semitism was something latent but not dangerous, shameful enough as not to be uttered in polite society, were jolted into a new reality when unmasked Nazis marched in Charlottesville chanting “Jews will not replace us.” With protesters trying to enter a synagogue and one ramming his car into counter protestors, killing an innocent woman.
Then, the horrific Tree of Life massacre and Poway, and Colleyville and so on.
Looking back, at that time, I knew anti-Semitism existed in all spaces, but I only felt threatened by Nazis, conspiracy theorists, and those who weaponized anti-Semitism for political gain.
That changed on October 7th and the days that followed, when the brutal Hamas attacks — which included murder, rape, and kidnapping — were met with praise and celebration, from the halls of universities (including the one just up a few blocks) to the streets of every major city in the US–even before any Israeli military response.
And in many other cases, if the attacks were not explicitly celebrated, they were justified and contextualized — as if Israeli citizens of all ages and backgrounds, including many life-long peace activists, deserved this horrific fate because they were born on, lived on or were merely visiting the land.
How is this level of dehumanization possible? How could our devastation be someone else’s jubilation?
In the words of Rabbi Sharon Brous: “To justify barbarity in the service of the liberation of Palestine requires more than an ideological commitment to Palestinian freedom. It demands mental and emotional contortions that render a person fundamentally unable to see the humanity of a Jew. It requires a deeply internalized association with Jews and power — the Jew as oppressor, the Jew as victimizer — so much so that even a horrific terror attack, even teenagers and elders being carted naked through Gaza, does not evoke a gasp of horror or a tear.”
As we know, dehumanization has continued and hate has reared its ugly head. We have seen synagogues, restaurants and homes of prominent Jews vandalized. We have seen verbal attacks (“go back to Poland”) and acts of physical aggression (i.e. spitting at Jews). The rebranding of the word “Zionist” to mean demonic colonialist settler, equal in moral stature to a Ben-Gvir or Smotrich, acts as a gatekeeping mechanism separating many Jews from the social justice causes and spaces they participated in on October 6.
And these are just a few examples.
And all the while, Jewish fears around anti-Semitism have been and are being exploited by the other end of the political spectrum to further their own agenda, often one that is anti-education, anti-immigrant, and anti-democratic.
For many of us, anti-semitism firing on all cylinders at all times leaves us feeling unmoored, no longer knowing where we fit and whom to trust. Some of us are so regularly triggered that we are living in “high panic and high alert” mode. Others may not have that level of alarm, yet still feel vulnerable and overwhelmed.
This is all really, really hard. And, unfortunately, there are no easy answers or quick fixes.
So, what can we do?
Anti-semitism shines a light on the ways others attempt to define what Judaism is or who Jews are. I believe a first step is to take some of that power back by defining ourselves, on our own terms.
Anti-semitism shines a light on the ways others attempt to define what Judaism is or who Jews are. I believe a first step is to take some of that power back by defining ourselves, on our own terms.
Tonight, I am going to invite us to do this in a literal sense — to look at who we are as a people by examining the three primary names of the Jewish people — Ivri (Hebrew), Yisrael, and Yehudi.
My hope is that through this framework, we reconnect with our core values and find the strength to navigate this difficult moment.
Ivri
The first name for the Jewish people in the Torah is “ivri,” commonly translated as “Hebrew.” Abraham is the first person to be called an “ivri.”
A midrash explains the name this way: When God saw that the entire world worshiped idols and Abraham separated himself by not doing so, God called Abraham “Ivri” from the Hebrew word “ever” which means “side.”
Abraham was willing to stand apart, on the other side, because of what he believed.
I find it reassuring to imagine Abraham holding steady, standing up for himself and his beliefs in a world of people who did not agree with him.
What powerful inspiration for us right now: There are times when it is OK, when it is necessary, to stand apart for what we believe.
And by extension, there are times when we need to stand up not just for what we believe but for ourselves and our core values.
This standing up for ourselves can take a number of forms — attending rallies, making donations, etc.
However, in the spirit of being an “ivri” I want to invite us to consider how we might stand up for ourselves and our beliefs by taking the brave step of reaching out to a person in our lives we feel has ignored our pain or perhaps left us behind at a painful moment.
I acknowledge: this is incredibly difficult and scary work! But with people we trust to be vulnerable with, we may find allies who can support us.
A story: After October 7, I was stunned by the silence of most interfaith clergy colleagues. I was particularly hurt that my closest Christian clergy partner had not reached out after this dark day. She had recently moved out of NYC and become a hospital chaplain but we had promised to stay in each other’s lives. As weeks and months went on, I harbored resentment. I was also afraid. This colleague was incredibly social justice minded, something that had bonded us. But now I wondered: Would she see the humanity of the Israelis and my own anguish?
We had reason to catch up by phone a few months ago. After some small talk, I summoned my inner “Ivri” and named the pain caused by her silence. She listened and replied, “I am sorry. I didn’t know if I should reach out because I was worried you were too overwhelmed. But I am here now.”
I shared how challenging these past few months have been as a Jew, progressive Zionist and as a rabbi. She listened and when we ended the conversation, she said: “We need to see the humanity in all people. I am with you.” A feeling of relief surged through my body. In summoning the courage to stand up for myself, I found I was not alone.
In summoning the courage to stand up for myself, I found I was not alone.
Yisrael:
As the story goes, the patriarch Jacob spends all night wrestling with what is described both as God and an angel. This wrestling match leaves him permanently changed, physically and spiritually — now blessed with a new name “Yisrael” which means to struggle with the Divine.
Yisrael becomes our people’s name — even more, it forms a core part of our identity. We are the people who wrestle with big questions, think critically, refuse easy answers, learn with attention to others’ viewpoints, and embrace complexity.
Being Yisrael is central to Jewish self-understanding here at SAJ. We wear our intellectualism and questioning nature as badges of honor- and rightfully so.
At the same time, there are many in the larger Jewish community who contradict the core values found in the “Yisrael” name — who believe we should favor “loyalty” and “obedience” over critical thinking and nuance. Who label any criticism of Israel or its government as anti-semitic.
[Now] — if any criticism of Israel is inherently anti-semitic, what do we make of the over 100,000 Israelis who protested in the streets against the anti-democratic attempts at judicial overhaul in 2023? How do we label the family members of Israeli hostages who marched on foot for four days from Tel Aviv to shout and protest in front of the prime minister’s office in Jerusalem, demanding the Israeli government do more and to secure a deal? And what about a rabbi (one you know!), who deeply loves Israel and who disagrees with the way the Israeli government is conducting this war?
Are all of us anti-Semitic? Surely not.
This is not to say there are no red lines regarding criticism of Israel. Erasing the Jewish historical connection to the land or calling for “solutions” that would displace the 7 million Jews living in the land (half the world’s Jewish population) are some examples of when a line has been crossed from legitimate criticism of Israel toward the realm of anti-Semitism.
Being “Yisrael” today, to me, means being committed to an open, thoughtful dialogue where we can both have honest conversations about Israel while also standing up for Jewish basic rights and dignity. It means embracing nuance and complexity when we talk about Israel l’ma’ala — the Israel or our dreams and Israel l’mata — the Israel of current realities.
Again, I must acknowledge that this is not easy! For anti-Semitism, especially as it manifests vis-a-vis Israel, can erode our sense of safety. Particularly for those of us with more direct ties to the Shoah and other periods of Jewish history when Jews kept passports or essential items under their beds at the ready.
Yet, our legitimate trauma responses do not always serve us or our communities. Our ancient ancestors understood this. In a stunning midrash, the rabbis imagine the patriarch Isaac bound on the altar by his father (at the Akedah), and they say that the tears of the angels fell into his eyes, causing his eyes to lose sight.
This is not just a literal explanation of Isaac’s later blindness — it is a warning about how trauma can blur our view.
But, we don’t have to let it.
By naming and giving space for our deep and legitimate fears, we can both acknowledge them while also allowing ourselves the opportunity to see a wider picture.
To embrace complexity and nuance, which with time and the vulnerable and long-term work of relationship building, will enable us to be stronger as a communitya and to gain allies who will support us and with whom we can work to build a better world for ourselves and all who dwell on earth.
Yehudi
A third name for the Jewish people is Yehudi- or Jew.
The name originated from the matriarch Leah who named her fourth son Yehudah. When he was born, she said “Hapa’am odeh et Adonai” — this time, I am thanking God (Yehudah comes from odeh-thanking).
With the birth of each of her sons, Leah had hoped her husband might come to love her too. But with the birth of her fourth son Yehudah, Leah was not shouting her joy from the rooftops. She had accepted her fate.
In this light, we might translate the name Yehudah as “giving thanks, despite how difficult things are” or a more poetic read: “affirming life, even when things are hard.”
Leah must have been clairvoyant — because this is exactly who we are. We are the people who keep praying and celebrating even in the most difficult times. Even when we are not “loved” by everyone around us. We are the people who, when our holy Temple and entire way of life was destroyed, rebuilt with an entirely new way of thinking, praying, living.
We are the people whose ancestors lit candles and hid them inside their stove, the people who fashioned makeshift menorahs or other ritual objects in concentration camps. We are part of the same people who today are rebuilding the kibbutzim decimated on October 7.
When anti-Semitism is rearing its ugly head, let us remember that we are Yehudim, a resilient people who affirm life even in the darkest of times.
When anti-Semitism is rearing its ugly head, let us remember that we are Yehudim, a resilient people who affirm life even in the darkest of times.
As Yehudim, we can look to our ancestors — whether genetic or adopted by choice or through marriage — as a reminder that no matter what comes our way, we refuse to give into despair.
We can cling to our traditions which are themselves reminders that life is holy and good–and that we can help make it so.
While being Yehudi may not solve the unsolvable, it can give us the fortitude to face what is hard. It can offer us the faith that we will not only survive but live for a greater purpose.
I want to conclude with a story:
Earlier this year, I brought a conversion candidate before a beit din, a court of 3 rabbis. The beit din was scheduled weeks before and it turned out to be about one week after October 7. At the Beit Din, I asked the question I always ask — one that years ago was theoretical but had become real over the past few years and was obviously very close to home that day: “Are you sure you want to join the Jewish people, given the history and present tense of anti-Semitism?”
The candidate thought for a moment and said: “I feel even more strongly now. We are a people who stand for justice and compassion. We are a people who question everything and do not settle for easy answers. We are a people that celebrates life. It is my privilege to join the Jewish community and help it continue into the future.”
He got it!
In the face of the people and forces that seek to destabilize us, to take away our power and agency, let’s remember who we are.
We are Ivri:
We have beliefs and values that make us stand apart and can inspire us to stand up for ourselves.
We are Yisrael:
We are wrestlers with God and humanity. We embrace complexity and bring thoughtful discernment to the hardest of conversations.
We are Yehudi:
In the face of hate and adversity, we keep going. We dig deep to find gratitude and even joy in the most difficult of circumstances. We affirm life.
That is who we are.
Gmar Hatima Tova.
Notes:
Stacy Burdett gave this definition on the very important webinar/public conversation between Representative Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez, Amy Spitalnik and Stacy Burdett, which I highly recommend everyone watch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MrqNFcrL6I8
Rabbi Sharon Brous wrote those words for a sermon soon after the October 7 attacks. The sermon is written here along with accompanying videohttps://lilith.org/2023/10/weve-lost-so-much-lets-not-lose-our-damn-minds/
Midrashim on Ivri:
Bereishit Rabbah 42:8
Pesikta Rabbati 33
Midrash on Isaac & Tears:
Bereishit Rabbah 56:5
